I’m Dysfunctional Just Like You

featured in the poetry forum March 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

So let us join forces
and create a beautiful mess together.
Mentally handcuffed
to that cellar radiator
side by side.
How very uncommon our love will be,
I’m neurotically
swinging from the chandelier
just imagining
the magnificent affray
we will be causing
by our un-requiting
Convention’s silly airs and graces.
I love your outer scars
and imperfections
(it’s all but oil on canvas!)
and your inner fractures
make me gasp aloud
in ‘Oh Yes, At Last’ wonderment.
You are perfect,
from your insecure fidgeting
right down to your
OCD structure making
(Touch that door handle again
just one more time for me, baby!)
We’ll get married at Midnight,
when all the ordinary every day folk
are in bed asleep and out of the way
and honeymoon in Merthyr Tydfil
(It’s genius, they’ll never find us there!)
And we’ll have the
‘Hookah Smoking Caterpillar’
from Alice In Wonderland
to vicar over the magical proceedings.

editors note:

It’s a match made in Wonderland. “We’re all mad here…” – mh clay

Sick Of Being A Solivagant

featured in the poetry forum December 11, 2015  :: 0 comments

He took two planes first,
then caught a train taking him
from one country to the next
and finally rode a bus
up into the mountains
where his native folk dwell.
Twenty five years away travelling
it had been, he reminisced
as he traversed tenderly
his childhood greens and streets,
then took two back lanes around
to where Maisie’s mother lived.
M-A-I-S-I-E, he repeated
over and over in his head,
savouring each letter as it rolled
across his pining mind.
She had been his Sweetheart,
right up until the week he had left
and she was the only thing
about this place that a photograph
could not cure nor yearn-balm.
He nervously knocked thrice
upon the dark green front door
with cap in hand, spat and fingered
hair to the side and tried in vain
not to smile in greeting too weirdly.
She answered, gasping in shock,
stuttered “You’re far too late!”
And with a grandchild bouncing
in her right arm and a wedding
ringed left hand, she ‘shooo-ed’
him quickly off the doorstep
and backwards dizzy into the past.

editors note:

Can’t see what everyone else does. Reality blinded by his sense of past. – mh clay

The Night Sings Softly

featured in the poetry forum September 26, 2015  :: 0 comments

It’s melancholy lament,
in shifting shades of blue,
moon-white through the middle
and humming like a funny bone
drum symphony.
As your consciousness nestles,
fidgety in the armpit
and your mind drones on and on,
evading sleep like a ninja.
Chuckling mischievously
because those sheep
you started counting an hour ago
now have names, Mohawks, tattoos
and have split up into two rival
gang factions and are about to rumble
down by the Docks, somewhere…
in a place you have never been…
Somehow here’s your old school again,
well, a part of it anyway?
except when you turn this corner,
the corridor leads to Tesco’s,
except what it used to look like
back when you was just a boy…
There’s dice and pears and apples…
and playing the piano, carefully,
even though you never learnt…
And if you listen very quietly
you can just make out someone
slightly snoring… somewhere close by,
I’ll let you into a secret… it’s partly you.

editors note:

No, it’s all you… the whole thing is you… and me… and them… and everyone. – mh clay

Switch Your Groove

featured in the poetry forum July 25, 2015  :: 1 comment

Scattergun out all of those poisonous bullets
whilst sucker-punching that dark cloud
from around your slowly clearing head.
Germinate new energy and adrenalin
way down at the heart and soul’s core,
it’s the middle that matters, always.
Purge and vent the anger and frustration,
then count your blessings and lucky stars,
you made it through and out the other side.
Deconstruct depression, slap apathy away
from your face, put your best fighting foot
forward and brave the brand new day.
Take that bolthole you cleverly kept hidden,
drop the past baggage away from your back.
Time to start over again stronger and wiser,
switch your groove and get onto the right track.

© 2015

editors note:

Anytime you need to give yourself a good talking to, these words would do. Thanks, Paul! – mh clay

Seasons Within

featured in the poetry forum May 20, 2015  :: 0 comments

“But I’m only contemplating…leave me alone.”
she whispered.
Pulling the old, comforting shawl closer
about her salt & peppered hair.
The aching pain became almost unbearable
each second they stood there watching.
She started to rock back and fore, cross-legged
upon the cold, wooden floorboards.
She closed her eyes and listened to the cello’s
playing mournfully within her veins of blue.
Felt the tickle and rustling of the tiny empty nest
perched delicately inside her heart
as the biting winds of her conscience brushed by.
Her brain had long ago given up
upon the agony/humble puzzle…and was instead
busy weaving lengths of longing
into fishnets for catching daydreaming stars.
Temper caught nicely and finally nailed beneath her
as the owl of her soul blinked its eyes slowly
and started recounting the oak ring circles
of the many different Seasons Within.

© 2015

editors note:

Rotations, rings, recollections; the older the owl, the more to remember. – mh clay

Bowdinnia

featured in the poetry forum March 13, 2015  :: 0 comments

There is a land of perfect safety
hidden and waiting not too far away
across the thoughtful footbridge
and through the doorway of daydreams.
There’s a sign just outside the walls
which always makes her smile,
it proclaims in big bold letters
WARNING: People Who Like
To Point Their Fingers, Keep Out!
She’s been going there since a child
and still does on most week days
when he’s in work and the kids
are out of her hair and both in school.
Without it she would simply go spare,
be as mad as a big bucket of frogs.
The charts, maps and geography
keep changing with the rhythms
of her moods, the weather reflects
faithfully her need for peacefulness,
quiet solitude or fun and adventure.
It stretches on forever yet you can
easily walk it in an hour if wanted.
No one knows about her little paradise
for the rot would only follow them in.
She keeps it all locked away safely
deep inside her mind, in that special
corner that she keeps strictly to herself.

© 2014

editors note:

Brick and board or unconscious construct; we seek shelter where we must. – mh

Poisoned Rat

featured in the poetry forum January 9, 2015  :: 0 comments

We found him laying in a back lane
down The Melyn, six or seven of us
barely teenagers and fascinated.
An old English Professor, who always
smoked a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ pipe
whilst walking (And who normally
could not stand the sight of any of us!)
stopped to chat and have a gander.
As we slid a piece of cardboard under
him and lifted him off the cold, hard
concrete and took him over to some
long grass behind a nearby church
laying him down safe out of the way
of angry feet and whirring push-bikes.
He was the biggest specimen that I had
ever seen, (then or since!) about the size
of a size 10 boot and that’s without the tail.
Ancient face all scarred up but they were
all old, healed marks and apart from that
he looked perfect except he did not move
at all nor gnash his ferocious teeth at us.
Instead he just lay there upon his side,
breathing rapidly and watching us with
his shining, intense, clever ebony eye.
We all came back the next morning
but he was gone, body still there rigid
but the spirit had escaped and run far off.
We stole a shovel from a nearby garden
and buried him and Damien said a prayer
and with our little lesson in death over
we went looking for girls to try and learn
about something else just as important.

© 2014

editors note:

Runners in the rat race (some new, others spent) seeking to learn biological truths. – mh

There Are No Apostrophes In Plurals

featured in the poetry forum October 21, 2014  :: 0 comments

“So, I finally got him to answer his mobile phone
again last night and I said to him,
‘Look mate, you cannot have really meant it
when you dumped me last weekend
because the reason you gave was being bored.
You’re a poet man, you could have come up
with a much better excuse than that one.
I mean, you could have told me that there
are no apostrophes in plurals and that it was
all my fault or something brilliant like that!’”

“Hey Girlfriend, that’s clever…what does it mean?”

“It means that he didn’t put much thought into it
because he didn’t really mean it at all,
he’s just being moody and away with the fairies,
artists are like that, insanely temperamental!”

“Cool, so what did he say this time?”

“He said that it wasn’t an excuse and he’s still bored.
Then turned off his phone and Facebook blocked me!”

“How frustrating, he’s really making you work, isn’t he.
Well, you can’t have that can you, I mean it’s not fair?”

“Hell No, I’ve downloaded a ton of Meatloaf tracks,
I’m going to listen to them all night, like really listen,
then write him a love sonnet, play him at his own game.
I’ll have him in tears before I’ve finished, you watch!”

© 2014

editors note:

With Meatloaf as muse, this girl is gonna take that poet down. Shoulda played your apostrophe card, mate! – mh

Now We’re Sucking The Right Nipple!

featured in the poetry forum August 13, 2014  :: 0 comments

I used to sit and watch him
gasp and ‘Arr’ like a Pirate
after taking and enjoying
the first drink of the day.
Drag his left sleeve cuff
across his mouth and belch
like a right old good ‘un.
Then light up a roll-up,
take a massive pull on it
before coughing his guts up
for a good minute or two.
Another go at the glass
to settle his stomach and senses
then I knew that all was
right with the world again.
“Now we’re sucking
the right nipple, my lad!”
He’d say to me winking
with a knowing smile.
As I sat watching his ritual
whilst sipping on my
Shandy Bass can of pop
and chewing on the end
of my candy cigarette,
sagely nodding in agreement.

© 2014

editors note:

True consumers; we will consume all, even ourselves. Suckle early, suckle often, suckle ever. – mh

Dying In Between It

featured in the poetry forum May 26, 2014  :: 0 comments

As I strip through the shit
the tears and the years
I find my strength once more.
With guilt in one hand
and innocence in my clenched right
I face the new day, ready.
This is more than survival,
This has a purpose out-seeding my eyesight.
I wobble back onto my defiance,
and step forward, armed,
gentle flowers will have to wait.

© 2012

editors note:

It’s a balancing act, indeed; to find the way between fury and flower… – mh