Virgin In The Storm

She is the Virgin in the Storm,

the new calf
born
in the middle of the lion hunt,

the only person in Hell
who doesn't belong there.

She is the white chalk outline
at the murder scene,

the six heart pile-up on the freeway
where she walks away unharmed.

She's the girl who brought a book
to the party.

Yet, she is not cynical
has no scars

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Forbidden Chapter Two:

Chapter Two

She found herself making preparations even before the fishing trip. She knew what she was doing but she hid it from herself. She went to the mall and bought the items she would need without letting herself acknowledge what she was planning. Maybe she did know, maybe she did not know but it was down deep in her mind and did not come up to where it entered her everyday mind.

She went to the cabin for two hours and cleaned, prepared things, saying to herself this was just routine. Yet even in the cleaning there was purpose which one part of her mind knew and one part of her mind did not know the purpose of her activity there.

She had gone to the catalog and surveyed her choices there and found one she fell in love with and took her household savings and sent off for it.

That act was so deliberate, so clear that it, from that point, made it clear even to her other self what see was doing, not what specifcally she was doing but what she wanted to be involved in what she wanted to do.

It was not going to be a one time thing. Her mind was settling on it being something she could do again and again if she liked.

She got really excited with the idea that she had freedom to do it again and again. It was liberating. It made her feel like a girl again, no not a girl, like a woman.

By fishing day she raised her hand to wave goodbye brimming with excitement.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Fireflies and Summer Nights

At ten I caught fireflies
in the Chicago night
cupping them in my hands
giving them to you
where we watched them
twinkle away
above us
indistinguishable from the stars.

The next day you took me
to see the butterflies
land
to drink the Flower's Ambrosia-
their wings gently swaying.

My hamster got to know you on sight
and squealed when you snuck into my room;
you would feed him sunflower seeds;
he took them staring
lovingly at you.

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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In Between

I walked through Heaven's Gates
and St. Peter did not recognize me;

I had not sinned enough to warrant
detection.

I walked through checkpoint after checkpoint
unseen
bathed in light
but opaque
more presence than me,
consumed with curiosity about what lay beyond;
beyond Heavens Gate.

There were lights and sprites, visions and presences
protuberances and quivering entities
all there and not there
around me
but none spoke to me.

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Time Banker

There was an exact rendering in the books of her time granted her from all her relatives, from grandparents, to siblings, from her parents and even some deposits from friends.

He moved in his chair, rose, and glided toward the window to look out as he always did when he wanted to think.

The landscape outside was soothing, the morning was crisp and his mind focused in upon essenses.

This was a good thing to be doing in life he said to himself. Here he could offer her both a future granted to her from the past and he could be there, be present, as she came to understand in her majority, the time tables he would lay out for her.

It was the best part of his job and he always had that special tingle when telling an eighteen year old what the Time Bequeathal held for her.

He stirred himself and sat back down to look at her account one more time, just to be sure of the numbers. Added up she had 613,200 hours in her account, enough to last a life time, not counting the ones she would accumulate on her own in her own life time.

There were no warps and wormholes he could discern, which might threaten that. And that was good.

You like to see a nice clean account like this, he thought to himself.
He would suggest to her some insurance against the unpredictable, against, theft and banditry, against the unforeseeable.

He heard her gentle knock and rose.

To be continued.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Shelia Loves Deeply

I want you to tell me that you need me-
is that so hard?

I want you to see me and not turn away.

I carve sometimes even a gentle glance
or better
a soft touch and softer voice saying
'are you ok? '

Rejection cuts like a dull knife
and kindness is a hurtful stranger
when not freely given and often
even if a substitute
for love
abandoned

Seeing you retreat inward
crushes my soul

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Too Close and Beauty Hurts

To be in the face of Beauty-
and she was Beauty-
is intimidating;
there is the desire to
not be close
for being close intensifies the
sense of inadequacy.

It is a shock to be in the face of beauty
and there arises
at least for me
the desire to find just one flaw
to cling to.

I re-run that fleeting face
back through my mind
to find the way to sanity.

I don't have this view about Nature's beauty
which evidently I tolerate;

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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At My Window

I move with windows which haunt me
windows which reveal
your face at two or three
each day I rise
seeking to know
what can I do
on your behalf
each meeting a testament
as to what I do or can do
for you
to relieve that suffering I see
in those eyes
world wide
in the cities of America
in the campesinos of Latin America
in the Somalia refugee camps
in the hungry children of Africa
among the garbage people of India
the black and latino children of America
the hordes and young of Islam

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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More Verbaler-John

My dad one day
explained women to me.

Home from college
he had planned it;
a special moment between us
and curious beyond belief
and I was all aquiver
anticipating
what my Dad would have to say.

'Now keep in mind 'he said.
'women are not like men
they are always thinking
always feeling
and they pay attention to everything.

Nothing is neutral
when it comes to your female species.
Now you and us menses

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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My War With The Fleas

Came August
the Flea Commander
slapped his walking stick
upon the table bare

surveying his battle plan
testing his jumping legs
assembled before him were
flea battalions on the ground
restless for the attack
mosquitoes and flies to buzz the air,
giant bedbug tanks from New York
gnats, moths, and crawlies eager for blood to suck
bat sentries, owl look-outs
coyotes to howl signals out
all was ready.

“Now, ” he began slowly

The family in there does not yet suspect

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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