Poems by Shannon Hyde

Shannon S. Hyde has mountains of poems dating back to the ’80’s when she was a child, but they have never been published. In her early 40’s, Shannon quit a long and lucrative career selling drugs as a pharmaceutical representative to be mother of three terrific and crazy children and wife to a husband who really doesn’t get the “poetry thing”; however, she is ecstatic to be able to do her fair share of seemingly mundane “homemaker” things but best of all, she writes!

I wish we
could live life
to the fullest that it can be.
to have sunshine pouring down on me.
To love you.
To hear children laughing in tune,
and to see the world from a broader view.
I wish we
could see smiles
on the faces we pass on our way
to the places where we sing and play.
To have faith
in the goodness that must be around,
and when darkness covers all our ground
the find strength in life from a higher power.
I wish we
could give love
to the people who can’t get enough.
To help the sick find a healing touch.
To be free.
to teach kindess and humility,
and to help a child find what he’s missing.
This is what I wish we
and the world
could be.

Thoughts in My Head
These thoughts that run
around in my head
are fragmented pieces
of imperfect ideas.
Unequal parts
pathos and punctuation.
Beats and rhythms
skipping from pen to page,
rebounding back to my brain.
shifting in and out of focus.
getting shoved and pushed around.
eventually, finding their way
back to the board
or sometimes lost forever. Erased
reversed. rewritten. renowned.
Reminding me
they never stop moving,
changing, rearranging,
shaking and showing-up
in all sorts of strange places.

The Lyricist and the Musician

Ask me of the song and I will tell you
of beats pounding against a chest.
of a heart nearly exploding
with joy at the sound
of its own captive emotions
finally, being released.
Ask me of the song and I will tell you of the bare foot boy down the street
with a soul so full
it poured from his fingertips
through strings, in notes, on keys
to make the song complete.

The Voice Inside

The voice inside trembles
and shakes. Stutters through
one hesitating pulse after another.

The voice inside trembles
and rumbles. Raises its tempo
up against bones and rushing blood.

The voice inside trembles
and flows forward. Pulled up,
spilling over the corners of mouths.

The voice inside trembles
in brave vibrato, smoothing out
it’s message into a song. It sings.

A Love Story (My 2015 Poem-a-thon Cento)
My compass always leads to you, (Udo)
like a moon wishing for an ocean. (Catriona)
Follow me, if you want to escape (Philip)
Today will not be dangerous, unless you ask for it. (Ava)

It’s all magnetic then . . . (Jamie)
expect fireworks and agony, expect water and dance, (Catriona)
hair afloat in orange winds of sunset. (Ambika)
Hesitation has no place here (Tracy)

Our souls collide, (Katherine)
finding common ground in oneness, (Kimberly)
Vibrating together, like the rush and hum of a river. (Christine)
I do not resist. (Maureen)


Family Dinner Conversation on the Patio


I’m still confused
by the dinner conversation
the five of us just had.
Two adults,
one teen daughter,
sixth grade boy,
first grade girl.
It started out simple and polite enough,
pleasant monday evening
on the back patio.
Dad’s mac & cheese.
Dad: “This mac & cheese is the bomb!”
Son: “Yeah, if you think ‘bomb’ is good”.”
Dad: “It’s good if you’re ‘bombing’ the baseball”.
Dad: “Oh look, there’s your little sister’s Kobay* shoe box.”
Teen (laughing): “Yeah, kobaaay! (elbows brother in side.)
Dad: “Any of your friends notice your sister has Kobay’s?”
Son:  “Yeah.”
Teen (still laughing) “Yeah, our sista has Kobaaay’s, yo friends wanna hit that?”
Mom and Dad:  (not laughing) “What!?”
Mom: “That’s not funny!.”
Dad: “Yeah, Don’t say that.”
Sister: “What does that mean?”
Mom: “You don’t want to know.”
Dad: “How were your tests today?”
Son: “We were post to take two . .
Dad (interrupting) “Post?!, that ’s not the word.”
Son: (kinda laughing) “okay, supposed . .”
Teen:(interrupting and laughing):“We post to have Kobaay shoes like our sista!”
Dad:  “Y’all don’t be so loud. The neighbors will hear.”
Mom: “Yes, please, settle down and eat your dinner.”
Teen:  (yelling and laughing):  “Hey, new neighbors, we post to be nice!!”
Mom:  (laughing now)
Dad: (laughing)
Kids: (laughing)
Mom & Dad: “That’s enough!”
I’m still confused!


*basketball shoes by the athlete Kobe Bryant (pronounced “kobee” not “kobay”).  Apparently, the only shoes my husband could find in school color code.



Her Love


Her love is desperate and deep
like a teenager resisting the pull,
but the waterfall is strong and steep.


She makes out like she’s in control,
but there are signs of complete abandon.
Her love is desperate and deep.


We watch from the bank
unable to block the fall of debris.
The waterfall is too strong and steep.


She tumbles, she crashes, she screams
with delight, as the water pushes
her love, desperate and deep.


Who cares about air, while waves
are rushing through your hair
and water falls so strong and steep?


There is no sense of surface
or distance from the shore.
Her love is desperate and deep
The fall is strong and steep.

I find comfort
in an old fashion
bourbon burn.
the subtle sweetness
of a crushed cherry
and gentle zing
of an orange twist.

The Cosmetic Cosmos

Welcome aboard!
This is your first step of many
towards visual transformation.
Please sit back and relax
as we prepare your vehicle for regeneration.
Warning: versatile coverage is anticipated.
Checking all systems.
Broad spectrum protection in place.
Smart technology activated.
Preparing foundation for weightless application
in 3, 2,1 …
Lift! Firm! Tighten!
Cooling hydrogel and moisture serum processing.
Pores appear visibly reduced.
Texture and firming effect refined.
Ultimate color repair complete.
Note: Unexpected radiance achieved.
You have arrived at your destination: New Age
“Defying essentials to life”
Proceed to the next counter for inspection.
Only good while supplies last.
Please return to headquarters upon depletion.

Beyond the Backyard

Hear the wind,
my friend.
You keep acting as if
you are hard of hearing,
but I see
the look in your eyes,
the way your ears perk
and you lean forward,
ever so slightly
when the trees rustle.
then, slowly recline,
back against the porch swing,
but less quickly than before.
I see a new awareness
when you hear
the whistle of something
deeper than a bird’s song,
far beyond the backyard.
A call? a whisper? a movement?
That’s meant to soften
your heart and heal your soul,
free your whole body from the fallen
leaves and fresh-cut lawn.


how the golfer looks
and sees the subtle slope of the
how the geologist notices
the contour of each rock,
how the mother is
to the cry of her child
and every child.
You see, how
eyes come
with knowledge and experience?
We all want to see good,
wonder if He’s really there?
Well then,
And your
will suddenly,

River Dream Haiku


River waters swirl.
Tiny fingers slip from mine,
deep into the mire.


Frantic fingers grasp,
rake through water into mud.
Eyes useless, heart sunk.


Child leaves. silky mud
is nothing more than wet dust.
No use crying, now.

Trust Before You Go


Why does TRUST
trail my thoughts?
Why does it take so long
for it to catch up
with my brain,
especially when it’s running,
humming, clicking, digging,
pressing forward?
Only when I’m stumped,
stalled, blocked, stopped,
or forced to pause,
do I turn and remember
my faithful friend,
always there,
a split-second behind,
not lagging, but rather waiting
for me to have some manners,
smiling, knowing, pointing,
showing me the Way.
Why can’t I remember,
before I set out,
to keep in step
with my favorite companion?
to pack the one essential first?
I will write your letters
on my hand.
I will put you at the top
of every list.
I will ask my fellow travelers
to please whisper your name
In my ear
before I bust out the door.
Lest I ever forget you again!

House of Words


I honestly felt like I had died
and gone to heaven
in your house of words.
huge pieces of paper
and colored crayons.
instructions to just write,
don’t think,
flowing thoughts
by the millions
by the miles.
how far I had to go?
I didn’t know.
I just loved
right there,
inside a million words,
a dozen colors,
a handful of faces
I adored
but mostly yours:
I saw so many sides
of you
inside your house of words.


Mother of the World
save me from a culture
that doesn’t recognize beauty at its lowest.
That thinks knowledge is all books and brains and brawn.
That wouldn’t have a clue what bliss was
if someone shot it in their forehead with a needle.
Mother of the World
protect your children
from fifty shades of shit
and a million images of self-destruction,
shower them with something
that shows them the Truth,
that beauty and knowledge and bliss
is running on a sandy beach,
sun setting on a culture
where none of us were meant to fit.


I’m still collecting tears un-cried.
The ones my daddy warned
to not let fall.

The ones that stay behind my eyes
when her smart mouth won’t stop.

The ones that sink low in my heart
when he yells about the left-on hose out back.

The ones that stick in my throat
when I realize what’s good about me
doesn’t make up for messy rooms or lack of funds.

The ones that sit on my stomach
when daughters and sons
treat parents like not-much-more-than dirt;

When best friends tell stories and say words
that don’t mean to, but do, hurt.

I’m still collecting tears un-cried.
The ones I dare not drop
because they would fill a sea,
and that sea
would be as salty and sad
as any undiscovered sea could be.

The Wave

The death and rising of Christ
together form a giant wave

that easily but powerfully sweeps
over our earthly world,
wiping out all sin and sadness,
creating clean sand,
calling you to walk in a new direction,
unveiling true beauty
for the first time.
We often see the wave
on the horizon
but are afraid to let go
of what we know.
frees the feet from the shore.
Loss and near drowning
can’t help but sweeten
the life-giving breath of fresh air
when we walk.



Dear Moon,
You are the ultimate spotlight.
We may be your stage,
but you are the superstar.
Everything you illuminate
pales in comparison
to your own reflection.
You are equally impressive
whether half dressed or fully exposed.
And that number you do?
every year or so with the sun?
Simply stunning!
I understand why you prefer to pose
at a distance.
I’ve heard the rumors
that close up you’re rather
cold and dry.
but really,
who believes those spaced out types, anyway?
And those outrageous stories?
about your ability to transform
mere humans into ravaging animals?
purely tabloid material!
Now, I completely get
the legends and the fairy tales,
the fantasies about lassos
or a jump of that magnitude,
But I must say,
I most admire your activism.
boldly exposing creatures of the dark.
illuminating the evil
that doesn’t give a second thought
to your power at night.
but please, don’t worry,
I’m not all that starstruck.
I simply want
to open my arms
throw back my head
swallow your essence
and spit it back up
onto a page
and into the atmosphere.

She Leaves


She called me one day on the phone
mentioned she was thinking about quitting
and the next day she called her boss
and quit,
just like that.
did the very thing
I had been contemplating
for ten or so years,
no lie.
Another day,
she said she always wanted to travel.
bought a one way ticket to Europe
and a back pack.
started checking out youth hostels.
she’s in her forties
mind you.
She left in July.
returned in November.
Before that
she sold half her clothes,
left her furniture and
precious dishes in the cabinet.
she didn’t care.
she packed up Nana’s old bible
and left her house
and her husband
of twenty some odd years.
stuff she built from the ground up
with her heart and hands.
She left
because she knew
the land of milk and honey
was not at Johnson & Johnson
or in Amite, Louisiana
or in the man she fell in love with
twenty some odd years ago.
She figured out
along the way, I think
that her promise land
is out there, as promised.
Lots of dirt from here to there
mud to be slung
but she couldn’t even get close
until she dared to leave.


I want to say “Thank You”
for the . . .
phone vibrating
emails waiting
check writing
mosquitos biting
paper piling
no one smiling
pot steaming
Lily screaming
trash truck booming
deadline looming
people calling
grades falling
horn blowing
finger showing
bed making
curfew breaking
constant snacking
suitcase packing.
all this making
us, breaking
somehow tying
to Your dying
tears streaming
life redeeming
pain ending
time bending
breeze blowing
mind slowing
Jesus calling
me falling
into Peace.

How to Make a Teenager

another confused adult,
a dozen plus some years
of lessons learned and lost,
footsteps in every direction,
watching in wonder,
wondering and watching
the clock
way too slowly
far too fast
just beyond
a mother’s grasp!