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kid
i wish i could go back in time
and see my younger self
and warn him
that it would only get worse
im relapsing with depression again. i miss how it used to be
. (or: the god who called me “sir”) .

He entered like a prophecy mispronounced
storm-soaked, sky-buttoned,
his coat dragging dusk across the floorboards,
eyes lit like stolen copper.

My drink was a cathedral of neglect—
neat bourbon, no ice,
echoing the taste of promises embalmed in dust.
I drank the same way I pray:
sparingly, and to a god I no longer trust.

He didn’t sit; he disrupted.
Barstools shifted like tectonics,
shadows coiled around his boots,
and the jukebox skipped a beat to watch him move.

“You look like someone who’s been patient too long,”
he said, voice lacquered in soft thunder,
vowels curling like smoke from a burnt vow.

I gave him my laugh
a cracked heirloom I no longer polish.
He wore it like cologne
and leaned in as if to inhale the ruin.

His hands were myths retold badly
trembling between gentleness and guillotine.
He touched the rim of my glass
like it was my mouth,
and drank it wrong—
reckless, like he’d never been told no
and didn’t believe in scarcity.

The night flexed around us.
My watch stopped ticking.
Time, the faithful beast I’d trained
to lie at my feet,
lifted its head and whimpered.
Part I of Chronogamy introduces the mythic lovers—an older man caught in the gravity of time, and a younger force of disruption dressed in charm and danger. The meeting is quiet but seismic: a study in tension, recognition, and the invisible transfer of power that begins the moment desire is named.

This opening movement establishes the tone of myth as noir, where gods wear leather and wounds speak in metaphor. The poem explores the moment just before surrender—the seductive chaos of meeting someone who doesn't just challenge your structure, but studies it.

Here, Saturn first sees Jupiter—not as a rival, but as possibility. And that, as the speaker begins to sense, is always where undoing begins.

The Chronogamy Collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136301/chronogamy/
We’ll hitchhike to mars
on a rocket not a car,
so say your au revoirs.

We’ll steer towards Polaris, the north star
right through the center of the milky-way-bar.
See, the universe is dark and chocolatey.

Stars that glitter like multi-faceted gems,
are just shiny, yellow, peanut M&Ms,
take a handful, if you’d like, they’re free.

We’ll dodge the silhouetted moon,
which is made of enough coconut macaroon,
to make a French confectioner swoon.

As we go streaking, like a comet’s tail,
drag a finger through Saturn’s rings as well,
those are made of marshmallow.

We’ll  pass nebulae made of cotton-kandi,
and here’s a fact Einstein would have found handy,
the speed of light doesn’t apply to candy.
.
.
Ramble on by Toni Jevicky
If all politicians and leaders were
women,
There would be peace,
No war,
Only kitty parties,
And neighbouring countries jealous of
each other.
23/6/2025
I believe I have reached a point
of creative decline. Been on HP
since 2013. Close to 350 poems.
I may have thought and said
about all I have to offer.

Hard to come up with any real
original worthy material, the
old well might have run dry.
Or maybe my brain is growing
addled. That happens in our 80s.

In idle times I will still look in
on you all. I have enjoyed my
time here and made some fine
and talented writer and poet
friends. Thank you.

Adieu good and gentle people.
No illness or anything dire.
Just tired. I am thinking of
taking a pottery class.
The coastal winds set all our
orchard tree leaves dancing,
vibrating like music in the air.
That same clean breeze on my
face generates a smile, while
offering the slight scent of the
oceans salty splendor.

In my mind in color, behind closed
eyes I can clearly see my beach, the
waves, sand, rocks, all the winged
creatures soaring and wind floating
on the westerly air currents. I could
even hear their calls to each other,
and the muted laughter of human
children at play. The sight of people's
dogs free running the beach and
cavorting in the shallow surf.

An hour and a half drive each way,
taken many times over most of my
lifetime, seeking that view and being
rewarded by it. Familiar as the faces
of my beloved now grown children
and nearly as comforting to gaze upon.

Yes, I could make the drive, but even
that gets harder these days, as most
everything does. But why drive it,
when all I need do is close my eyes,
point my nose up into the breeze and
embrace that beach in my still vivid
mind's eye, while these technicolor
memories last, before they all fade
to black.
One of the perks of not actually going
to the beach, no need to empty sand out
of my shoes or treat a sunburned nose.
Herbicide rich farm lands..
Pesticides on every lawn..
Long live the American dream!
Capitalism is a long lost song..

Roundup sprayed ski slopes and golf course turfs!
Bucket list of old rich folks dying of cancers..
City water that stinks..
The ink of our receipts..
Testosterone levels,
rapidly deplete..
Year’s of no regulation,
Aluminum in the sky..
They obviously want to make sure…
No one gets out alive!!
Traveler Tim
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