Ghazal: Some words…

featured in the poetry forum August 11, 2018  :: 0 comments

Some words are heavy, filled with slow sadness, as
If each is a stone lifted from the pocket of the river.

Sometimes, we search hard for an epiphany. Lift up every
Green, mossy rock. Sometimes, guess what, there’s not one!

As a child, I thought rain had a meaning. Later,
I learned rain has many lovers. Gravity among them.

Once upon a time, I focused on the oyster’s bit of sand.
Now, I think of the lucky pebble in my old coat pocket.

My grandmother, fishing pole in hand, said I talked the fish away.
She believed fish, the best listeners, knew words by their ripples.

I have few beliefs. Words are vines that cover them. Grace is
Just dew that gathers in honeysuckle an hour before daylight.

editors note:

Hmmm. We become pearls to the extent we, as grains of sand, agitate our world? I could believe that… briefly. (We welcome Mike to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

The Chicken Riddle

featured in the poetry forum June 3, 2018  :: 0 comments

All day a chicken sits on one side of the road dreaming of the other side. She’s heard stories from her sisters, but thinks they are either lies or damned lies.
Cars move quickly down the road. No one slows down for a solitary, white chicken sitting on the roadside. It’s a busy road. A busy day. People have lives to live. Cars have services to provide before they break down or get traded. The chicken sits and sits.
She imagines the sun as a giant egg. She imagines clouds as giant eggs. She cannot dream herself to flight. So, back she goes to the barnyard and the clucks of her sisters.
On nights when the moon is full and the sky especially bright and clear, she sneaks from her coop and into the garden and imagines every row of tomatoes a dirt road that even her shadow can cross.

editors note:

So, turns out she didn’t; existential angst, an’ all… – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum March 27, 2018  :: 0 comments

the way you break my heart
just to play with glue

your hands all sticky
as you piece together
what was fine

each time,
it’s a little different

almost always, there’s
one piece
left on the floor

editors note:

Watch your step when you go for the glue; there are feelings on the floor. – mh clay