Don’t Die, Bob Dylan

featured in the poetry forum September 30, 2017  :: 0 comments

Don’t die, Bob Dylan. Don’t die not now. The clocks are moving backwards; their hands are out of work. The hours are aging, heavy and lonely, like old heroes from an ancient war. I don’t mean to sound like a coward, Bob Dylan. I’m not asking you to write the songs we need. I’m not asking you to give us a pound of flesh. You have every right to water your toes in some cool ocean, or to let someone call you grandpa. You have every right to write bad songs and sing them horribly. If I could wrestle a whale with whispers, or lull the moon to sleep with words, I would. I don’t need you to do anything – nothing at all – I just need you to not die, Bob Dylan. Not now. I need to know that you are living and breathing. I need to know that you can sing – even horribly. And that maybe, just maybe, I will sing with you and for you and for us all.

editors note:

Musician as muse, so we are not mute. Sing out! – mh clay

Pale Leviathan

January 6, 2017  :: 2 comments

The heat had become unbearable that summer. “Make it stop, daddy,” Liddy’s son, Torin, said, as they walked home from school. The sun glared down with a vengeance, its rays like vicious lapping tongues. It seemed to Liddy that the sun was angry at the earth. “I can’t make it stop,” said Liddy. “But we’ll be home shortly. Mom will …

Caution of an Atom

featured in the poetry forum August 22, 2016  :: 0 comments

When the bed’s miserly corners
Consort with the ceiling to enfold you,
You reach for the lever – never
Did you think?
Life could shrink
So small that you couldn’t count Angels within its walls?
So small
Air strangles in one last breath.

And near death,
You reach for the lever – forever
Is a long time to dangle your feet off –
Of a sun crushed to the caution
Of an atom.

editors note:

Even then, still hope for one ionic bond. – mh clay

Skies of Hell Flame


July 29, 2016  :: 0 comments

Texas heat beats down on the lawn in front of the house. There is a scorching wind gently blowing the blades of inch high grass. The grass is wet green, as if oils soaks through the surface to slicken the grass. The sun’s blaze doesn’t reach the inside of the house. Along with the tarantulas and snakes, it’s stopped at …

The Twilight’s Last Gleaming

December 19, 2015  :: 1 comment

The thing he missed most was the sound of birdsong. After the change, you no longer heard birds. You might see birds high in the sky, now and again, far from humans, as if too frightened to come near. But you didn’t hear them. You couldn’t hear anything. There was a ringing that droned in his ears but he wasn’t …

The Love of a Dandelion

August 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

Even as a boy, he felt yellow, even just looking at it on a page, his skin heated by its invisible rays. In school he drew suns with fiery light rays shooting off of its surface. “You should draw something else, Colin,” said his teacher Mrs. Lipshitz. “There are trees, grass hills and houses, too.” “I like suns. I draw …

Zeno’s Quest for Zero (an ABC Poem)

featured in the poetry forum June 3, 2015  :: 0 comments

Avowedly bold celestial
Dabblers
Error faithfully.
Gnostic hounds
Inspire jesting.
Knowledge lures metaphysicians. Nurtures other people.
Queries rage strong.
The universe,
Vying wisdom,
Xenophobically yields zeros.

editors note:

We don’t count in the universal tally? That celestial opinion amounts to zero by mine! – mh clay

Fat Andy

February 27, 2015  :: 0 comments

That could have been me getting nearly killed that day as I sat on the schoolyard steps getting high with Ferrone. But it wasn’t my turn, yet. Only a few weeks earlier I had bought a ten dollar bag of weed on credit from Fat Andy. Fat Andy was a new dealer in Astoria Park. Being a little taller than …

Small Matters

October 31, 2014  :: 0 comments

We got the call at 5 A.M. My father had woken from a coma after forty-eight hours and asked to see his family. Before he had fallen into the coma, we had brought him home from the hospital. “Take him home and make him comfortable; he doesn’t have long,” the doctor said. We came home and ordered food. For my …

Staying Home

June 13, 2014  :: 0 comments

“I dream about you a lot these days,” I say to my dad. “And for some reason I show you up in your dreams,” he responds, laughing. It doesn’t feel like I’m dreaming. His voice is clear. The wisps of his grey hair are fine and crisp. I see the individual strands layered on top of each other. I always …