Never Say Goodbye

Do not say goodbye because we will be together again

Not as soon as we would want

And longer than it should be

We will reunite in a place where we have been before

To prelude a special moment to be had once more

Silently speak the words we spoke

Listen for our song that played

Laugh at a private joke

Please do not cry, save every tear

To flow gently into my waiting ear

When we next embrace upon this pillow. . .

Richard e Hill, March 2002

A 'love poem' from the novel "Pink Martinis, Sharecroppers and Peach Tree Streets". This book has a contemporary Atlanta and tropical flavor. Intrigue, romance... the usual topics that I present...

(a Work in Progress)

This is a prequel to "The Library" depicting the brooding, deadly government operative when he was a precocious six-year old 'with a serious attitude'. He and his ethnically diverse friends and classmates see color from varying perspectives.

That Poor Jazz Summer (Color through six-year old Colored Eyes)

Summer is a time of discovery and realization. Romance, sports heroes and fishing holes are paramount among the youthful, fanciful revelations; six-year old Richard Hawkes discovered poverty. The family fortunes had suffered an extreme reversal due to the long debilitating illness of his Aboriginal American paternal grandmother, Montana Star Eyes; insurance was not a common option in the Colored neighborhoods during these times. The holdings once comprising four adjacent houses and money tucked away had been reduced to a single mortgaged dwelling that was home to four children, two to four adults and several pets. Struggling Jazz pianist Jonathon Hawkes, the patriarch lamented, "It's like a losing game of Monopoly, you build up your empire and are ready to bust the game. Then the dice turn cold and you land in all the wrong places; losing something on each turn until all you have left is one house on the cheapest street on the board."

Baby-booming Chicago was rapidly growing; the city with broad shoulders had open political arms that needed blue-collared laborers for the factories and close-minded voters for the political machine. These workers needed a place to call home. World War II had changed the face and pace of the city. Multi-cultured neighborhoods were transforming into ethnic or economic conclaves. The air was filled with factory smoke and the stench of the manure piles from the stockyards. Train whistles and the lumbering sound of full boxcars interrupted conversations and sleep as the city was the acknowledged railroad center of the world. Post war transients roamed the streets seeking work, shelter and identity. The last words spoken in a home after "good night" were, "Did you lock the doors?"