Migratory text

featured in the poetry forum November 19, 2017  :: 0 comments

Ritual journey, known trip
unknown. Tunnel behind,

vaginal, dim. Locked
in memory, blissful ride

amid anemone, cosmos,
buttercup, rose. Lover

now silent, breathing low,
thumbs busy on her phone.

editors note:

Oh, the pain; she’s about to swipe left. – mh clay

Odd

featured in the poetry forum May 2, 2017  :: 0 comments

Folks don’t send cards now,
write happy holidays,
lick the glue, add stamps.

Busy instead, stand off,
emoji, scoff, use tired thumbs

to text or tweet. Weird, too,
tendencies, let cruel jokes pass,
ridicule gays, label women

slut or tramp. Who groped whom,
grabbed whose ass. Way too easy,
alone, head down, virtually together,

busy with phone. Most odd, sad
in a huge way, people loving love
less than loving to hate.

editors note:

Sad, we sods, for whom this is not so odd. – mh clay

Lord’s tweet

featured in the poetry forum December 26, 2016  :: 0 comments

r dad up hi
u r super
u r way cool al ovr
give us bred 2day
4giv breakins we do
& WTF no luring
fedx evil away
u r very great
rule on
amen

editors note:

amen – mh clay

Finally talking to a guru in India

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

In the beginning, phone-tree,
long branch, press one for savior.

Time on hold to ponder,
do we cease to exist or exist

to cease. Me, out of it, off
a bit, high on tea, so much so

need to call for help, not visit
the spiritualist, where folks queue,

air kiss, woo-woo session
with lost wives, lovers, of whom

I have not any left. Guru hisses,
low-pitched, complete the reversal,

fetch redemption, undo each wrong.
Be less bad than old me, better

than the new. Silence does not mean
no answer. He hangs up on me too.

editors note:

I’d put god on speed-dial if I knew his number. – mh clay

If God searches your room

featured in the poetry forum January 23, 2016  :: 0 comments

It goes without saying
she will find Legos and games

stuffed into closet, dirty socks
tucked under bed, candy wrappers

shoved far back in second drawer.
What cannot be discussed

is how faith in you was lost,
hidden away so deep,

out of the blue comes this lack
of trust, sudden need to sift

your stuff. Better not bring up
betrayal, question why she

freaks out, intrudes. Head down,
keep busy with the broom.

editors note:

And don’t forget to replace those trash can liners. Cleanliness is next to… – mh clay

I cannot do the splits

featured in the poetry forum August 15, 2015  :: 0 comments

the way blonde cheerleaders
in mini-skirts land hard,
slap both thighs at mid-court —

one leg out front, straight,
the other stretched back,
toes pointed, everything taut —

bounce back to their feet,
cartwheel around, five times
or four. Hope, however,

does leap up, seek bright sky,
gain height, write a love poem
on damp parchment, in Greek,

before coming down, janitor
once more, still dreamy,
to mop the gym floor.

editors note:

Me neither, not without traction and painkillers. Let’s write poetry and keep the mops handy. – mh clay

Hooking black sky

featured in the poetry forum March 17, 2015  :: 0 comments

Sunset dollops fuchsia glaze along the bay
where city sludge oozes toward surf,

life contrasted on sand in the setting.
Light, like hope, refuses to die,

tosses up some gold as a one-armed mime
tries to hook black sky nearby.

editors note:

What mime makes into motion, poet twists into twilight transitions. Picture perfect! (Read another one from Tim on his page. What Lincoln would do with Twitter – Check it out!) – mh

The Gettysburg tweet

March 17, 2015  :: 0 comments

years back
ol dads got free
now big fite 2 endure
time out here
we cant equal th dead
so forget us
blah blah devotion
give it up 4 democracy

One-mime town

October 11, 2014  :: 0 comments

In Boulder, Missoula, Santa Fe —
not Shiloh, Duluth, Butte, Dubuque —

mimes blow up clear balloons,
draw back bows, take aim,

let feral boomerang arrows go,
belly-crawl out whitewashed holes,

fall three floors, mouth screams to crowd,
become carpool-tunnel-syndrome clowns

driving up imagined waterfalls, not down.
Mimes abandoned in darkened towns

pray alone in some strip-mall church
then plunge to death off a pew-side curb.

Dregs

featured in the poetry forum October 11, 2014  :: 0 comments

Spread out Syrah noir wide, slide up
wine glass side, stick in patterns

to the edge, like leftover phrases, words
lining the darkened bottom

of a writing drawer. Try to read
some kind of future in the tailings,

see a story finally written,
were there light enough, or life,

or snowy woods, or hawks
finding wind to soar and dive.

Well, maybe one more glass,
no past, no looking back,

a bottle, two, alone, black sky,
hope the only ending, no you.

editors note:

Vivisect vintage from vine; vie for existence or drain to the dregs. (More madness from Timothy, a silent move, on his page – watch it now.) – mh