Expect

featured in the poetry forum December 3, 2016  :: 0 comments

I once knew a poet
capable of torture,
beautiful,
full of the fire
of himself.
I broke my heart
upon him.
Now it hurts less
because I don’t expect
him to be noble.
I don’t expect anything.
I just watch and wait
as he plays himself out.
He’s still beautiful.

editors note:

No expectations; yet, hope for the poet in us all. (Read another of Trier’s missives; the ultimate selfie – check it out on her page.) – mh clay

Entrapped

December 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

I want to go out
and buy a mirror
so I can show
you myself in
purple and black.
But a light rain
has come in,
casting a gray veil
over the volcanoes
in the distance-
so I’m entrapped
in my poetry
for the moment,
with jasmine burning
at my altar of
Ganesh, the lucky
God who removes
all obstacles.
The sun delights
the rain that
falls so softly and
scoffs at my plans,
coaxing the scent
out of desert plants.
And here I am
with only the
burning desire
for a picture in hand.

editors note:

A desert flower, crying to be seen. – mh clay

The Tree at St Martin’s

featured in the poetry forum April 9, 2016  :: 0 comments

I’m in the trenches,
on the streets.
I’m smelling shit
and smelling feet-
but the eyes that look
out at me are the
most beautiful
I’ve ever seen.
They are crazed and bright –
looking past the sores
on her face –
looking past the hood
of her dirty coat.
God, I think there
is shit caked on her back!
I think I am going to gag.
But she is a human being.
Maybe born on a
bright spring day
into clean sheets.
No, I’m not going to gag.
I’m not going to leave.
I’m going to stay here
and say how are you today
I will help feed her like
I came here to do.
Not look at her funny.
Not pass a single judgement.
Because who the fuck am I?
I’m a derelict poet.
Am I better because
I’m educated?
So recently sober?
Because I smell good today?
No I’m not better in anyway.
God brought me to this
exact same place.
A humble grateful place
where like
a tree I will grow from
this shit, dirt, and rot-
where I will use my
energy and strength to
send down roots and reach
out branches and so will
my compassion
for every human being grow-
The dirtiest
The smallest
The loneliest
The most desperate
until I reach the sun.

editors note:

Every person is a mirror; every mirror tells the truth. Take a long, hard look; she dares us. – mh clay

Good Years

featured in the poetry forum April 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

Pennies are brown and dirty.
They stink of bus stops.
They will never add up to
a million dollars no matter
how many you collect in jars.
It’s bad luck to throw a penny
away so I always bend down
when I sweep one up.
I’ve heard it costs more than
one cent to make a penny now
and that they are not even
real copper (but I haven’t been
to Snopes to check this out).
If you name a girl Penny,
I’m not sure what you expect from her.
Sometimes at work, I take a
filthy corroded one, where you
can’t even recognize Abraham Lincoln
and drop it in a jar of 10% nitric acid for
an hour- than it pretties up
like the day it was minted and all
the grime of the decades dissolves
away, all the pockets exchanged, dirty hands,
and register drawer dust- it’s gone now
and I see a date-
1957- was it a good year?
Pennies are like us.

editors note:

At current rates of inflation, a penny for these thoughts costs a fortune. – mh

Travis County Jail
(or public intoxication on 6th Street)

September 17, 2014  :: 0 comments

Little girl, you’re
gonna feel the cuffs
bind you to the pipes.
Little mama, you’re
gonna breathe the
dark beneath the hood.
Sweet woman, you’re
gonna taste your
soft gurgled screams.
Because you are uncooperative,
disobedient, recalcitrant,
but we’ll wait you out.
In some other countries,
We’d rape your spirit out.
On some islands,
we’d burn you.
In some deserts,
we’d stone you.
You’re a lucky little girl,
so just shut up for now.
Stop trying to escape.
Accept the power
that binds you.
Comply or we will keep
you with the rats.
Comply or we will devise
a thousand petty tortures
to remind you of that knee
in your chest, the snap of
the trap, how you tried to
break your own wrist
to get away.
Love, honor, and obey
your jailor.
Just marry it- the law, the state,
the way it is. There’s no point
in fighting our authority.
We protect you from yourself.

Cat Fight

featured in the poetry forum September 17, 2014  :: 0 comments

Look at this dirt on my shirt,
the hot pink tank top
I wore when I got
dragged across Commerce St.
screaming your name.
I tried to climb the transformers
to get on the studio roof.
I’ll never write another
poem to you.
I love all my bruises,
busted ribs, my
sprained shoulder.
I’m still a dancer.
Your friends are scum,
except one- the one
who painted the devil
on the wall, but he
wasn’t there to say
calm down, it’s okay-
only people who laughed
at my pain and recorded
the show on their phones.
I thought I was a lover
not a fighter,
but now I know I’m a little cat
who’ll break her arm
to be free- a little cat who
loves and fights at the moment-
a little cat who loves her enemy.
The fur went flying that night.
The cops said you weren’t
worth it. Now it’s just dirt
on my shirt-
dirt on my shirt that won’t
wash away.
This is your last poem today.

editors note:

A shirt, dirt poem; wasted on the not-worth-it. She can’t help it and the cops don’t care. – mh

Space Travel

featured in the poetry forum May 30, 2014  :: 0 comments

Red eruption like a curse
on the galaxy,
I tattoo his name
on my body and laugh.
This world is pathetic.
We can do so much better
if we begin with love.
The distance between dead
planets is huge- the
distance between
living planets greater.
We are worlds
in ourselves,
in our fire.
We can explore forever,
write about it,
find new places,
name them,
leave them behind
and burn,
crash our ships,
flail about weird cities,
erect monuments in
unknown deserts to
the music of alien
hypersex subspecies
transcendent
as curtains of blue
dust peel away
silent spirals
deep as infinity
blue as bluest orchid
germinate at the center
of a hope, a wish, a dare
on a random day,
upon a random planet,
on a random spray of
connections of electric interplay-
then we finally see
what chaos means to creation.
We finally weep, let go with relief.
We are not alone.
We can travel faster than light-
beyond our tiny flesh cocoons-
become infants full of
awe and new sensations.
We can leave Earth behind
like an exhaled breath.
Goodbye mother.
Goodbye children.
Feel the rocket blast
undoing the promises of
the past- the lies,
the pollution, the rot.
I’m going to the stars,
with or without luck.

editors note:

Yes, we’re ready for wide open space(s). Lift off in 10… 9… 8… – mh

Herostratus

featured in the poetry forum May 15, 2013  :: 0 comments

Burn me down
from the roof
to the ground-
in multi-breasted glory,
my beastly yearning-
I want it burning,
you bastard!
Because I love you,
my Alexander. I have
forsaken my sanctity
for your golden curls.
I’d rather be ashes
than a Goddess now!
My temple slips
beneath swamp-myth
to fuel your firelight.

editors note:

The height of devotion and self-sacrifice. No hero is worthy of this! – mh