Literary Orphans

Three Poems
by H. Holt


night’s noir

crackerjack jazz

spews through

a hazy room


trumpet chord sizzles

as men in fedoras



while smoking,


and snapping

their fingers


in harmony

to a drum’s brush,


[hush, baby, hush]


girl in a red dress

pours out her heart,

sayin’ her baby’s gone


softly, a piano plays

easing the pulsating veins

of night’s noir


I sit in the back,

an obese Bergman


unable to spell



& too drunk to walk

ten feet

much less to a gin joint



Bogey lifts his gorilla face

with a smile


he’s not interested

in looking at me


O Typekey Divider

Shopping when I should be Snoring

Blue Bonnet is a bitch

and Maxwell doesn’t own a House

unless you count the one filled

with dark little French whores

who never shut their mouths


and gray mornings are meant for sleeping,

while God pisses on roses and window panes


but my Muse woke me

masturbating like a teenage boy

somewhere between my medulla oblongata

and thalamus


I hate Sundays

O Typekey Divider

Men Are Like Eggs

men are like eggs

some are

Sunny Side Up

and just a bit


their yellow yolks

are harder

to keep


others are



taste good

between bread

just a touch

of mayo

but, still,

they’re just too



few are

Hard Boiled

and their shell

hides them

like turtles,


tap, tap, tap

careful, spoon,





they all taste good

with pepper

O Typekey Divider

H. Holt lives in the lustrous mountains of North Georgia. Her first publication rests with Fjords Review as part of the Public Poetry Series, set to display in 2014. She is a self-proclaimed hermit, and enjoys her work in Adult Education, where she helps others pursue their dreams of higher education.

H Holt

O Typekey Divider

–Art by Bostjan Tacol