AN Artistic Journey
“The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.”
“Every once and awhile I am inspired to write a poem. I have posted some samples of my work here. Who knows perhaps someday I will have enough to publish a collection.”
Dark
Reflections
HUMOUR
How the Elf Got on the Shelf
© Paul Hock 2023
Twas the night before Christmas and a creature was stirring,
A wretched old Elf like a fat cat was purring
With his candy cane honed to a Zulu sharp spear
He hid in the tree until midnight was near
Then he crept to the table like a mischievous pup
Where he drank Santa’s milk and ate his cookies all up
Then Stole every last candy cane hung on that tree
To hide them away whispering “They’re all for me”
But he tripped as he dragged them downstairs to the cellar
It was almost the end of that mean little feller
He bounced down every step with a terrible clatter
And Jim sprung from his bed, Di said Jim what’s the matter!
They ran to the basement and opened the door
And there was old Elfie crumbled up on the floor
Di just shook her head and said look what you’ve done
All the candy canes broken, you have ruined the fun
The Elf was a mess, his limbs didn’t work
Jim opened the trash can, then said with a smirk
No from now till forever you silly old Elf
You can sit in the powder room, up on the shelf
Forget the Bloody Beer
© Paul Hock 2020
It was back in 2020 when I felt the virus blues.
Then my sweetheart yelled out from the kitchen, have you heard the news?
There’s a shortage, get to town and grab a pack of twenty-four.
I panicked, grabbed my keys and hollered honey I’m out the door.
I said, tell me quick what beer to get? Cause this can’t wait till later
She said, no not beer you silly ass, we’re low on toilet paper.
And grab a twelve of paper towels and sanitary wipes.
She held our last roll in her hands. Her eyes were filled with fright.
And don’t come home without them she said with some insistence.
Or tonight you will experience some serious social distance.
I fired up my pick-up truck my mission. It was clear.
Wipes and towels and toilet paper, forget the bloody beer.
The Lonely Writer © Paul Hock 2020
Wind Chill minus forty
That’s not cold, not to me
Gusting to eighty, later today
Hoist the sails, I’m away
Sleet overnight
The washer well’s full
Freezing rain by daylight
I’ve got a scraper, you know
Changing to snow drifting high
Four-wheel drive gets me by
Like the mail service, I’ll go
Through freezing rain, slush and snow
To my writers’ group meet
We’ll just turn up the heat
Write, laugh and chatter
Like nothing’s the matter
I’ve arrived, it was scary
Where are Kay, Bob and Mary?
Then three beeps on my phone
We are all, “Staying Home.”
DARK
The Titanic Dragon – A Seventy-Five Word Challenge
© Paul Hock 2020
Glacier birth carried south, the current would allow
Qassimiut, round Newfoundland into the dragon’s prow
like some gigantic plastic whale, the iceberg target hove
By kindled fires and breath of smoke the wonderous dragon rowed
No moonlight night revealed a way, the whale it could not bank
A screeching clash with crimson scar along its icey flank
Titanic dragon’s brittle skin could not restrain the flow
Mourn her drowned, sinking now into the depths below
This was a writing challenge – Word count 75, whew that was fun. It had to be written using these words. Glacier, round, and plastic plus ten optional words – dragon, wonder, allow, mourn, crimson, moonlight, drown, target, kindle, and brittle.
The Ghost of Culloden
© Paul Hock 2019
There’s a tavern in town once owned by the crown
Where the Duke and his men came to think
And a ghost did appear, one year to the day
That ‘Sweet William the Butcher,’ did drink
The redcoats would gloat, of the victory they spoke
In the battle of Culloden Field
Where they tested the hide of the Scot rebel tide
Forcing Bonnie Prince Charlie to yield
Yet that English pride soon would subside
When James Robertson joined their soirée
For his cold bones still lay, in the mud of that fray
Neath the surface of Culloden’s clay
There was blood in his beard, as he toasted the duke
They’re a’ deid, but ye dinnae care
And the patrons turned pale, as they raised up their ale
For to challenge him, they dinnae dare
Every year on that day he returned to their play
And the English joined James in his toast
Until the last one alive, raised a dram o’re his head
and fell dead at the feet of his host
Off to war, we shall go, said James with a glow
Once again we will meet on that moor
For we cannae yield, on Culloden field
There’ll be nae an end to this war
And ‘tis said every year if the weather’s not clear
And the rain and sleet blows o’re the moor
The Jacobite’s sound, Charlie’s claim to the crown
Facing muskets the rebels faired poor
And when all’s said and done, with claymore and gun
And the slashing of swords in the fray
The ghosts on the moor, raise a glass to the sky
With neither side winning the day
Why Wind Ye Down this Windswept Trail
© Paul Hock 2019
Why wind ye down this windswept trail
When inky darkness throws
All colour into shades of gray
Or black as feathered crows
What do you seek to find
No moonlight shines upon your path
I’ll watch you stumble, curse and fall
And you will make me laugh
What madness in your mind prevailed
That you might take this way
Into my world you foolish prig
Now suffer you, my play
Not sword nor knife nor lance
Shall pierce your impious heart my dear
No… you will die a braggarts death
Your heart will bleed with fear
Why wind ye down this windswept trail
To meet the man you slew
You could not know, his ghost would wait
Now you will pay your due
The Keepers Lair
© Paul Hock 2023
What lay buried neath the keeper’s lair
A broken knight, his maiden fair
The woeful blow, the deadly wound
That struck him down in cold damp room
Blamed for her death, he sits entombed
Beneath the Keepers lair he stares
Upon his love, the maiden fair
The beacon up above will shine
Candled by a man of crime
The lovers for all time will share
The cold and damp beneath the lair
Inspired by a book I wrote entitled “The Grim Keeper”
REFLECTIONS
Mesqua Ukie
© Paul Hock 2020
Paintings by the famous seven, brushstrokes portraying a taste of heaven
And more on granite walls by artists who eons past left their mark
I long to return, to breathe the air, and immerse my troubled soul in the cooling waters.
To listen, while gripping my father’s hand, to the ghosts dancing and singing behind the forest wall.
My paddle strokes creating rippled cracks on the mirrored surface, loons crying in my wake.
An esoteric experience shared not by mere words, but by doing.
I close my eyes and drift with the current, past a towering mosaic of coloured walls.
My fingertips dip and touch the reflected tips of the tallest trees, hints of the coming change.
When a sparkling cloak of white will paint a new canvas, upon this land.
While slumbering beneath the drifting snow and frozen lakes, life immured will again rekindle.
Spirals of smoke, like ancient fires, rise to the skies from the dwellings of those who stayed behind.
While in our cities, houses, apartments, and condos, we impatiently dream of returning.
To that place, crowned with a warrior’s name “not easily turned back in the day of battle.”
Mesqua Ukie… Muskoka… Home.
As Long as You Remember Me
© Paul Hock 2020
Ten thousand sunsets I’ll not see
A million laughs not share
Countless tears I will not cry
Regardless I will still be there
So long as you remember me
In spirit I’ll be there
A grandson I will never kiss
My children’s birthdays I will miss
My thoughts and dreams I cannot share
Regardless I will still be there
So long as you remember me
In spirit I’ll be there
Show my picture. tell my story
Not for fame nor for glory
The sacrifice I felt was right
In dreams I’m with you, every night
So long as you remember me
In spirit I’ll be there
The Musician
© Paul Hock 2018
Nicotine stained fingers, strumming, lifting every word
The message in the lyric danced tightly, to the melody
Close just like two lovers, perfect harmony
A Fiver in his hat, in return a toothless smile
Tomorrow I’ll return, to listen for awhile
Wolfsong
© Paul Hock 2018
Pricked ears hear the calling
The primitive stirs
To run, track and ambush
Then join in the queue, the sharing of flesh
Giving sustenance and strength
To once again prowl
Through forest, over tundra, across frozen lake
Up the mountainside steep
To howl at the moon
A wolfsong
© Paul Hock February 9, 2019
LIFE
A Conversation
© Paul Hock 2020
Mom, Dad, why are the birds louder?
Oh, they aren’t louder, dear, we are all quieter, and now we can hear them.
Why does the air seem fresher?
It’s because we aren’t all driving our cars.
And the sky, how come it’s so blue?
It’s because the factories have all shut down, so there is less smog.
But people are sick, and some are dying, and I can’t visit my friends.
I know, honey, it doesn’t seem fair.
Does this have to happen to hear the birds, and breathe fresh air, and see the sky?
No, it shouldn’t have to be this way.
I don’t understand, then what can I do?
You can live, learn and embrace the world around you.
And as adults, now we know what needs to be done, for you and her.
Her?
Yes… her… Mother Earth.
A House A Home
© Paul Hock 2016
Beneath the whir of spinning blade
The ruins stand in quivering shade
As monoliths stark white and tall
Look down upon the tilted wall
Where babies had been born and cried
People loved, laughed, lived, and died,
Where trial and tribulation raised
The dreams and hopes of bygone days
The house now stands alone, forlorn
Once a fortress, more a home
Once proud and loved and in its prime
Now a paradigm of passing time
Beneath the whir of spinning blade
The ghosts live on in quivering shade
Monoliths will rust, like rotting wood
Spirits will live on, where the house once stood
An October Rain
© Paul Hock 2020
An evening shower begins its incessant patter.
Weighing down the clinging coloured canopy.
Finding its way into covered porches, rusty brake drums
And old men’s knees.
Cold, wet, and relentless.
By morning it should be gone.
It isn’t.
I pull grandma’s quilt over my head.
Ten more minutes of comfort.
Paul Hock
Paul Hock, is a multifaceted artist and author. His creative world includes art, music, and literature. His art encompasses pencil drawings, markers and brush to vibrant digital illustrations. Paul is also known for his compelling award winning children’s books and heart felt musical compositions and performances. A versatile creator whose works resonate with a diverse audience.
Inspiration through every medium.
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