NAMING SHAPES

featured in the poetry forum March 21, 2020  :: 0 comments

I first see it gleaming on blue carpet—
a splash of sunlight escaped from cold outdoors
through an irregular space between
bent slats of metal blind. This coin
of questionable geometry cannot be picked up,
but still I must save it in the pocket of my memory
so the meaning is not lost before I find it.
I name it Ben, and hold vigil until
it elongates, fades, disappears.

Days slip past before I notice a smudge of ink
on my finger—a miniature Rorschach
that I turn left, then right until I recognize it:
Hello, Ben. I impulsively lick my finger and press
down on a canvas of notepaper to stamp the image,
but it is backwards and incomplete,
unfamiliar and uninvited. And now my tongue is bitter;
I have ruined my blue tattoo
and lost Ben once again, a casualty of saliva.

Now months have elapsed and I suddenly stop
on the sidewalk, earning a well-deserved curse
from the shrill woman behind me. Ignoring her,
sunlight pressing my spine, I bend down slowly to study
the heelprint in fresh dirt among young grass,
sides already calving glacier-like, water seeping
into the depression that smells of earthworm,
but there is no doubt—Ben has shown his face
and I feel resolution close by.

It is Wednesday and I am perusing Shakespeare,
or actually devouring John Grisham,
and I dip into my pocket, annoyed,
to silence the screaming guitar riffs
I have unwisely chosen for an unknown caller.
A stain on the wall hooks my passing gaze,
shockingly familiar in shape
as I snap a curt greeting at the phone,
and a soft voice responds, “This is Ben.”

editors note:

What to say? Maybe voicemail avoidance is better. – mh clay

DAYS OF THE WEEK (OR WEAK)

featured in the poetry forum September 10, 2019  :: 0 comments

Toast crumbs fall to the floor
looking like ants, or aunts.
It is only Wednesday.

When you come
I will no longer be here, or bee here.
Buzzing in my ears does not alarm me.
Now it is Thursday.

I am not what you wanted,
and it pains my soul, or sole.
I kick off my shoe and it kicks back.
Friday is here.

My back will be sore, or soar.
Flying is the only answer.
Saturday has come, and it is not yet too late.

Mother does not agree; it is always that way.
She says look at the big picture, or pitcher.
I am thirsty. It is Sunday.

Over time I have become more like myself.
I reach out to grab my son, or sun.
It burns me that it is Monday.

Green seems like an answer I can live with.
If only you knew, or new.
I am getting old.
It is already Tuesday.

editors note:

With words to say for every day, no week is weak. (We welcome Spencer to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

GENESIS

featured in the poetry forum April 25, 2019  :: 0 comments

in the beginning
to look a lot like
crystal meth amphibians
live in water park
on the street gangs
of New York
yanks my chained
melody and harmony
in politics suck blood
oranges and lemon
meringue pied piper
of ham and eggs
over easy does it
matter at this point
blank paper machete
cuts jungle love
is the answer
me I’m waiting

editors note:

When genes-is as genes-does too matter. – mh clay

GAMES

featured in the poetry forum March 4, 2018  :: 0 comments

get out of your
mind games people
play hard or soft
boiled in oily
bird gets the warm
engine ear nose and
throw the bawl
your eyes outside
chance of rain
man of la munch
kin you hear me
now I layman’s
terms and conditions
have worsened overtime
game winner every
thyme in a bottle
of beer on the
wall of fame
and four chin
music and dancing
contest your knowledge
and whiz dumb
as a posterized him
on that dunk

editors note:

A game on, pachinko poetry slam… – mh clay