Among the Maples

featured in the poetry forum August 25, 2018  :: 0 comments

Fall is a greedy lover
Spectacular color sown into gray washed skies
not quite fulfilling the promise of day break’s new temperance
Until suddenly winter breaks
under the repetitive taxation of light.

“I have to go. I have to find something – to feel.”
The paper she holds, white, against the cuneiform of cheap ink;
Lithe in matter’s latency against the pressure – the progression of time.
And needing to grasp for some reason,
the words she sees are not what she hears,
A taped repetition “you’re not good enough.”

Her arm falls aside;
the note held in constancy,
Compassion
Her search for resonance once more

And through the luster of their glass
Sweetly;
Sing, the finches
Passing conversation and hours in toil – in love
Plucky by the bluster
Maples and Pine,
color and texture,
fanning breeze;

She folds the paper, puts it in a drawer
Engages the scene through her solid door;
Passing into future
Energy given to craft
Among the dancing sunbeams.

editors note: With a change of season, a change of energy; attention to Fall, not a fall. - mh clay

The Tale of Temecula

featured in the poetry forum June 23, 2018  :: 0 comments

Father sky and mother earth
Came to union; valley sun
Held in light in this magic place
To tell the tale of Temecula.

A dry wind calls the adobe wake
Golden grape; aging stake
A steady man rides morning beam
In long relief around town

“Coffee sir?” plies winsome lass
His answer, her discretion
“Thank you ma’am” a solid script
subtlety her profession.

Often noticed, rarely seen
This Art raised from plaster plane
The Creator’s spell is motion struck
On amber waves and grain

“what do you wish?” she presses
lyre into stone
“to touch wonder” leading dancer back
“then come, my favorite one.”

Wooden ships break the mist
Christ and King they name
Desert palm peace to gallery thief
“By God, this be our claim”

“How do you choose them?” he continues,
Suitably comforted by her vision
“love and human condition” she says
depth in the edition

Dissolving shadow boundary, their instances collide
Out in the open; choice as art,
Art as business;
work as life.

Time melts up the belfry in this ancient pueblo town
Stakes and staves; forgotten names
While through cactus needles the dry wind blows
Outside the town of Temecula.

editors note: Original or limited edition; observer art as observation. - mh clay

It is

featured in the poetry forum April 8, 2018  :: 0 comments

It is human nature to defy nature.
Take what is self-limiting and impose facility.
Anti-entropic.
From the center of the universe wells time.
Improbably patient, like water.
And about that spring the chaos, brambles
Through, we amble
Warm when warm, cool when cold, solid when needed.
Always at peace to flow.

editors note: That's us; naturally unnatural. (We welcome Christopher to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) - mh clay

It could have been

featured in the poetry forum December 29, 2017  :: 0 comments

It could have been any fall Saturday.
When fall was still a season.
It’s for you.
Few constants survive the human scale.
Constancy an illusion.
Even stone elegies.
Their permanence, loose bookmarks in pages of time.
Their certain messages understood through increasingly diffuse context.
Boulders in a stream – eventually worn smooth by water’s improbably patient friction. Deep is the canyon holding the river of time.
With practiced hand, I wonder how its eventuality will represent a black future.
No message, no artifice.
A life to recall through increasingly diffuse context – in a deeply confusing life.
Why does the tree grow?
Wu wei.

editors note: Our growth rate depends on how patiently we endure the friction; it can be rough to be smooth. - mh clay

Mid Century Modern.

featured in the poetry forum October 25, 2017  :: 0 comments

Lines, blocks, and chambers.
Within this space an unmistakable mass.
The regular cadence of its tumbled edges cast watercolor shadows on a grout that matches forgettably closely. And though these walls have not witnessed the exposure of weather in over 60 years, their brusque marriages of wood, paint, carpet, and metal indicate many lives lived here.
Perfect.
Serviceable.
Gone.
In this hopeless cell, choice is amplified.
Breath, and control.
The subtle din of a fan gives way to graphite spilling its truth.
In this field nothing exists.
Struggling effortlessly, a hand guides its implement, leaving crumbs for a chapter yet written.

editors note: Home as homily; the poetry of place. - mh clay