Literary Orphans

Three Poems
by H. Holt

a

night’s noir

crackerjack jazz

spews through

a hazy room

 

trumpet chord sizzles

as men in fedoras

sweat

 

while smoking,

swaying,

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

Casablanca

 

& too drunk to walk

ten feet

much less to a gin joint

 

somewhere,

Bogey lifts his gorilla face

with a smile

 

he’s not interested

in looking at me

anymore

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

runny,

their yellow yolks

are harder

to keep

 

others are

Scrambled,

easy

taste good

between bread

just a touch

of mayo

but, still,

they’re just too

easy

 

few are

Hard Boiled

and their shell

hides them

like turtles,

afraid

tap, tap, tap

careful, spoon,

careful

careful

careful

 

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