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