donna hill



With a shake of your head
and lips pursed into a defiant smile
you affirm personal history
be left alone

nothing more
than aptly reminders

It's all about

I let the blueness of your eyes
open me to the edge of day

as I recall instead
another of your rippled

To write poetry down my back
haiku across my breast


Or in the white, white, quivering
instability of love
we shake a world to order
~ Phyllis Webb

A moment. A moment is all I dare to ask for.
I stake my claim in the sand with my chair, book in hand,
set to unfold myself. If only the child nearby would
stop yelling a muffled, M-u-m-m-a, from under his overturned
rubber raft- or at least his brother would stop
jumping on it.


There are two of them,
any more and they would not be noticed.
The ducks' sway and dip is intrinsic to the lake,
their peaceful arc of water edged by a mortar wall
pushing beyond the land.
The sun is setting.


That Saturday morning
he had knocked on doors, connective strangers
in a townhouse complex.
Could someone knot his tie, his daughter
was getting married.

One dad helped me into the car at home
the other offered his hand when I arrived at the church
his tie looking just so.

Five months after his first grandson was born
I was planning his funeral. His textured brown suit and tie,
a dark contrast to the satin-whiteness of the casket lining,
looked all too familiar.


They were a pair. White swans, very white, eyes dark and
endless. They symbolized mystery. Until one night
when youths captured and spray-painted one of them

Being alone does little to replace
the mystique of togetherness


Had anyone ever pinned her crayon drawings on a fridge?
I wondered. Now the girl's being placed in Transition House.
A teen-ager still, without a clue who the father is- Too many to try.
With a mom more handicapped that she, a violent, automated
world she cannot cope with, her abuse is considered
consequential. The only thing left is to take the baby.
Family. Is there ever a choice?


Spring is over, paled dandelion seeds have blown past,
taking root where they may.

It could easily have been this morning, I wondered, or another
morning he's sat with his lover, lost in her eyes,
fresh blueberries and strawberries adorning their plates.
A leisurely breakfast amid the sun's embrace,
on her Carolinian veranda.


It's better to have loved... is not working for me.
Why, if only to be given so fiercely, and then taken away.


The water swirls, sunlit reflections flicker
like lures across the surface.
The ducks float on.

Tufts of wind stir the willows.
Daylight fades to blue.

I fold my chair, turn away from the lake,
vaguely remembering not to look back.


As Girlfriends Will, As Women Do
more info

Donna Hill

     Donna Hill lives in British Columbia, Canada with her three sons. She has been writing poetry since 1998, drawing much of her writing style for realism from life around her, her family, and work as a child educator. She is a part time university student earning her Batchelor of Arts in English and Creative Writing. Donna is also co-creator and poetry editor of Erosha, an online literary journal of the erotic. Her poems have appeared internationally, in such issues as Teak Round Up, One Dog Press, Poems Niederngrasse, Poetry Motel, Peshekee River Poetry, and Slipstream, and have also been published by numerous literary webzines. "My Hands Write When I Need Them To," took first prize in Comrades first annual poetry contest in the UK, and was invited into their anthology entitled, "Uno," 2002. Clean Sheets Press has published her poem, "Carolina Rain" in their latest anthology, December 2001. Donna's poetry site can be found at
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