Born to be a man of the cloth: A poem

Born to be a man of the cloth,

Forever Lost in childhood wonder,

In joyous merriment,

Laughing on a royal parapet;

At comfort and peace in ancient abbies,

Hearing prayers for the royal family,

Wishing for life in a monastery;

We all seem to worship services,

Giving them names like religion, sports, celebrities, family.
Born to be a man of the cloth,

Choosing, instead, to live amongst the throngs,

Tempted by love to veer off the path,

The path which points to Life where the cloth is laid out on another sphere.

— Rick Hill, Sunday, 14th August 2016


Hammock Haze

The joys we give when insanity flares,

When inanity fills the air;

A maple leaf does not think nor




The oxygen we breathe (or rather, gas),

It mixes here beneath; alas,

It, too, is air.






Sunday night, as Sundays go,

I lay back on the treehouse deck,

A jar of moonshine next to me,

The canopy of stars my movie screen;

I dreamt, as I am wont to do,

Of lovers past,

Of future paths,

Which of the divergent ones in the woods below me,

‘Neath the boughs I’ll trod —

The easiest ones are not wellworn,

Or worn well in the light of day,

For love bears fruit in thorny patches —

When while I tracked a planet’s arc,

I turned to get a better view,

Avoided jarring fermented peaches’ vessel,

And sent my memory,

Encased in plastic, metal and glass

In smartphone form,

On its own treacherous path through treehouse cracks,

Bouncing from limb to limb,

Resting against a rock,

Removing wireless writing that,

In days of olde,

Would’ve bounced from carriage to carriage in scented envelopes,

Leaving imaginary lovers on the doorsteps of social media,



Guest poem while contemplating “on holiday”

Love After Love
The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.


by Derek Walcott

from Sea Grapes 

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1976




Can it be me?

Can I be the one?
Can the song she sings be about me?
Can I know what I know yet not know how to sing the duet?

Is it really this simple?

Can my heart pine for another,
the one who opens me to take chances I’d never take otherwise,
because she sings the songs for others I too love to sing?

To know who I am and not act upon that knowledge…

I shiver in emotional joy…

Could it be me?

Could together we sing for others, helping more than when we’re separate,
knowing we can’t please everyone?

Could it be us?


Shall I compare thee to a sonnet, instead?

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground;

And for the peace of you I hold such strife

As ‘twixt a miser and his wealth is found;

Now proud as an enjoyer and anon

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,

Now counting best to be with you alone,

Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure;

Sometime all full with feasting on your sight

And by and by clean starved for a look;

Possessing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

Sonnet 75 by the Bard