Two poems by Amy Hoskins
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
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.