Welcome to The Kitchen Sink!

•December 26, 2014 • Leave a Comment

There’s always something worth smiling about.

Hi there. This blog is devoted to all manner of creative writing and is (ideally) updated several times each month.

I invite each of you to provide investigations and analyses; poetry and prose; reviews of film, literature, and music. Submit your own dramatic writing, introspective writing, unique and original writing. Submit your own thoughts regarding your politics and passions, hobbies and recommendations.

I invite your comments or criticism; your suggestions and feedback, at any time. Simply e-mail me or insert your desired copy as a comment, with a small note to say so. Please include your own ‘byline’ information, copyright information and/or author’s note so you can be credited for your own work.

More voices mean more variety. Let’s fill this Kitchen Sink with all the beauty and originality it can handle.

Chris Hibbard

Drink You Away

•March 25, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Originally posted on theaaronin:

I tried to mend my broken heart

At the bottom of a bottle

Drank until I felt nothing

But the pain was still there

I tried to mend myself

In a fifth of whiskey

Finished the whole thing

But I still felt the hurt

I keep trying to drink you away

But I haven’t found a cure

Every bottle on the shelf

And nothing stops the heartbreak so pure.

I tried to make you disappear

With a shot of everclear

I tried to fade you to black

In a bottle of jack

I tried to drown you out

With a great Irish stout

I just cannot get you to sink

Despite how much I drink

I keep trying to drink you away

But I haven’t found a cure

Every bottle on the shelf

And nothing stops the heartbreak so pure.


View original

The Thief

•March 21, 2015 • Leave a Comment

A poem by Poetic Knight
New Orleans
posted March 21, 2015


The thief stole through the house under cover of darkness
As if propelled by some singular purpose
Determined look in his eye, his purpose bound
Searching with his senses as some hunting hound
The master, awakened from fitful sleep
Of dreams of riches to fill his greed
A man of glutton and unsurpassable wealth
He made his way down the stairs by stealth
Thief! Thief! His possessions cried out in fear
As the master, with shaking limbs came near
A sword in hand, malice in his heart
Searching for all his bulging eyes could report
When all at once from behind he is surprised
Subdued somehow right before his pleading eyes
‘Name any treasure thy heart desires,
for my life, I ransom all before Hell’s fires.
Take for thyself whatever fancies thee,
if that you would spare my life, and a coin or three.’

And the thief, long did gaze steadfast
Until an eternity it seemed had passed
Low and measured breath he did intake
And upon his knee, his sword did he break
With reproachful voice to heighten his brooding features
He began to address the weak and weary creature
‘You name not that which should be treasured above,
all things of earthly sum, that which others call love.
She rests in peaceful sleep though your thoughts do not turn
to her in fear of life, nay, for only gold does your heart burn.
Fear not, thy master of mortal riches, I shall let you live.
For she is something I could not take, nor could you give.’

Pure Blue Eyes

•March 21, 2015 • 4 Comments

A poem
by C.E. Hibbard
for Mary Jane
March 21, 2015

Pure Blue Eyes

I sit here and I write these lines
hypnotized by pure blue eyes
memories of nights gone by
and all the good times yet to come

I sit here and I dream of her
a face so sweet
a love so sure
miles of hills yet to climb
but never any doubts

I sit here and I want to sing
to shout it out
to dance about
to yell it from the rooftops
and etch it into stone

I sit here and my body aches
warmth and heat in funny places
muscles taut and mind relaxed
all her funny faces

I sit here and I realize
that these words come easily
pouring out
tender and true
love that can not be denied

I sit here and I contemplate
Concentrate on words like fate
Dreams of future time and place
Her always by my side

Ode to Gratitude

•March 19, 2015 • Leave a Comment

A poem
by Pablo Neruda
Posted March 19, 2015
(Thanks to Mary Jane for sending it my way)

Ode To Gratitude

* * *

Thanks to the word that says thanks!
to thanks,
word that melts
iron and snow!
The world is a threatening place
makes the rounds
from one pair of lips to another,
soft as a bright
and sweet as a petal of sugar,
filling the mouth with its sound
or else a mumbled

Continue reading ‘Ode to Gratitude’

Hooligans Pt. VII

•March 19, 2015 • Leave a Comment

A children’s poem
by Chris Hibbard
For Norah and Rowan
March 19, 2015

Hooligans Pt. VII

There once were two hooligans
A boy and a girl
Who dreamed of sailing
Around the whole world

So they gathered up wood
Hammers and nails
They used tarps and blankets
To act as their sails

They built a hull
A mast and a keel
They built up the aft
The stern and the wheel

And when they were done
They stared up at a boat
Big enough for two
And able to float

They said goodbye
To their house’s front door
Before casting off
For the breeze at the shore

Soon they were sailing
On waves and the wind
Another Hooligan adventure
Was about to begin

They floated past islands
They floated for weeks
Always double checking
Looking for leaks

They saw penguins and sharks
Jellyfish and whales
Dolphins too
With long dolphin tails

They sailed down the coastline
Leaving Canada behind
They caught their own fish
With their own fishing lines

The two young sailors
So brave and so bold
Drifted under sunsets
That painted everything gold

They met up with pirates
Who shouted ‘Ahoy!”
Such a big adventure
For a girl and a boy

At night they would sleep
On the deck under stars
Pointing out planets
Like Saturn and Mars

Seagulls chased them
Sea Lions did too
And they waves kept on pushing
As only waves do

Sometimes the wind stopped
And they had to paddle
They’d made oars from old broomsticks
And their old baby rattles

Our Hooligan heroes
Saw New York and Japan
But some days they floated
And never saw land

They passed by Scotland
New Zealand and Poland
As the waves kept on pushin’
And the boat kept on rollin’

One time they got queasy
And got sick into the water
They also got sunburned
Because it kept getting hotter

So checking their compass
They headed for home
Back to Alberta
Back to toothbrush and comb

It took them so long
To get back to shore
By the time they were home
They didn’t like fish anymore!

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love

•March 17, 2015 • Leave a Comment

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love
A poem by Dylan Thomas
Posted March 17, 2015

If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby’s thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.

Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
Nor the outspoken grave.

If I were tickled by the lovers’ rub
That wipes away not crow’s-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts’ toes.

This world is half the devil’s and my own,
Daft with the drug that’s smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man’s shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.

And that’s the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex
From damp love-darkness and the nurse’s twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.

And what’s the rub? Death’s feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.

My Favorite Natural Disaster

•March 11, 2015 • Leave a Comment

A poem by Chris Hibbard
Dedicated to Mary-Jane
March 12, 2015

My Favorite Natural Disaster

She blew into my life like a whirlwind
Scooping up my days and nights like leaves

Moving through my thoughts like a hurricane
Tossing and teasing and turning in my dreams at night

Like a tsunami wave cresting in the shallows of my heart
Leaving a trail of beautiful destruction in her wake

She is my favorite natural disaster
I wait for the seasons to change to see what happens next


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