Of Wanting and Rain: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2007-2009 Read online

Of Wanting and Rain: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2007-2009

  Paul Hina

  Published by Paul Hina

  Copyright ©2011 by Paul Hina

  1

  the spring is awakening something new and

  marvelous in the soil of your soul and the

  flowers that will rise from the heat will ride

  a wave called whispering waters that allows

  for drinking thigh smiles all the way to the

  heaven of your hive where honey hovers like

  a new bulb floating on the stem of a breeze

  called breathing kisses where the sun hides

  from the sounds of wondrous hums and whistles

  called love’s own singing

  and a bashful cloud bursts into water waiting to

  see the world fall into another paused passion

  hiding dreams in the pistils of the saints’ most

  sunlit soldiers called sex and pouting petals

  all the way down the hips of hoping to catch

  another taste of your strategic kiss that kills

  another crime like a crying were coming undone

  in this magnificent heartache of hot tendrils and

  vine wrapping kisses like a christmas mystery

  coming uncracked in the dry pollination of a

  passionate thing,

  a delirious song to sing later when caught by the

  flowers in the powerful showers of these laughs

  of rain

  2

  spring is a creature that crawls like a

  slightly softer whisper than the breath

  of a buzzing in the heart where you float

  on the air of knowing that your blood is

  warm when hands find your hair like fingers

  were standing them up on the end of a

  sleepy sensation in the snowy reckoning

  of a kissable wing so fragile in the storm

  of something bigger than slippery sex or

  as jagged as drowning to death in the dance

  of your elegant tickling arms making laughs

  out of the sporting shine from my soul, which

  is a conscious thing waiting to wake you up in

  a dream for game playing and secret saying

  3

  i’ve been telling her i love her like that

  in the wind,

  blowing kisses and hand butterflies

  like a dream slipping through her fingers,

  like writing a poem in the sand

  4

  your voice is a sound caught by child

  fingers clutching the lights of fireflies

  on summer nights where boundless worlds

  reach tiny arms toward the universes of

  your speaking

  and the stars don’t shine like they used to

  when you were tired and yawn-sending

  like blowing a dream to the places i hide

  where whispering means something slower

  than sex but stands as still as a finer rhythm

  coming unhinged like a door opening to let

  all the light out of your mouth for twilight

  kisses

  but we try to fly our wings further than

  breathing when in the deeper water of

  soundless sleeping where boundaries

  release, finger by tiny finger, separate

  bodies, flesh reaching into flesh for a

  house full of dreams and summer

  singing like the birds waking up whistling

  new kisses, warming up playthings

  5

  the memory is a busying thing that

  revolves around a history of remembering

  and forgetting

  and i am much too young to lose any of those

  movies of people that rotate my brain like a

  heart on a leash

  and yet someday i’ll be too old to remember

  who i forgot

  6

  the remembering is a touch that falls

  on me so dizzying like a blood swirling

  down my brain to my bones for a warm

  birth of memory waking from simply

  unconscious stupidity to those worlds

  i fly though in the dreams where my

  fingers slide down your hair and the air

  is always good for breathing little parades

  where all those new kisses march across

  your body like the numbing of the mind

  might stomp a song that sounds loud enough

  to keep the outside light from poking an awakening

  hole into this ghost where our bodies float across

  old waters and everywhere just happens to be wherever

  you are and everything is alive and dancing to the

  melody that climbs the skies of our whispering rhythm

  7

  love is a terrible place to plant your wishes

  when the heart is a noisy house and harvesting

  a little quiet touching is interrupted by old

  blood rinsing out those memorable midnight

  imaginings to swim in the new bittersweet

  wash of kiss-blowing that paints the walls of this hope

  called flower the color of something clean and

  unremarkable like a girl balancing her flimsy

  feet on a string, waiting for the hands of my heart,

  waiting for some seeds of sun to sprinkle a little

  starspray on the lips of awakening anew everyday,

  listening to little breathing you,

  counting the petals of my wishes,

  washing them with rain soaked fingers,

  caressing them with hope stained hands

  8

  of all those places you so frequently visit

  within me, the afternoon light best reflects

  a none too subtle magnificence of memory

  with its effortless recklessness to shout a

  shine on how bright and beautiful you are

  when you make mouth movements like

  climbing onto lakes of lips where conundrums

  and kaleidoscopes come undone to spill on

  some heart-stirring or kiss-making to fall

  into love puddles where the sun’s brightest

  whiteness will protect our perfectly puzzled

  bodies ashine with sparks and silences,

  sensations and stupefying sex creations,

  stumbling onto the stilted stars,

  colliding into the curiosity of clouds

  9

  she’s got a thing, an elegantly broken thing,

  a pose of swirling chaos when she spins a

  flight of fingers through her thick hands of hair,

  and when the lights lie like a sleeping shush

  where drowsy deludes into dreams where those

  somber strands fall all down from the open

  windows of sky climbing where beds are clouds

  and blue is the water we drink in this cool, clumsy

  daydream,

  and she shakes gold from her shoulders like

  growing a new glowing where flutes fly like

  music mesmerized by the breeze she blows when

  she stumbles to snag so simply on a breathing,

  and a bird sings somewhere about the

  delicate branches of her arms which wrap the

  world up like a neat little box called bliss where
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br />   she blows bright blind spots all over new painted

  nature with the air somewhere far off plotting a

  whispering campaign against the colors she

  concocts every time she collides with the clues

  she provides when she shines so simply with

  effortlessly hands concealing eternity like a

  smile that hides the mouth from a kiss

  10

  i can hear her rain

  on me with her whispers

  of fingers

  i can feel the sky streams

  dripdropping some melodious

  miracles as her hands clutch

  deeply—

  my hair

  and the mayhem left like

  mixing milk and flesh is

  a crashing so thundered

  to open doors to dreams

  after a little drowsy diving

  into the deep sex of these

  downpours

  11

  what was it in your eyes that sent me diving

  into the water of way gone days, like puzzles

  coming together in the heart, like blood collecting

  pools in the gut for sick-making love

  and i knew that i had to steal you with thief-slick

  hands from the brilliant light that held you away

  from me, like a breeze blowing a butterfly away

  from its flower, caught between the shadows of

  life and the shine of a thousand rainbows waiting

  to glide in some sun-sliding after the rain that wakes

  you from a slightly softer whisper than sleep and

  finding you fallen from dreaming into my arms

  for a little milk of flesh stirring flesh and

  honey-dropping-mouth-tastefullys like a kiss

  resting on the clumsy continuum of the cascading

  curtains of your hair, waiting for me to touch it again

  with a tickle to the face, a torch on the spine,

  just to breathe its air again,

  just to hear it come inside me like a clumsy crook one

  more time,

  stealing me under water for crimes and soft collisions,

  holding my quiet body under the deep, down, and dirty

  noise of god

  12

  and someday you and i will die

  and there will be errant pieces of

  dreams that float someplace beneath

  life's reach and dive toward the us-places

  where once worlds fell through the cracks

  of sleep, dripped into the drain of the

  mind turning us inside out and into the

  unconscious water of silvery starlights

  and drowning is a desire where wishes

  retreat for songs that twirl down-and-all-

  around like two dizzy(wonderful) pieces

  have come—finally—together for the most

  yellow of rests

  13

  spring is an unclumsy awake hand

  that shakes the