Christina Honthy: PERSONA's Poet of the Month
Christina Honthy is a September 2008 Graduate of Centenary with a BS in Business Management.
Over the past eighteen years, Tina has been responsible for the administration and management of over 500,000 square feet of retail and commercial space in northeast New Jersey and Pennsylvania, as well as an executive suites operation in Parsippany and two apartment units in Mountain Lakes. Married 16 years and mother of two very rambunctious boys, it is through her writing that she remains sane.
Tina began to write creatively in grammar school, and her introduction to writing poetry came during her junior year at Lenape Valley Regional High School. Her Creative Writing and English teachers, Marta Rivara and Dennis Morgan, encouraged her free verse through regular brainstorming and journal entries.
Whether writing for herself, friends, family, or co-workers – she enjoys sharing life’s experiences with others. She enjoys the poetry of Rod McKuen, Robert Frost and Pablo Neruda.
WHATEVER THE SEASON
(Poetry Final)
In response to Edna St.Vincent Millay's poem, "First Fig".
Winter
The Bed Rooms
Her smell came first
like pop-pop's boots and
mall ashtrays, heady,
wild her hair fell
on the pillow next to mine
Looking at me she did not see
Lying close I did not sleep
She loved me, I suppose
the way a doctor loves his patient,
inclined to preach instead, or teach
a poison and a cure
All smiles aside, these smelly
silent pairings brought me close
to what I feared and revered
the most
And the smell came first
Saturday mornings, after scrambled eggs
yawns and scrapple
Sunday mornings, instead of
cupcakes, strawberries
or springtime
I sat and stared
at pop-pop's boots these mornings
and how her feet
fit deep inside
All that I could see
At Five
Bed Rooms II
These midnight kisses fill my heart
Though my head is heavy
My lips tired, lazy from lies
Peaceful, I brush
my girl’s twisted hair
Wet near my pillow
Her cheeks hot from happy dreams.
If only this one moment ---
My dreams could rush so, warm
My heart, as they flush her face
Smell my long fingers, faintly
Musk and Marlboros
Wondering why smoky rooms and Carlo Rossi
Bring more comfort
Than this one night
Netcong Heights
Your jaw was never set like that
To the right, swollen
As though a wad of chew
Teetered on your tongue and your arms
Never quite so cold
Took the dark nights of winter
Or a smooth Eagles solo
To cool those burning palms
Patient hands, crossed in comfort
Seem disconcerting, desolate
Without a pencil at their tips
Black lashes without knowing eyes
Lying soft upon icy cheeks
seem far too short
against your sleeping skin
All that I remember of your lost, rolling soul
Closed to me now,
as it should be
Then again, your jaw was never set like that
In life as it is now
in suffocated silence
The Hollow Bottle
They find solace in printed pages
Stories of spiders, dark nights and bats
Synthetic sheets – warm with
Masked heroes ready to fight -
pulled tight over bended knees.
The hair on their arms
Bristling, tense, listening
To the ticking clock
which rarely blocks
The hollow bottle sound
Settling behind the closet door
Sleeping among heavy winter coats
Some where down there
The printed pages blur while
Fingers flipping, Stellaluna finds
Acceptance. Family.
Her kisses not wasted on red wine.
The Mattress
Each corner of the mattress bows
Like berries strung from mistletoe
Drooped, weighted my heavy heart
Adverse to comfort, torn far apart
My lover’s eyelids gently rest
White I stroke his hair across my breast
Amid folded socks and panties lace
Ten years of diamonds lost in space
Scattered secrets, canvassed dreams
Find little comfort between careless seams
My books – the solace they often bring
The blossoms, honeybees, the glistening king
Each weathered page bent at the tip
Succumb to sleep beneath my grip
The corner of this mattress bows
Just how far, my silence knows.
SPRING
Alien perspective of my backyard
Findings along a grassy hillside
Fancy floral dresses contain each
Glass window and flower box
Long parallel ropes swing from a tree
Against the trade breeze
And my fingers lost in soft bleached sand
from a wooden box, with no beach
Or ocean to pull it back under
Orange, swollen sphere with black hoops,
dimpled like my legs
Soft and lopsided
Beside the yellow lilies
There is a frog in a smart suit
Holding a stick sitting atop
The ants and lilac roots
A twinkling grin
Among forgotten weeds
Crates and plastic bags filled with empty
Clear, green and frosted glass
Torn paper labels reading Bass, Grey Goose,
Brass Monkey, Yellowtail
The animals must be thirsty.
Farm
Peeled paint, white and withered
stiff among the grass, rat snakes
Softly wind up the quiet hill
Wildlife - The Rabbit
I dance among the garden
red leaf lettuce, parsley, thyme
I twitter towards the borage
the furry leaves and bare blue heads
tempt this tender tongue of mine
Wild forsythia, gazebo
poised atop the grassy knoll
thundering crested woodpecker
makes its mark on lithesome birch
leaves falling, they gently roll
That red, inventive fox
hidden deep beneath the brush
his pulsing patience taps the soil
his hunger held in his silent stares
I eat, I wait, I must.
Memorial Day at the Cemetery
I long to dig my fingers
In the saddened mounds of earth
To transplant tender tube roots
Daisies, lilies, spring rebirth
Deepest weeds invade the flags and
Plastic flowers left to mourn
Dirt is tarred beneath my nails
My cheeks, my knees and jeans are torn.
To join the wilted pansies
Spread about like feathered fans
Each stranger’s name encased in stone
Alive beneath my hands
These tender, budding mums
Welcomed home between the grass
The soil mixed with tears
A garden summer from my past
SUMMER
Our Rocky Path
The stone path to my heart
is much too long,
pass the forsythia,
overgrown we can still fit inside
That strong scent of summer
rushes in like skunk
Its tail envelopes me with
Playgrounds and rooftops and swings
You kissed me here
By the stone wall
You kissed me there
By the lake.
Let's lie in the graveyard
with warm hands of childhood
Sample this cold path again
Like you once tread my skin
How they envied us
Strangers on the street
That tired man at the deli
He knew how it would be
That my porch would be heavy with
Late nights and laughter
But my mind would be
Filled up with you.
Beach
The silent heat of summer’s song
Bathes quietly in your salted smile
Thundering waves,
a reminder of angel’s tears
Charlie Brown
Cold tile against my belly
I stare at them fighting
Standing over her, he points
And points, and points
Her cries a silent storm.
She touches my head, my cheek,
My restless ears and I sigh like thunder.
I brush my nose behind her knee
And turn back as he falls into himself
Into walls, into his self pity.
That angry tongue at work again.
I fall back to sleeping.
Tonight she clicks the television,
Controls make rhythmic rapping
deaf to his taunts
She rarely takes the bait
And I love her like this
When she’s weak, needy
And scratches my dirty belly
Without a care for fleas.
Hungry Minds
Memory serves me well like
gnawing hunger for cheese
or cherries, a desire
to indulge my palate
fill my belly with hot
happy smiles
Memory serves me hope
on a platter, love
on a skewer, plump, pierced
through, its skin swollen
with kisses, hand holding
and a dry merlot
Cast iron thoughts
cooking up juicy dreams
filling my mind's fridge with
summer's feast
Memory serves me
over and over and
over, again
Coqui ( u /)
A sound so high the angels pause
Gold lashes rest upon their smiles
Sing softly while the earth’s at rest
Sweet palms dance sunset’s lullaby
* *
His eyebrows, sharp like Zorro's blade.
Bubblegum and Boys
His lips, soft as cotton candy
sticky like salt water taffy
just pulled through the boardwalk window
Fell hard upon mine.
Dizzy with the scent of spun sugar
mingling with the salt in his skin
colored carmel, warm as summer sun
Ready to melt.
Thunderstorm sounds in nature
These lazy days of August
Bent with the weight
Of evening rain, every leaf
Upturned to cup
The heavy melting clouds
A chipmunk, smart with hunger
In vain attempt
To snatch the last
fine rays of sinking sun
Lament the listless waters
Sad, mossy frogs
Aching for a tremor
A drop, a song
To break the thick tired surface.
Sarcasm
His smile tips lightly
A quarter moon veering east
And his right eye is held
By the devil’s forked fingers
His tongue spills forth words
Which peel my soul’s skin
Slowly, slowly
Like sunburn.
FALL
The Ending
“is there anything I can do to keep you” he asked
As his lips twitched from silent
Withdrawal, a sickness of choice
and imagined fear
Cornered, like a rabid dog, his hairs
Bristling, await the sting
Of five angry tongues
The breaking brown stare
Just one pathetic remnant
of this marathon man
“is there anything I can do” he shrugged
Dejected, his fingers sad on the keyboard
Waiting for a reason, a season
To tap out his unhappy heart
Asphyxiation
I long to kiss your lashes
As they rest upon your skin
To nestle in for winter
Deep beneath your whiskered chin
To graze upon your earlobes
Like a dozen hungry sheep
Lie quietly beneath the leafless trees
Just once more,
to hear you sleep
How long before your lashes
Rush back home to greet the day?
The blackest brooding eyes
A glimpse of hope to make you stay.
I’ve lost a thousand lovers
Lying close within your breath
Holding on to one more moment
Just this once,
save you from death.
Lost: The Three Seas
First, the eyes were lost to me
The brown orbs of ancient amber
Which held us hostage like fossiled ferns
Became dark, damp and lazy
Following close, the smile
Crooked, roaming wide as the winding rivers
Quick to glory, rushing to shine
Damned itself, failed and conquered
Lastly, the man, the marathoner
Marriage enthusiast, masterful artist
Precisely perfect parent and selfless
Vanished. Beyond our grasp.
Lost, patient lover and shattered soul
A dozen years and all that remains, broken
My reflection, remembering me, remembering you
Finding your breath a stranger
My Blues
It’s late in the evening, the full moon is wide
It’s late in the evening, too early to cry.
So late, ‘cause my sweet baby knows how I tried.
Goodbye my sweet baby. The moon sings your song
Goodbye as the dawn comes to move us along.
So late to say sorry, can’t stand that I’m wrong
It’s late in the evening. Goodbye…
2001 Kenmore
Hippy, hippy
jerk and toss
Waters whipping
Soapy, dripping
Cotton, sneakers
Whites and darks
Churning, shaking
Tiles breaking
Melted crayons
Leave their marks
Narcissism
Every mirror holds your image
A portrait painted with stolen goods
Each brush stroked hard with intention
And irony.
Pessimism
Every door is left ajar
The song is never quite in tune
The fence is rarely freshly painted
These things my dear are you.
THE END
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