Here are a few poems from my litany to satisfy your muse:




pages of time

there was an old second-hand bookstore
down on main street,
just passed the railroad tracks,
that recently went out of business.
(they say the old lady retired).
the store sat empty for months
bemoaning the loss of the written word,
until the other day I drove by and
noticed a clock shop in it’s place…
clocks of all kinds crammed
into the tiny space, vying for exposure,
sort of like noisy books on a shelf.
there was even an old man
sittin’ in the window
hunched over someone’s heirloom,
sporting goggles and a rubber apron,
resurrecting it gear by gear, tick by tock.
i parked and walked in,
the distinctive smell
of moldy worn pages still
clung to the walls.
i guess it’s not such a bad thing after all…
pomes & tomes replaced by metronomes.

© 2003 Steven H. Hill



holding on to pokemon dreams

down on vale road
two boys sat on a rock wall
next to the old general store,
a sore thumb out of time
where the present day
disappears into the past
of grape nehis and twinkies.

maybe they were talking about
mariano in the ninth
or pam anderson under the knife

truth be told
i thought i heard the echo
of dimaggio and marilyn
urging them to hold on
to their pokemon dreams
but nobody else listened 'cept me.

© 2003 Steven H. Hill




sons of men

who notices as they bury
ten million children a year
in graves of mass neglect?

who misses them, their
distended stomachs and
lesion-ridden skin?
bone-thin arms,
sallow faces, and
bulging, jaundiced eyes?

my god! where do they put them all?


be fruitful and become many,
fill the earth and subdue it


it’s not my problem
if they want to spend
their billions on
machine guns, land mines,
and shoulder-launched missiles
of industrialized import.

i’m too busy
stuffing my craw
with mcdonalds
and sueing for obesity.


their god is their belly


the collective wail of
the mothers is smothered
by their own guttural pain

those who suffer the greatest
are the most vulnerable
and the least to blame


they took up twelve baskets full
and all were satisfied

© 2003 Steven H. Hill