featured in the poetry forum December 6, 2017  :: 0 comments

As a child, we would catch
our own bait.
My father would upturn
a rock after a rain
and point down.
‘Grab one’ he would instruct
me and I would reach
deep into the sleeve of styrofoam
cups. Handing it to him,
I would stare into the dirt
writhing with worms. He shoveled
earth and its passengers
away before clapping the mud
from his jeans, the ground looking
less alive.

– David Walker

editors note:

Childhood parsing of bait from baiter. Next comes fish from fisher.  – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum December 5, 2017  :: 0 comments

i can’t see no vision i’m blinded
i see:
Houston in rivers,
the whiteman and blackman.

swimming in a pearl of sot.

looking out! the news, worldwide is about.

but i don’t live there.

i live in Freetown, Sierra Leone
i live in Karachi, Pakistan
i live where the dying are.

i am drowning and i am dying.
my skin is too grey or black,
my pocketbook is too unfilled

Lloyd’s insurance of last resort
will never cover me.
i’m too dirty, polluted, worthless.

I Am the First; soon, you will suffer this way too.

– David Susswein

editors note:

Don’t turn a blind eye; lest, from this first come many… – mh clay

post-b.a. blues

featured in the poetry forum November 28, 2017  :: 0 comments

would that i were a fruiting body,

rather than a rotting one.
i have no way of knowing
if the fruit fly’s affinity for my wrists
marks me as living
with honeyed sweetness in my skin,
or if it attempts to make a friend of me
before my afterlife.

fruit flies keep me company as i write.
their legs press along my skin. mouths touch
lightly, seeking food.

it seems i’ll be in careful, waiting hands
that rub together, and over the eyes, as if praying.
either before a meal or for one,

i’m unsure.

light throws chaos onto colors but cannot ignite the soul.

i only pray i am an apricot hanging
from a tree, ready to fall
from the seat of my sorrows and claim

my beginning.

– Marisa Adame

editors note:

All strive to be valued by the market, if not by the flies. – mh clay

Every Woman I’ve Ever Loved

featured in the poetry forum November 20, 2017  :: 0 comments

The sun and the moon were her eyes
The bright stars were every smile she gave
She was the depth of darkness in between
and her voice echoed before she spoke

Our dreams rhymed and we visited from time to time
it was always a surprise and it was always sublime
The sun and the moon were her eyes
Under her gaze I could burn and I could glide

She was a bird in my arms and when she sang
I listened but could not understand
She wept the darkness of night
so a stone cast into the sky would be swallowed by her tears

The sun and the moon were her eyes
and they were exactly distant from mine
In her smile every bright star glowed
and flowers grew in her laughter

She bit like an avalanche when I walked the road from her heart
The sun and the moon collided and the stars were washed black
The depth of night became thin as her taught lips
When she spoke the words I knew before she spoke

The sun and the moon were her eyes

– Lot Grundy

editors note:

Forlorn lover, seeking light; tossed by tandem eclipses into lonely night.  – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 18, 2017  :: 0 comments

you must be humble
inside the flame

breath deep
make love
tumble to ash

and let the tears
find their own way

– Josh Weir

editors note:

Lest we forget… – mh clay

Tree Surgery

featured in the poetry forum November 13, 2017  :: 0 comments

You butchered us
along the stone wall
we now stand
flagrant, desolate.
Exposed we’re vulnerable
to October rain,
cleansing air, a clearing
for the sun
the rays poke through
gaps under the rainbow.
War veterans with missing limbs,
our symmetry askew,
never to align again.
Our foliage hangs,
Branches hacked
and splintered,
sap in odourless blobs,
our roots retract in disgust
at the clumsy oaf,
his arms swinging with the bowsaw
aping descendants
desperate for an improved vista.

– Lorraine Carey

editors note:

Priorities askew; destroying view for view. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 6, 2017  :: 0 comments

Smelling of stale perfumes
and rusted razor blades
you slice yourself back into my life again,
and as I bleed for the first time
in years,
as I bleed all over you,
I smile and ask for more,
thinking myself the luckiest man
that you have chosen
to reopen all my old wounds.

– Edward Lee

editors note:

But, it feels so good when they stop! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 5, 2017  :: 0 comments

I don’t know what I was gonna say

you’re the best decorated corner
I’ve ever seen

you nearly touch the floor
with your upright part
most up right now

your legs freestyle in low air
your arms trying to be come
a part
of your head

I think I wanna touch you somewhere

fear that I’ll fall off
if I do

– Steven Minchin

editors note:

When love is best conveyed from afar, maybe. – mh clay

Mummies of the World

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

Mummies are fascinating but please,
respect the dead. No chewing gum. No drinks or food. No grieving
for the small ones or for the warriors whose heads were worn
around a victor’s neck. No rosaries for the medical bodies,
pieces of the philanthropic on display.
I count the dead as I count my steps, counting coup,
coup de grâce, please, god, let there be a bench.
Read the captions, the stories, the hieroglyphics,
but do it quickly, my feet hurt.

– Sheri Gabbert

editors note:

Mummification through museum meandering. – 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.
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.

– Christopher A. Calle

editors note:

Home as homily; the poetry of place. – mh clay