Tom Hamilton

Tom Hamilton Poems

I can tell you that darkness is not overrated.

Neither with its shadows, nor its sullen protection.

The dastardly defection of deflected glows can't grow.

Maize halos are afraid of such a hated acquaintance.

I've got a cookie cutter
Shaped historically like the head
Of Felix The Cat and he
Doughs me out days like

April you
throw your waste paper pillows,
like the billows of smoke from the pipes of far beings.

Sometimes the morning comes without warning,

and sometimes you have to wait.

you've seen that movie,
Denim jacket, jean, muscular wrench cord boy
picks up Pink, tank, top too shy for eye shadow girl his

At the last seat in town,
 snug behind the three,2,2,2 desk
 in a bedeviled, rancid, glazed factory
 sits a girl.


I saw this girl the other day, and
her fingers were as slender as the
stem of a serious flower and
the hours passed like centimeters.

That golden sweat on the top of a tap can,
can resemble small desert rocks or lesser pebbles
of the sort one might find surrounding a scorpion.
Except, that if there were a Southwestern arachnid

When I was nine years old
my father and I went into
an elderly woman's house and it
was gasoline dry that Summer so

The storm tore at the pages, until the words scattered.
Every form matters, down to the last grass blade.
Though most times I try to pretend that it doesn't.
Before the pain grows so large it could physically carry me.

After Dickinson

Winter will
market her fresh virgin carpet,

The girls are posing by the billiard pockets.
Clogging the soothing music like hair in a drain.
There is stuff men don't see, different ways which they're hurt.
They are not as infallible as their pin-up counterparts.

Sergeant Kilmer tapped me
on the shoulder at 3 am he said:
'The flowers are very pretty near Ourcy.
Just look out your back window

Trash landing bumble bees search the girders for flowers.

Ride the subway for hours, searching for vines to climb.
Parking meters lose time, as the pawn shop door chimes.

Her underpinning's tied around the sewage pipes.
The dud buds aren't ripe, the concrete never grows.

For Joe Riley

I saw Charles Manson at a dive bar tonight.
He was talking to a bum with long scraggly split ends.

Me and Maggie must have spent
twenty minutes pushing
hard down on those fake tattoos she said
they'd look good with our braless suits besides

Some days on which the men did work.
Splitting rocks or splitting headaches.
An awesome, emerald, summer storm
quenched a fervor yet another…

Tom Hamilton Biography

Tom Hamilton is an Irish Traveler. His short stories, poems, plays and articles have been widely published in hundreds of publications, periodicals and all other forms of media. Along with his lovely wife Mary Theresa and their four small adorable children, Tiffany, Hope, Catalina and Thomas he lives in Loves Park IL USA.)

The Best Poem Of Tom Hamilton

Transfuse Me

I can tell you that darkness is not overrated.

Neither with its shadows, nor its sullen protection.

The dastardly defection of deflected glows can't grow.

Maize halos are afraid of such a hated acquaintance.

In kinetic patterns of light freckled dance

a glow holds at the fold of your wintery shoulders.

Guarding your chastity like a snow furred wolverine.
Down through the nectar mountains past the gulf of your stomach, 

The sweet headache briar woods, the untouched southern comfort.

Infecting every man and lad susceptible to beams

with your beautiful disease.

Lay me in the middle of an alien street.

Hit me with a light so strong that it washes me.

Bleach the black away with the tender white smile

shining from your eyes as pure oscillating beams. 

Dream me to the core of your florescent plaid schemes.

Let me be the wheels and pulleys of your muscles.
The copper blood rushing through your blushing structure

Not harsh or controlling, just a soft voice and cajoling: 

Ms. do you mind, if you would, could you please

Transfuse me.

I can tell you that tincture is not always tattered.

That it matters when we crack each tile of light.

If I could put the night in a washing machine.

Instead of wearing a darkness, so wet, tight and dirty.
that I blend to silver photos of old motel Autumns,
askew on the wall of some whiskey shy dance hall

where you pass laughing innocently

without even seeing me.

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