I Think That’s Where I Put Them

featured in the poetry forum February 22, 2020  :: 0 comments

If I were not still landlocked, in a state
between states
I would be forgiven all my lying-in
so long ago
That was a few years into a prescription.
I learned to nap in an armchair,
narrow, upholstered,
under the Herald-Tribune.

To my left, a step up to a French door
and outside a balcony.
Below, a shaded garden, walled
the way they all were in that old tourist town.
My best stories follow the white pebbles
past snails that dream of the Duchy of Escargots
and on to the pavilion, its ping pong table
and rickety spinet with a few keys like nailless fingers.

° ° °

Time liquefies, stretches like light.
What’s left are forgetting and travel
and always peaks and glens
cut into a world that can be water, gas or ice.
Unlocked, a channel reveals
an island monastery
where I looked back from a great height.
Like everybody, I write what I remember;

the blue heat of adolescence
rising fast from the west and up my limbs,
sopping shoes pushing up worn stone stairs
as the rain slid down them like a fountain,
dining in the fading light on Brittany lamb, tasting
of the sea salt that washed the fodder
those babies ate, and below
the current gray and forever in flux.

editors note:

We write what we remember… (We welcome David to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Self-centered to the Extreme

featured in the poetry forum November 26, 2019  :: 0 comments

You may be Saturday’s child all–grown
moving with a pinch of grace
You may be a clown in the burying ground
or just another pretty face…
– Robert Hunter, “Althea”

You find my skull
with its crooked little smile
and just as you heard them
in airless corridors
and quieted galleries
the clocking footfalls
above an ornery shore
resound a while.

Who works harder, the digger
or the dug? Whose sign scores
the chosen tombs but the fool
with the wisecracked mug?

editors note:

We all look out from within. – mh clay

Old Love Song

featured in the poetry forum September 13, 2019  :: 0 comments

I’ve never told a whole story
in one arm-length sheet
the way some can.
In hours drawn across glass
the floorboards are the loose lips
that expose my coming and going.

If my hand stayed in
it was for the sake of another
who opened her eyes
one night the firmament rang
& the shrapnel of stars, full-throated,
sang out in all the languages.

With her there were no acid tears,
only anger turned inward
then out – a lightning tongue – and relish
of the world’s buffooneries.
Every tale was a sleeve
that could be lengthened or shortened

right on the dressmaker’s dummy,
cuffs added, buttons sewn or severed.
They were not always the ones
I wanted to hear
but sounded dense and deep
as Russian bells.

editors note:

A nostalgic nag from a then, sweet now. – mh clay