CCD Presents: Poetry by David Hill

by David Ponyboy Hill of Winston-Salem Writers



I write letters
to the future,
three times
on three leaflets.
In the first,
the tone is bitter
so I burn it in the fire.
With the second,
my penmanship is poor,
so I grind it in the shredder.
But the third one is just so,
composed in a state of flow.

I take it to the top of the
tallest building in town,
there, to fashion and fold.
I aim it true and
send it with a simple toss.
First, the nose dips
and it tumbles and spirals
down several floors.
But in an updraft, it
rights and finds course.

I watch it drift down destiny
to join with the future of hope.

First published in Poetry in Plain Sight

City Symbiosis

Buses expel and taxis rust rattle,
a siren swirls in the funnel of noise
that flows like fluid to the hollows
and pours back misshapen and dense.

Beside the terminal,
I watch The Dancing Man
convulse as though shot,
drop to a knee, shake it off,
rise and writhe up the block
in blazing red shoes.

So focused, the shepherd dog never flinches
and the blind Pretzel Man nods and smiles.

Crystalline swipes down his sleeve,
but carefully, so very carefully
he picks each brown twist with silver tongs
and tucks it in wax paper wrapping.
I touch his fat fingered hand and
his lolling tongue forms “thank you.”

In Grace Park, through skim,
the sun’s crinkled eye squints
on a gasping photosynthesis.
Each day,
I break pretzels in pigeon bites
or bury them deep in the trash bin.

First published in Poetry in Plain Sight


The Old Arlington Hotel

Before me,
the mighty Atlantic night
crashes Nags Head’s shore;

Cruuusssh…, Cruuusssh…

The Enormity,
of blackness
and odor from
every element of life and death
that roils in sea.

My size 10’s softly pad
dry planks.
You know that feeling
through skin and teeth,
no splinters, please.

And I am so tiny and so thirsty,
but how is it I am safe
and that all of this somehow,
somehow hangs together?

How do I explain
this bone deep thrill?
This spinal chill.

In moon glow,
a fiddler crab scurries
across sand,
then suddenly drops
down a hole.
Such mystery,
I mean why
presume superiority?
Because I drink Coke?

And the machine glows
eerie red inside its shed,
Then a moth flies between
as I slip coins in the slot
and my can rumbles and drops,
now wet cold in my palm,

and in some way I can not explain,
I emerged from The Enormity
to safely, softly pad dry planks
back to our run-down hotel.



picture-10-2David Ponyboy Hill works for a corporate titan in the highly respected financial industry.  He has had pieces published in the Winston-Salem Writer’s “In Flight” anthology,  and displayed as part of the local “Poetry in Plain Sight” program.  He lives quietly amongst squirrels, chipmunks, and yard birds.

Founded in 2005, Winston-Salem Writers is a group of writers who write fiction, non-fiction, plays and poetry, and who care about the art and craft of writing. They offer programs, workshops, critique groups, open mic nights, contests and writers’ nights out for both beginning writers and published authors. For more information, click HERE.