The following writings are copyrighted All Rights Reserved; Hazel Hoyle
covered in stains
Where do heaven’s bright angels go
when the world so far below
has fallen into the pits of fire.
The series of anguish.
The restless desires.
the crazed, lonely slayers of sanity
drifting through life at the speed of
sound as sirens scream and red voltage pulsates
through electric air.
Even the moon was red the other night
It shone a clear path upon the water.
Beckoned us to walk.
Like we could. Indeed we might.
Reflections of electric red voltage
or bloodshot eye ducts tears run dry.
Pools of empty.
Shades of silence screaming at my soiled conscience
about moments of pleasure followed by lifetimes
of pain and guilt and hatred for myself.
My lowly loathing earthly flesh.
surrounded by temptations. Surrounded by the fright. The evil overcomes me. Again.
My glory hides behind their eyes.
The angels who visit those not sleeping. (slipping)
Shelter those who are weeping
not for themselves, but for they, the world, the plight. The very sight
of it all.
if only briefly, could they weep for me?
my stains.
my stains.
Tranquillity
Just me again
and my thoughts.
Me, my thoughts and the waves pressing
forward.
Reminding me of God’s peace.
My thoughts are a rancid storm of tropical wind, hurricane speed. Destruction in the air. Turmoil settling all around.
The tranquillity of my mind rests there. Somewhere beyond the
water’s break.
Unknown hidden restless yet calm. Where does my peace lie. Where
will the waves cover my thoughts for enduring
Oh, where, do I find the waves that will cover me? Endlessly. Tranquillity
Slave Gods
And there he was asking for some bread.
Starving really.
Starved.
Death in living skin.
No semblance of life. Other than breath in his lungs - as he inhales the poison.
Just one more time, one more time
For a moment it lives
For a moment it dies
And then the search again begins.
Just one more time, one last time They will die for this – they do; they have Offerings of souls to the slave Gods of crack pipes The heroine addicts. The Downtown Eastside.
Flash back to days of mother’s final rage
Screaming Rejection
young girls blamed
daddy’s lustful assaults
The girl had to go, she had to go – she’s a liar.
Yet guilt is still stabbing through mother’s knowing womb.
She reaches for the bottle and pours it deeply
she drinks it in, swallows it down.
And there she was asking for some bread.
Starving really.
Starved.
Death in living skin.
No semblance of life. Other than hope of a fix - as she lays down for the dollar.
Just one more time, one more time.
For a moment it lives
For a moment it dies
And then the search again begins.
Just one more time, one last time
They will die for this – they do; they have
Offerings of souls to the slave Gods of whoreThe Sand Between My Toes
The following writings are copyrighted All Rights Reserved; Hazel Hoyle
covered in stains
Where do heaven’s bright angels go
when the world so far below
has fallen into the pits of fire.
The series of anguish.
The restless desires.
the crazed, lonely slayers of sanity
drifting through life at the speed of
sound as sirens scream and red voltage pulsates
through electric air.
Even the moon was red the other night
It shone a clear path upon the water.
Beckoned us to walk.
Like we could. Indeed we might.
Reflections of electric red voltage
or bloodshot eye ducts tears run dry.
Pools of empty.
Shades of silence screaming at my soiled conscience
about moments of pleasure followed by lifetimes
of pain and guilt and hatred for myself.
My lowly loathing earthly flesh.
surrounded by temptations. Surrounded by the fright. The evil overcomes me. Again.
My glory hides behind their eyes.
The angels who visit those not sleeping. (slipping)
Shelter those who are weeping
not for themselves, but for they, the world, the plight. The very sight
of it all.
if only briefly, could they weep for me?
my stains.
my stains.
Tranquillity
Just me again
and my thoughts.
Me, my thoughts and the waves pressing
forward.
Reminding me of God’s peace.
My thoughts are a rancid storm of tropical wind, hurricane speed. Destruction in the air. Turmoil settling all around.
The tranquillity of my mind rests there. Somewhere beyond the
water’s break.
Unknown hidden restless yet calm. Where does my peace lie. Where
will the waves cover my thoughts for enduring
Oh, where, do I find the waves that will cover me? Endlessly. Tranquillity
Slave Gods
And there he was asking for some bread.
Starving really.
Starved.
Death in living skin.
No semblance of life. Other than breath in his lungs - as he inhales the poison.
Just one more time, one more time
For a moment it lives
For a moment it dies
And then the search again begins.
Just one more time, one last time They will die for this – they do; they have Offerings of souls to the slave Gods of crack pipes The heroine addicts. The Downtown Eastside.
Flash back to days of mother’s final rage
Screaming Rejection
young girls blamed
daddy’s lustful assaults
The girl had to go, she had to go – she’s a liar.
Yet guilt is still stabbing through mother’s knowing womb.
She reaches for the bottle and pours it deeply
she drinks it in, swallows it down.
And there she was asking for some bread.
Starving really.
Starved.
Death in living skin.
No semblance of life. Other than hope of a fix - as she lays down for the dollar.
Just one more time, one more time.
For a moment it lives
For a moment it dies
And then the search again begins.
Just one more time, one last time They will die for this – they do; they have Offerings of souls to the slave Gods of whoredomdom The heroine addicts. The Downtown Eastside.
When will they find rest Dear Father. Surely you weep at the sight.
Just one more time, one last time. They hope of a Lord - who will free them Deliverance of souls from the slave Gods of torments The heroine addicts. The Downtown Eastside.
tempted
Captivate Captivated by the waving oceans in your eyes
A secret spiritual sensation
Awakens me to longing
I cry out to Jesus – remove my sin
Purge my flesh, Lord
Not my will, but thine be done.
...
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For the Perfect Gift: The Sand Between My Toes
8 comments:
Slave Gods is too close to home. I actually cried when I read it. I can't wait to get the audio for this book. - Kate Lyons
The Sand Between My Toes should be retitled. I think a poem name like Children of the Ages, or Slave Gods or Forgotten etc. would catch more reader's eyes. Just a thought. Great poetry. Thanks - Vancouver BC Canada
Will you post Orphan Cries or Damaged Goods on your website? These are my two favorite poems by Hazel Hoyle. Thanks, Cathy O.
This book is phenomenal. You will find yourself captivated from the beginning to the end and you will then start over again. Again and Again.
Its like a NewAge Bible. There is so much profound stuff in this book. It nails it in so many ways expressing the universal journey of pain, healing and recovery.
It also sparks a nerve concerning social justice and the need for change to free the "slaves" of addiction and poverty.
The poetry is awesome. I am not sure this is chronology will transform my life, but the poems are simply fabulous. - anonymous
This book is an explosion of emotional expression. Coupled with the right teaching to understand the nature of the words, My ESL students are flourishing. Thanks
Vancouver
So are you the girl in Slave Gods, or Damaged Goods? or neither?
i just read through some of this again. i think i will resurrect Slave Gods. this frankly is one of the most touching poems to reality of the street and hidden secret addiction struggles faced by the masses. nice job...
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