Two poems by Amy Hoskins

The Constant

The madness for tulips in the 1700s. Now in 2022. Nesting ten bulbs in three containers outside

to wait for Springtime. Pink cashmere or so the label reads.

One can only hope.


Son miticas. They are mythical in a time without mythology. Reality tv. It tastes chemical.

Alchemical. Mystical. Son Misticas. The herbal tea is good medicine, a peace offering.


I forgot. I remember. I remember all the things I’ve forgotten.

There is no subterfuge here.

Just blurry and clear visions like clouds hovering, reformulating over darkness and light.


Heart full of rain. Holes where your love used to be. It was gone before I was. Lost Little girl

sang Jim Morrison. My soundtrack, not knowing why. Vietnam was just part of the landscape.


Infinity loop. Möbius strip makes a figure 8. A snake biting its tail. What is as infinite, constant

as stars, Sun?


It’s raining thoroughly on the tulip bulbs in their earthy nests. Delighted with the feel of fresh

water on their outsides. Stirring them to bloom in a specific ways. A lovely part of my Christmas

presents from you. Seeds also, tomatoes, flowers, African basil.

Nature is our constant changing beast of a world. Worlds and worlds. Infinite stories to be told.


Magnificent, expansive as the sky, beyond the stars to infinity. Coming back down to Earth, it is

a constant. Being on this Earth. This planet among planets and stars. It is enough. Snake eating

its tail. Infinity. Time loops in your eyes.


The Pursuit of Happiness

Bells shaped like flower umbels ring for the Queen. For the New King. Christmas songs in

September remind me of times loftier even than royalty.


I love all the seasons. Each one bringing its own flavors. Your singing synchronizes with

Ludovico Einaudi on my iPhone. A brilliant day. We can’t complain.


My first heart wrapped itself around your goodness and your sickness. Unwinding it, parsing the

wheat from the chaff daily. Heart history.


Saturn sparkles, winks above us in the opulent sky.


Come Taste our garden, we say to hummingbirds hovering over red salvia, Prussian Blue



Every cell and molecule has a sense of itself. Its boundaries, pulse, vibration. All deserve gentle

respect. Ride the flow of a million million cells resounding.


The tall thin man in the straw hat who shot his gun five times in the air this morning, then three

this afternoon in the park, lost his son to a heart attack last night. He shot straight up in the air in

the park. Then walked on, harming no one.

I lived out in grief and thirsting for so long.


Now from the ground up we create the world anew, one racist sexist classist system at a time.

Shedding the unnecessary barriers to the pursuit of happiness. Being whole, part of the

community, not just our social bubble.


Ride out the waves of change with focus. With the weather instead of against it.

Millefois. A million times. Flow.


Amy Hoskins is a poet and visual artist creating with disabilities from her home in South Nashville, TN. Hoskins has hosted a monthly poetry open mic since April, 2017. She hosts the monthly Gestalt Poetry Open Mic, which is virtual for now. Amy has had more than fifteen poems published in the US, and one in Amsterdam.