The Why of It

featured in the poetry forum April 3, 2017  :: 0 comments

Sometimes you are whole,
growing wild and for no
purpose but to catch what
light you can. In calm,
you respire slow centuries.
When the wind rises, you
rustle mournful or whip
to a clatter. Tickled by
feather and claw, you rock
and sway, rock and sway.

Sometimes, though, fate
plays rough. Felled and
stripped, planed and pressed,
you are made to keen from
the grain. The ones still
standing do as you once did,
look elsewhere, leaving you
to transform loss, alone,
tapping deep into heartwood
for a tale, if not for a song.

editors note:

Sometimes, a song is reason enough. (We welcome Devon to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum January 1, 2017  :: 0 comments

Oh you, Oh me, Oh the small skerch of the cork
pulling free, and the gurgle plash of amber in the

bell-shaped bowl, the sudden cool of stray drops
evaporating on skin, the lift of it, both the glass

and the anticipation of what’s inside the glass, and
the sips heating the tongue, spreading molten

down throat into belly, and the day, Oh the day,
Oh them, out there, melting away, Oh like Lazarus,

I rise from the crypt of small disappointments,
I rise, pour, and rise some more.

editors note:

I’ll drink to that. A Mad Toast to the New Year! – mh clay

aubade: an interrogation

featured in the poetry forum October 4, 2016  :: 0 comments

can it be? this is what the eyes say, pouring themselves into the cup of morning,
what the “I” asserts, stepping into yesterday, wadded beneath the bed, what the
dog growls, pulling at the leash, straining a morning question, what the commuter
groans, rolling towards a livelihood, the offering or squandering of gifts, what the
poet sighs at the RE: […] marking her labors, what the doubter wonders from the
pew, contemplating stained glass and grievances, what the patient whispers before
the marked x-ray, what the chickadee rapid-fires from his branch — can it be?
can it be? can it be, be?

each day, hopvines reach
in verdant spiraling quest—
I would do likewise

editors note:

And, with evening come new questions: was that so? was that so, so, so? – mh clay