Featured Poems

Furtherance

by on October 29, 2020 :: 0 comments

Ingots of ideation evolve.
I sidestep
from the unfoldment:
abide by the strokes cinched for me.
It is thick and turbid. While
conversing, one spots the other is misstating.
There is no evidence, no admission.
As the words crowd it is clear-cut.

Grief lays bare their self-centeredness.
Biases in breath flash their fig.
Solo in righteousness, sometimes
activates the upper story
to doubt itself.
Hurrah from the herd
props the purpose.
At some stage it chimes with the core

editors note:

Sometimes you make your point; sometimes the point makes you. – mh clay

Sir

by on October 28, 2020 :: 0 comments

Sir
is what we called
the Jesuit scholastics who taught us
Latin, Greek, and the classics
at Loyola Academy
and in return they called us
Mister

The first time someone called me
Sir
was in a swanky club
where I took my girl
and he wanted to know if he
could put fresh-ground pepper
on my Caesar Salad
I said
Sure

Now just about everyone calls me
Sir
when I am blocking traffic
when a telemarketer calls me
and tells me about a world crisis
I never knew existed
when the mechanic gets me
to look at the underside of my car
up on the rack
and politely explains
what is wrong
and how much it will cost
to fix these things
that are all worn out
these things belonging to my car
that I never knew existed
and when I say ‘Nix’
he says OK
Mister

editors note:

Call me Mister, call me Sir, just don’t call me late for supper. OK? – mh clay

Disintegration

by on October 27, 2020 :: 0 comments

When the world weighs heavy upon me
I light up
My feet go from under me
Followed by my legs
Tingling up my spine
Towards my neck
Until all that’s left’s
My face disappearing
Behind a puff of smoke.

editors note:

Selfish indulgence or self-care? Let’s have a smoke and think about it… – mh clay

Beyond the “What ifs”!

by on October 26, 2020 :: 0 comments

Through the fog of the past,
The mist of the future;
I see my life through the periscope
Of word said, deeds undone,
Dreams that may come true;
And a fear of,
“What if they do?”

Sometimes reminiscing
At other times repressing,
Pondering about,
“What if…”

I stop!
I halt the mental exercise.
Snub the gainless meanderings
Of my overworked brain.

‘Coz I can’t turn back the clock,
I can’t undo what’s done;
I can only take the learnings,
And march along.

Unbending.
Focused.
Determined to conquer,
Resolute to live;
Accepting,
“I got what I got.”

I move past the cobwebs of doubt.
Towards,
“What I deserve…”
A blissful life
Of knowing and doing the right.

It is okay to falter.
It’s no big deal if I fall;
But I will not fail.
‘Coz my epitaph will read,
“She lived. And she has no regrets!”

editors note:

Yes, falling is not failing; no regrets! – mh clay

This Toe

by on October 25, 2020 :: 0 comments

How much would you like
for this toe? It has walked
for miles and knows its way
around. There is still a good
deal of mileage left in it.
This toe will never lead you
astray. You could say it is
a lucky toe. It has avoided
the toe tag and arthritis. If
you are not satisfied, you
could send the toe back. If
you could be persuaded
somehow, I could throw in
the rest of the parts of this
man that come with the toe.

editors note:

A (win)decent proposal. – mh clay

My conclusive dance frame

by on October 24, 2020 :: 0 comments

rigid, classic, like parentheses
trapping a flutter of sparrows

mid-theft, chicken coop, after grain.
No match for hers, corseted tight,

white-laced, as she denied my bid
to diagram our pas de deux

across the ballroom floor. A feud,
two stern teachers, each certain —

how to construct the perfect sentence,
our grammar book of would-be love,

unbound, sections lying random
among whirling couples, the chapter

beneath us, ironically, open to rules
on passive voice, page thirty-three.

editors note:

A duo’s dance-a-thon devolves into a two-step for one. (Read another on Timothy’s page; a sad sequel for sterility. Check it out!) – mh clay

Dr. Richard Alpert (hippies mourn)

by on October 23, 2020 :: 0 comments

It’s a twinkle
light catching
eye
lost between
particle and sky
prism refraction
weaving gently
through
soft folds
mind’s
satisfaction’s
discontent;
that here
used to be now.

editors note:

Doc! Write us a prescription, a prophylactic to hold off now from then. – mh clay