The HyperTexts

Anne Hurlebaus

Anne Hurlebaus lives in the Greater Boston area and is a single mother of a rambunctious three-year-old boy. A “retired” bartender, she is currently a Quality Assurance Manager/Food Safety Specialist for a local brand that is distributed nationally. She started writing poetry at the age of 14 and is “world renowned” ... among her family and friends, at least! After dozens of notebooks filled and many online posts, this is her first publication by a literary journal.

Judgement day

The raw, icy night surrounds me.
My face so cold,
it’s in pieces and cracks...
I put it back together in bits,
the edges—so broken,
they just barely fit.
I look in the mirror,
tremble in the frigid room...
this doesn’t look like me—
I confront my gloom.
“What happened?”, I hear
the jagged edge speaking...
“My life fell apart”, I say
as I’m weeping.
I inspect the hard plaster...
Is it all just a trick?
For I’m not made of mortar,
that’s been laid brick by brick...
The incomplete form
cracked a seam open wide...
Then murmured the truth,
that plagues me inside...
“You’ve never looked at yourself,
with no judgement and thought—
how perfect you are,
so away I will rot.”

Spring

It’s Spring again!
I remember when...
the last year sprung,
and new life had begun!

The fragrance of fresh cut grass and flowers...
The noise from all those damn leaf blowers!

Sprinklers shower fresh water around...
What was cast away in winter, now is found.

Our spirits stretch up toward the sky...
to the cumulus clouds drifting by.

“Hope springs eternal!”
pounds within our hearts.
Our chance to begin anew...
we’re mother nature’s art!

The Devil’s show

Serenading the moon...
my heart’s inferno
brilliantly blooms...
the darkness; the luminescence,
contrasting sharply...
I croon, drag my bow
across the strings—
the devil’s show.
Horsehair strung instrument I retract—
bow down deep,
end of act.

Shadows

Shadows reveal her eyes' depth of thought.
Is it sadness, perseverance, love...
or contemplation of beauty?
The dark figures of flowers and branches flutter
ever so slightly on the wall...
whispering "your end is not near"...
Hold your face statuesque!
Hold it steady until...
the branches snap,
the flowers bloom...
till you observe what hatches,
birthed from shadows in your room.

The Last

You never know
when the last will be your last.
Fixed in that juncture...
now a still-frame from your past.

Laughter echoes...
Resonates in the hollows; burnt into your being...
Reflection’s definition...
demands a striking, nostalgic meaning.

Those jovial nights...
another late run to the store—
no conclusion; no finale...
organically led straight to a door.

That door morphed into a sidewalk...
you pursue it breathless to a man you loved.
Gazing toward the endless starred sky...
from his rooftop up above.

Those nights; the countless talks...
as the sun raised gently up...
flicking another cigarette,
ashes float in a shallow cup...

You never know...
when the last will be your last.
You never know...
when the past became your past.

It all seemed like forever—
in the present as you stood...
Now vanished; struck by lightning
...you forgot to knock on wood.

The HyperTexts