Featured Poems

This Insubstantial Pageant

by on January 22, 2022 :: 0 comments

Upon our stage we romp and rage
in Goldilocks’s golden cage
amongst colossal cosmic crowd
with spark of liveliness endowed
of pomp and circumstantial fate,
whose worth we underestimate,

in constant discontentment caught
‘and sicklied o’er in cast of thought
so enterprises turn awry’,
with not an inkling as to why.
Oh, actors in this earthly scene,
what do your frantic antics mean?

‘The heartaches and the thousand shocks
that flesh is heir to’ come in flocks,
while nature tenders wherewithal
if we but list her earnest call
in lieu of inner outer din
that sends the senses in a spin.

Our little lives today may throng
‘this insubstantial pageant’ long
(to borrow varied Shakespeare tropes),
where humans share despair and hopes
on greater globe of bonny blue—
oh, rarest planetary hue!

And yet when all ‘our revels end’
this world will leave a stardust blend
behind, ‘to still a beating mind’
of poet bards midst humankind,
a ‘rack’, or wisp of cloud, as told
in Prospero’s discourse of old;

for sun shall take its final breaths,
as dramatized in stellar deaths,
to be a nebula newborn
celestial heavens to adorn
in evermore creation’s dawn—
yea ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’…

editors note:

Leaning hard on the Bard, about our fate we prate. – mh clay

No, no longer a god

by on January 21, 2022 :: 0 comments

I am a cloud, he said
Lavishly spreading his glee on my windows
No, you are not
I frown and mumble in my chin
You, sir, are a figment of my imagination
Be true to yourself, dear
Your jealousy might change my mood
From fluffy, feathery white I might turn to dark stormy, lightning spitting in a blink of an eye
If I say I am a cloud, then, goddammit
I am
I have all the features
The grace, the plump form, the easiness to glide on the open blue sky
I can smile as easily as I can thunder my curses through my lashes
I definitely spy on you every chance I get
No, no longer I am a god
From now on
you all will treat me as a passing cloud
A midsummer innocent cloud
A light prayer to a merciful sky

editors note:

If they say so, we might know so, if only we see them their way. – mh clay

The Pocket-Magpies

by on January 20, 2022 :: 0 comments

I’ll trade a Sampson Mordan
ruby glass vinaigrette bottle
a third full of the heartbroken
tears of a ‘tricked’ virgin
3 weeks away from dollymop
… for some dry powder,
a skull & bones Gate-Pass…
and a partway-sincere kiss.
Nah, stay away from Uptown
… the house burglary
turned nasty, ugly and fatal
… you can smell the Murder
across most of the Borough.
Let Sammy know I’m ‘round,
I’ll be in the Jack O’ Spades
just afore midnight next
with The Dockside Knives
… they’re inching Territory.
Ha! they not be sex manacle
wrist-wounds… I’m villain…
they only proper heal in Clink.
Later, yeah… be lucky, girl…
yer looking more and more
like yer dear old mother
with each passing 12 month
… I drank so much Belch
I lost two toes and a finger…
the day they swung her Dead.

editors note:

A fond memory, mangled in a midnight melee. – mh clay

A Polyglot Portrait

by on January 19, 2022 :: 0 comments

There is a syntax
a toddler applies to name the stars
she’s never seen

There’s another one at bedtime,
the damnation-and-entreaty dialect
of a disappointed angel

It’s a rough tongue, roughly as relevant
to mom and dad as we are
to the surface of the earth

In it, to tell only the truth
is tantamount to using only half
the letters in the alphabet

– Colin Dodds

editors note:

Such a succinct dialect to grow old and lose it. – mh clay


by on January 18, 2022 :: 0 comments

Caring mustn’t be faff, not overcomplicated, burdensome,
A perceived waste of time. Rather, when one extends bits
Of heart, is adroit in affirming feelings, maybe, also gifts
Arits of one’s soul, there ought to be acceptance, concern.

After all, abandonment makes cades out of the best sorts
Of folks, turns ethical beings into moral monsters, tricks
Sentiment down drainpipes, into sewers, causes so many
Types of hurt and longing, makes loving appear onerous.

editors note:

Let our “much ado” not be nothing. (Congrats to KJ on the release of her new book, “Owmapow Rides Again.” You can get your copy here.) – mh clay

Racing Thoughts

by on January 17, 2022 :: 0 comments

They say a hurried life’s a hindered one.
So why am I rushing myself through it?
Pushing myself out in order to get some peace.

Rather than finding peace, I’m in pieces.
My memories perpetuated by the present I give myself.
Traveling the speed of light
With no need to go anywhere.
The world at my fingertips,
Everything on tap.
Hanging out with stars in a cosmological cinema,
Fulfilling fantasies in a hollow graphic reality.
Living the dream.

O for the days when it was a pleasure to be bored
Before the sluggish fluency took hold.
Making me frantic,
Alone with my mosquito mind
Fizzing like a pill in my skull,
Fractured by the strain of concentration.

editors note:

Oh, for that bucolic buzz, indeed. – mh clay


by on January 16, 2022 :: 0 comments


silently cold comes
against the blues of friday
…love, lonely sinking



nature breathes, sweats rain
I am in awe by window
views of my garden

editors note:

Outer spaces spur inner graces. – mh clay