rhallman

United States of America

Connoisseur in bad poetry and unfinished novels.

Published Work

Moments During A Wreck

As my windshield connects with the pole I wonder how this is what heartbreak is akin to.
 The crinkling of glass is often confused with voicemail tones and forgotten 'I love you's'.
Beams of headlights reflect mistakes long forgotten as you leave like a drive-by.  
 My neck snaps back while the airbag leaves bits of blue and black.
And during it all you watch my demise through passive eyes whilst pining for another's embrace to 
 crack. 

Badge

A branch snapped behind her, and without a chance of protest she felt herself being flung to the soft dirt.  She sifted the cool soil between her fingers, hanging onto a piece of sanity as her blouse was being ripped thread by thread.  Panic flooded through her as she felt blood leave from her body.  Unimaginable pain electrified her as she prayed with all her might for anyone to find her.  
    “Someone...help me,” she croaked, before everything went black.  A gold badge flickered in the moonlight; a sheriff’s badge.  Her last thoughts were of acting revenge on her attacker.  
Wind rattled the loose nailed window of a corner diner, disrupting the conversation of two seasoned police officers.
    “Have you heard the boss is thinkin’ of cutting down on men?” gruffed one, a man made of more wrinkles than teeth.  He’d been crucial to the team twenty years ago, before his daughter’s mysterious passing.  Arguably one of...

I am

I am from closed doors;
from angry tears and ground shaking voices,
and the cooling relief of aloe on burns.

I am from too many sweets and midnight readings, 
from healing and accepting.

I am from bizarre haircuts and cluttered messes, 
from laughter and long forgotten homework piled in brightly lit corners.

I am from bear hugs, tooth smiles, and forgiveness.
From reaching out and starting anew.

I am from resonant clarinets and singing in the car, 
I am from all these and more.

These memories stitched together like patches on favored flannels, some faded, others bright and vivacious...
and others still annoying the skin with loose thread.

But together they make a turbulent harmony, I
I am from these memories, opening these doors. 

Love Comes To Those Who Beg

I woke up this morning with an occupied bed, but no love to give in return.
He isn't you; but sometimes, 
in certain angles,
I can imagine appeasing his wish to forget out past together.
Sharp cheekbones lit by moonlight bring promise of plush lips as his gentle hands attempt to wash away my bruises.
Yet for all his trying it simply reminds me of your uncanny ability to turn tender pale skin into ruins of purple.
His quiet whispers are satin soft but your bites taint each with hints of sulfur and mustard gas.  
And yet...
and yet I crave every dangerous flare of your possession.
I crawl and bow, pay pilgrimage to your holy damnation.  
Love comes only to those who beg, and I am your willing servant.

Delicate (a slam poem?)

Delicate is a frail boy trapped in a barbie pink box of femininity.  
Tossed from judging looks and harsh tongues
A rag doll bouncing between the borders of being accepted and the truth.
Dresses silk to the touch dig rose thorns into his skin, sewn in against his will.
Delicate breaks like brittle glass from closed doors and keels over as if even the wind rejects him.
Pushed from locker to linoleum floors to unwanted bathroom stall encounters.
Each day is a massacre,
    Every week a war,
Wears eyes of a hopeless refugee deemed unworthy of any country’s love
Hands shaking from the forgotten memories of anyone giving a damn.
Delicate cries tears of aquamarine,
   his school labels them fuchsia.
Delicate dreams of soccer games and chest bumps,
   his school gives him handouts of lipstick and dress codes.
Protest lands him in dark alleys and rough hands invading
               too close
                           too close
                                     ...

Delicate (a slam poem?)

Delicate is a frail boy trapped in a barbie pink box of femininity.  
Tossed from judging looks and harsh tongues
A rag doll bouncing between the borders of being accepted and the truth. 
Dresses silk to the touch dig rose thorns into his skin, sewn in against his will.
Delicate breaks like brittle glass from closed doors and keels over as if even the wind rejects him. 
Pushed from locker to linoleum floors to unwanted bathroom stall encounters.
Delicate cries tears of aquamarine, 
    his school labels them fuchsia.
Delicate dreams of soccer games and mud,
    his school gives him handouts of lipstick and dress codes.
Protest lands him in dark alleys and rough hands invading
                too close
                            too close
                                        too close.
Delicate dares not tell a soul, instead swathes himself in bubble wrap and anchors;
Bubble wrap to protect his thin skinned heart and the anchors to sink into...

Delicate (a slam poem?)

Delicate is a frail boy trapped in a barbie pink box of femininity.  
Tossed from judging looks and harsh tongues
A rag doll bouncing between the borders of being accepted and the truth. 
Dresses silk to the touch dig rose thorns into his skin, sewn in against his will.
Delicate breaks like glass from closed doors and keels over as if even the wind rejects him. 
Pushed from locker to linoleum floors to unwanted bathroom stall encounters.
Delicate cries tears of purple
    his school labels them pink.
Protest lands him in dark alleys and rough hands invading
                too close
                            too close
                                        too close.
He dares not tell a soul, instead wraps himself in bubble wrap and anchors;
One to protect his paper thin skin and the anchor to sink into his own oblivion.
But even these safety nets are popped and reeled in.  
There is no escape
He is a...

Thantophobia.

Questions and Answers

How are you?
                He doesn’t talk much anymore.
Why are you a stranger?
                Tuesday.
Where are you?
                He has these eyes, blue like a soldier one breath from death;
                                    and as unhinged as a wild coyote.
                                            Starving.
                                                desperate.  An animal meant to be free yet only meets pity
Did I do something wrong?
                He finally made her smile.
When is the math test?
                   Second chance always come too late.
Are you free tonight?
                    Her hands wrap tightly around the railing, knuckles turning blank white like her thoughts.  
                                    Done is the time for worrying:
                                                for once, she will be brave.  
Can we start over?
                    Stepping up, feet tiptoeing in fourth position,
                                  an elegant dancer stretching towards the waves
                                             A deep breath, closing eyes, a small smile..
                                                      Then the wind.  
Is she new here?
                    Cloudy, chance of thunderstorms.
Do you love me?
                    It whistled past her ears, caressing each lock of hair, kissing her goodbye....

B 2.0


[If I should have a daughter,
She will be raised in a household
of low tide treasures and dirty knees.
My daughter will know what it’s like
to worry for the state of her spine in tight bear hugs.  That at 4 o’clock on the the dot,
when all the snowmen in the world have been sculpted, hot cocoa will overflow in mugs of marshmallows, guarded by chocolate shavings and cinnamon soldiers.  
She will know disappointment never lasts but love always stands strong.
That even when the walls are quacking with fire and brimstone,
forgiveness is a gentle hand shielding all wreckage.  Holding hers and squeezing three times in a row,
‘i’ ‘love’ ‘you’
She’ll understand even the silliest questions have merit, and childlike curiosity is what makes the world holy.  
I will not teach her to be holy as in perfect, instead to cleanse the feet of the unclean with a dimpled grin.
To forgive others as...

1 Photo, 20 Words

When You Wish Upon a Star

A blooming rose,
    Twinkling eyes
        love poems from husbands afar;
            how beautiful this world is,
                when you wish upon a....
 

"Weather"ing the World

“Weather”ing the World
-Fathers and Forgiveness
A coffee pot whistles in the distance, a buxom waitress flirting more than necessary in hopes of a substantial tip.  I turned to the man sitting across from me in a torn up booth, a wane smile stretching my lips.  A text message lay between us, a mile long barrier of
    “Hey Boo, wanna grab breakfast?”
Breakfast.  Nearly ten years of ignoring my calls and now he wants breakfast.  My smile hardened, then faded completely.  I noted his receding hairline, his beard more white than brown, and the whistling draft seeping through the roof.  
    “So, how have you been Boo?”  he said, voice wavering with age.
    “Fine.”  Both of us cringed at the coldness in my voice.
‘Steve is your father, my mother whined for the tenth time.’
 ‘Yeah, and maybe if he bothered to act like it I’ll grab ‘breakfast’ with him,’ I snapped back.  ‘Give him a...