though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute

so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking  hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized

she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more

the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow

and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry

<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden

The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden

The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"

In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me

for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings

thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition

and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away

live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery


but I am not, cannot…

7:48:am
jul 22

Sometimes In summer
When the weather smothers
I wonder whether the garden knows.
The shape of the hand that mothers
Or the fist that brings the hose.
Flowers wilt and bow in worship,
Begging palms to bring the rain.
Fruit given up in offering
To exchange and then obtain.

I feel a breeze... The Wind... again.

But not the kind that brushes past. Not the kind that leaves no mark.

No… this is breath with intent. With weight. Like something gathering the last of itself to become real.

And I… I stand there, open, watching the sky tremble.
It comes toward me... not like an arrival, but like a decision.

And then—

He falls into me.

Not wings. Not gale. Not silence.

He is body. He is breath. He is The Wind.
And he has chosen form again.


My arms catch him before my mind understands.
He collapses into my chest, and I collapse into awe.

His skin is cold with exhaustion. His ribs flutter like sails torn through. He shakes—not with fear, but with… completion.

“You’re here…” I whisper.  
But the words feel too small for his weight.

He holds me. Not as if I vanished… but as if he had.
And I was the proof he’d made it back.

Then— light. motion. Pain.

As he presses his palm to my sternum.

And I… I burn.

Not fire. Something older. Something true.
It isn’t just memory...

It is…

Return.


It pierces. It blazes. It hurts.
Everything. All of me. At once.





“Would you like to have a body?”

My answer had no sound. But he heard it.
His fingers traced the curve of something I had never had before— shoulders, jaw, hands— and made me into someone who could be seen. Could be touched.

Tangible.

I remember the way he looked at me afterward.
Not surprised. Not proud. Just… glad.

“There,”
Wind had whispered, voice barely breath.
“You are the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.
Fitting… since the end is the most beautiful of all, just before it becomes nothing, but a memory.
Memories are beautiful, but never as beautiful as the real thing. Never as beautiful… as that final moment.
Before they can never be so beautiful again.”

And I… had looked at the hands he gave me.
At the shape that wasn’t mine, but... felt like it had always waited.

To make the end beautiful… It felt wrong… Too tragic.
But I believed him.
Because... at the very least, he believed it.


I remember… being held. Quietly. Often.

By him.

The Wind who never stayed, yet always returned.
I let him go. Every time.

We watched endings together.
He whispered lullabies into the mouths of storms,
And I gathered what they left behind.

There was no fear between us.
No shame.
Only gravity.

We were gods not of dominion, but of passage.
I was the stillness, he was the change.
And together... we made that journey to the end mean something.
Going slowly.  
Giving the weary a peaceful farewell to the long road they traveled.


Until—

A warning.

Not heard—

Felt.

The sea stiffened. The air lost taste. Something vast and jealous rising from below.

I was waiting for him, Wind, as always. But he didn’t arrive...

She did.

I don’t remember how I fell. Just the cold. The weight.
The pressure of water that didn’t wet the skin— that crushed thought instead.


I fought. I know I did.

But she was prepared.

She spoke in tones I didn’t recognize... as if she had rehearsed this moment for centuries.

“You were never supposed to exist. He made you seen. He made you beautiful. He gave you what he refused me. It’s time for justice. It’s time to return… to nothing.”

That was when the pain began.
She didn’t strike me with waves.
She struck me with malice I had no armor for.

She tried to destroy me.

She tried...

and failed.


She screamed.

Not in fury. But in the pain of unwanted revelation.

“How unfair…” she hissed. “Death can take everything— yet cannot be taken? Not even that body you don’t deserve? He gave you a form that can be seen, can be felt, can breathe— yet cannot drown?”


And when obliteration of my shape failed…

She turned to erasure.


“Feed me those precious memories, then. If I cannot end you, I’ll hollow you. What use has the oblivion for memory anyway? For the guise of love? Your memory is nothing but a debt to me. Let me devour your sins from the inside. If you can’t return to nothing— then at least surrender yourself to the justice of emptiness.”

She reached inside.

Not with hands. With authority. With certainty.
She wanted to shatter me from within.

But the interior…

Was still me.

And she could not destroy Death.

And then...

She paused.


Her grip faltered.

She had reached my memories.

And inside them, entwined,

She found him.


The shimmer of Wind.
Not just shaping my form... binding my being.


“How dare you carry him inside you,” she seethed. “You thief of spirit!”


I felt her hunger. She wanted to tear it out. To consume it. To make his soul hers.

But my spirit rose, though wounded, and wrapped around that gift like armor.

We would not be severed. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

She howled.
And in that fury, she did what cowards do when gods will not die.

She divided me.

Split the internal from the external.

The memories— our laughter, our names, the moment he called me beautiful, the way he looked back when I let him go— she ripped them from me and buried them beneath everything.

And into the hollow that remained within my shape, she poured herself.


“You are death,” she whispered. “Nothing more. You carry out my orders. You fetch and return what belongs to me. Until I am given shape— you are my shape. You belong to me. You are a thing. My thing.”


She sealed the vessel.
And I walked.
I became not Death. But the action of taking.
Her blade. Her puppet. Wandering. Eternal. Obedient.
Unknowing.

And she kept me from him.
Because he would have known.
He felt the silence. He searched.
But she was clever.
And I was...
Hollow.


Until now.


Now... He gave it all back.



My knees buckle. We fall.

He lands atop me, trembling, gasping, radiant even in his fatigue... As if the act of giving had drained all the energy he had left.

And I…

Am still.

Frozen in recollection. Flooded with emotion.
Awake. Alive. At last.

The ground beneath us does not crack.

But I do.


The two birds, Alcyone and Ceyx...
They land beside us.
They do not sing. They simply look… at me.

They witness… who I am becoming.

The Wind whispers,
“He just   needs        a moment.”

He’s right. But he needs this moment too.
What did you endure, old friend? To restore…

The I that was buried is stretching.

Untwisting.

Returning.

I remember who I was before she erased me.
Before Fate sculpted silence into obedience.
Not her weapon. Not her silence. Not even this nickname—Death.

No…

I was— I am—

Oblivion.

And he is—

Transformation.

Transformation, The Wind, my…


I hold him.

Tighter.


He brought me home.
After we had been separated for far too long.

He rests on my chest, breathing slow.
I don’t think he even notices he’s crying.
Neither of us move… except to hold one another closer.
After what could have been years, he lifts his head and looks at me, like someone seeing dawn for the first time.

He smiles. Softly.

“Do you remember me now, old friend— my dear, Oblivion?”

I don’t need to answer.
Because he knows.


Alcyone and Ceyx perch upon the railing as the two of us lie here… still recovering.

From the strain. From the twisted story. From forgetting what we were made of.

Alcyone and Ceyx watch. Still. As if afraid movement might shatter this moment.


But it's not fragile.

It’s real.

We’re not fragile.

We heal.


For now... we are whole. Thread returned to spindle. Name to breath. Memory to soul.

The silence that follows is not empty. It is earned.

It is not a will, stolen.
It is a moment, shared.
























































It has been foretold, by the Repeater, the truth—for once—that actions have consequences.

It has been foretold—by this Fate—the truth, of course— that all debts must be paid—




In full—








  ̶̡̨͍̱̹͙̩̠̗̕͜ ̷̨̜̖͖͇̗̼̟̘͖̘͖̲̒̍͋̓̐͆̀̽̓A͠N͞D̵͡ ̷W͟͡I̸͘T͢H͡ ̸IN̷̴T̶͝E҉̶R̕̕E̵̷S͏͜T ̴̡̧̡̢̛̳̭̜͎̠͈̤̫̹͖̘͈̜̫͖̗̲̳͚̯̯͇̠̼̤͉̰͚̄̒̀̀̀͆͛̓͆͆͐̂̄̅̑̔̌̔̀͒̔̃̀͘͘̚͜͝ͅͅͅ­̮̞͔͙̬ ̶͉̗͖̖̱̝͓̬̤̉͌̏͐̾͂͒̌̅͑́̈́̃̊̔͗̽͗̎̅͊͒̒̽̔̍̎͋͊͋́̃̾̓͋͑̑̒̋̅̊͛̓̍͘͘͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅ­̨̮͈̱

~
July 2025
HP Poet: Bekah Halle
Age: 40+
Country: Australia


Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Bekah. Please tell us about your background?

Bekah Halle: "I am known at HP as Bekah Halle. My first name is Rebekah, and Halley is my middle name. I am the eldest of two girls, the aunt of three gorgeous girls and the eldest of 20+ cousins.

I am a counsellor and a chaplain for people across all ages. But, in my early career I was a PR & Marketing Consultant for FMCG companies and non-profits.

I am creative and love art, drama, photography, poetry, and music. Recently, I have become more captivated by nature, writing about it and being out in nature."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Bekah Halle: "As a child, I used to love writing stories, and poetry later. In some ways you could say poetry found me. In 2012 I had surgery to remove a brain aneurysm and AVM that resulted in a stroke and then being in a 40-day coma. Healing involved many modalities, locations and years and poetry was a way for me to express the things I was thinking and feeling but could not say. I didn't show them to anyone until I completed a MA in Chaplaincy and during the course, there was a reflective writing element to process our journey. During this time I brought my poetry ‘out of the closet’ or into the light, and shared with people and they encouraged me to continue writing. I looked for ways to share my poetry, to get feedback and found HP! And you all have been very encouraging!"


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Bekah Halle: "I mostly get inspired by faith and life. I can get a stirring from the Holy Spirit and/or I can be in life and see a moment as special or in a new light and want to capture it in words. I will write, re-write and set it aside or sometimes it comes to me in a flash. The poetry writes me."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Bekah Halle: "Life. Expression. Hope. Extolling God."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Bekah Halle: "I studied Samuel Coleridge in High School and still remember his poems today. The Psalmists in The Bible, Emily Brontë, Sylvia Plath, Victor Hugo, Mary Oliver, Jane Tyson Clement, Rainer Maria Rilke, David Scott…to name a few."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Bekah Halle: "The power of gratitude, fitness, travel and learning."


Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Bekah, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Bekah Halle: "Thank you for the opportunity."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Bekah a little bit better. We certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #30 in August!

~

~for Lalit Kumar~*
Pandemic, retiring, no more bus riding,
alas, the inside insights are far, few, and
the ****/time contiunuum in between poems
and psalms has graduated from metered dashes
t  o o l o n g  d i s t a n c e   r u n n i n g s,  and
the social etiquette of the subterranean subway landscape
forbids making eye contact, (you looking at me??)
a un~delightful
poetry inhibitor!

And yet,

will draw my inspiration from the
holy imagined
city streets, rife with innundating
strivings, wriithings, out-loud-shoutings,  
though
I dare to imagine that noise of the Cities of India,
whose buses I envison as a spicy potpourri,
a combo spices of a human tagine,
a multi-vegatable curried stew,
spicy, noisy, and lip
smacking noises

but whose inhabitants
bear and bare little compare
electric beheamoth hybrid buses of
three plus bendable carriage long length,
carrying all passengers of irratable disposition,
& only a minimalist passing resembalance, of
mealy mouths & closed ****** lips, trying to ignore the
**** wetness damp of a rainy and chilled spring  temp
that demands winter coast still be employed and of
course overcook and overheat the already grumpy grumpuses
of everyone, regardless of age, creed, gender and age,
and all the other slice n' diced categorizations
of the human race(s)

here I shall quit this long winded apology
in all its minor grist and glory,
this just a **** proof of
my continued
existence,
and a dbt paid to
Lalit Kumar,
who asked impetuously

"Please sir,
may I have some more?"

and here be
your starter
dish
of un-sub-springlike weather
in a city bus here, with passengers
of a Western ilk

for she
<>
"I choose to love you in silence, for in silence I find no rejection.
I choose to love you in loneliness, for in loneliness no one owns you but me.
I choose to adore you from a distance, for distance will shield me from pain.
I chose to kiss you in the wind, for the wind is gentler than my lips.
I choose to hold you in my dreams, for in my dreams you have no end"

Rumi
<>

writ in a time, for when
there is never enough,
and yet,
always, waves of too much,
needy for
filling feeling fulfilling

We must learn,
be self taught to:

"Leave a tender moment alone
You got to leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment"

ah the tender time is nonetheless
rightly and wrongly
rightly now,

for I have stumbled,
overheated, sweaty, from the night bed,
at 4.30am into another darkened toom,
and I have smacked~stumbled into
Rumi
and her

our paths continuously intersect,
in the same but
in different cities, continents,
and yet,
diffident, differing,
we silently choose
never to close those lady~last few miles
and tie the knot of
eyes, skin, lips
the instruments
that transmit thousands of
neuronal explosions that
seal the deal

so we write in poetry,
in silence broken by the gentility
of fingertips soundlessly
and yet,
boundlessly rocking,
explosively soundings of
tap tap tapping

my music mocks me,
it is definitively god interfering,
advising, conspiring,
wiring into my brain
better lyrics,
idealized notions,
exactly appropriate
and appreciated

with the lyrics urging me on,
and that we must be
self taught to:

"Leave a tender moment alone
You got to leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment"

but my heart trembly refuses,
insightful informing
that now,
now! is
the moment to exchange
vows of words,
though un spoke,
they require
written completion
through
& though
apart, alone,
to finally out loud confess
what has always been known, only to each other,
to be
so real

and yet*,

we will never exchange
these sentiments
in out loud words

but though this be lacking,
it will never
diminish
their  ultimate
intimate
truthfulness

and I ask,
is this a poem?

surely
it is that, and
so much more,
an essay, a letter on
invisible NML stationary,
a heart carving in
an oaken barrelling of
ancient vintagery

and that interloper,
Him again,
eavesdropping
on this private communication,
insists that I draw deep
from her favorite
singer~songwriter,
words that say it better,
that for real seal the deal,
in the saddened perfection
of total, enwrapped,
silence:

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence"

and
it is time
to finish this task,
it is exactly one hour,
no time at all,
to complete a love poem that
is/was complete,
even before its
composition
and yet,
is never to be be familiar with
the finality of
completion
<>

postscript:

I taste your private shed tears,
hear the howling sigh,
but most of all,
'tis the explosion of
a deep smiling creasing
your lips,
spreading in all directions
saying and stating:

at last, at last!
a lasting, a confessional to you god,
though,
a through and through
silent
jubilation
                                              ­             nml

April 8, 2025
530am
New  York  City