How beautiful it is
when the me of us
feels
of beauty
in you
How short sighted
when what I see
the them of me
as another lodged
only within
you
Can’t take sides with them in sight. – mh clay
When I spit damnably into the wind
my words split, smack
and smear across my face.
If I could turn myself around
no longer facing
and somehow change
is there any release?
…………………….
I am crinkled autumn leaves
caught along this fence.
Nothing but grass blades and prison bars.
We are meant to be free.
And I ache to be dislodged.
This hardened yellow plaque
disfiguring my smile,
picked.
………………………
Today I had a mammogram,
first time touched.
You were precise in monthly checks,
careful to explore diligently,
delightfully each inch.
Today, smashed, smoothed, and flattened out,
like old oak leaves pressed
or yesterday’s angry words lost.
The hospital room was sterile,
wiped and cold.
No wedding ring clicks on metal hold protection
from a fall.
I now support myself.
She tells me,
do not move, hold my breath,
and I am paused.
Saliva gradually pooling in my mouth.
I am so tired of all of this
spit.
A crushed leaf leaves a sad impression. Spit! – mh clay
Guarded lips tremble
pinched tight
you’ve smothered them in jump-suited orange
where all can see
those tiny hairs
prisoners
uniformly lined up
surrounding
your mouth
serving time
I see you shake
Express some; don’t keep mum. – mh clay
Flying halfway to Heaven,
ribboning together earth and sky,
layers of here and there crumble,
landing upon the tongue.
There is wonder in double-decker,
the frosting pressed between sight and sound,
scattering like daydreams caught,
for a moment in your eye or
popping through a cloud.
Magic is interwoven
and jet streams interlace like lifelines
or lifetimes carried somewhere far.
Halos reflect the light.
And wishes always come
with wind.
Better than cotton candy! Something to linger, long after sugar’s sweetness fades. – mh clay
Scratching pencil stub
Words fractured in lead
Not the grit I need
Scraping marks
Crevices and cracks
The page is bruised
And words abuse
Galvanized gray and smear
I strip them of discontent voice
Disenchanted
Erasing legacies
I wipe away the crumbs
Letting each syllable
Every silenced sound fall
Landing just above ground
Whisper or scream
Creative carnage; the mess we make to dis away from enchantment. – mh clay
He likes the sound, the scrape
Wooden match scratching worn leather boot
The dent in his thumb and pointer finger
That groove left long after
Her last point
Taken
He always lights his cigarette, crooked pinky lifted
With an air, a curve of class married
With his country
She was the classy one
And he draws in deep smoky curls, rolling greys and white
Tugging that old familiar sting, the burn upon his lonely lips
Dragging, long and low, needing to be filled
But smoke doesn’t stay, it doesn’t take up holes
It disappears, gone
His lips only touch Marlboro’s now
Styrofoam coffee cups, a plastic fork now and then
He’s slowly fading, evaporating
Exhaling her wedding veil, filmy and light
The soft flow of her dress, pearl beads puffs down her back
Walking that long aisle to take his side
Ribbons of smoke, gossamer, tying back her auburn hair
He can almost see her eyes
Watching ashes fall
Landing gently, snowflakes out the window on their wedding night
Dropping to the carpet, just like his wife, long ago
Adds sad depth to “smoke’em if you got’em.” (This poem is included in Heather’s recently released collection, Altar Call of Trumpets, published by Red Dashboard. Congratulations, Heather! Read more about it and get your copy here.) – mh clay
Sometimes apples do fall far
Bruised skins
Splitting with that smack
Ground a hard place to fall
Open hands aren’t always welcome, wanted
You said you were strong stock
Deep roots
The salt of the earth
Too much is deadly
And you, an expert at slicing things thin
Not one to waste
You can always chop off bruising
Pie baking? Concession making (only a pinch of salt). – mh clay
Morning wrapped herself in negligee
Hazy silk and stars
Embroidered flowers stitched
On satin strings
As evening’s final breath lingers
Kissing moonlight tendrils morning dew
His haloed cloud and misty veil
Curtaining his demise
Heat always rises
Equally curling toes or hair
Cohabit the curl; the having which comes from heat. – mh clay
I think of forests
massively filled
air swaddled
with pine and snow
needles crisp, sharp
to bind
But here, a squeezed corner
of penned trees
Douglas, Noble Fir
captive, owned until
the agreed passing of coins
this chain-link Christmas
Piled high
no more room at the inn
yet blooming prolifically
behind this fake snow
and out of reach from the flock
a bird of paradise blooms
Son of God
Nobility comes
at a murderous price
Which is noble? Tree for a season? Or, Bird, to bloom always? – mh clay
Creamy curl of white slides
spooning into daylight’s wake
softened light
Cello strings serenade
this swirly sea
waking ocean’s froth and foam
Her ear curves to hear
sweet morning’s song
dance and sway
Ankles curved
embraced with satin ribbons
mossy green and bright
Sultry siren, burgeoning blossom; description so sweet, have to eat it with a spoon. – mh clay
