Little did you know
that we would all turn
into cave dwellers
and that the word shelter
would be followed by
in place.
Home is
where you stay,
never mind the heart.
As the world is caving in,
we are holed up
in our separate burrows
and stretch out
electronic tentacles
to connect.
I hope,
in your mind
you are painting
in vibrant greens
as the thorn hedges
grow tall around us.
Keepin’ it green beneath a grey sheen. – mh clay
The blue dress that has pockets for pebbles and shows off my legs.
The sandals with the Velcro straps for the beach.
The linen jacket for chilly evenings.
A pair of scissors to trim lose ends.
A map to know where the boundaries are.
A mask to hide my true feelings.
An adapter to understand your language.
An icon of the patron saint of disagreements.
A gift to appease the needy gods you worship.
A calculator to determine how many apologies to exchange for my faults.
A purse full of coins to purchase absolution.
A spare heart in case mine gets broken.
How to make it all fit.
And the question; can you check it or carry it on? – mh clay
I miss the carols. The boys’ choir
singing Bach’s Christmas oratorio.
Mom’s collection of wooden nutcrackers.
The fat little angels with their green wings.
Christmas pyramids and Herrnhut paper stars.
Mulled wine at the Christkindl market.
I find Lebkuchen at Aldi,
imported from Germany.
I do not like Lebkuchen.
But they smell of cinnamon, anise,
and home. That winter, we are eating
Lebkuchen well into March.
Life bread to remember the Bread of Life – “well into March.” – mh clay
If you feel out of place,
let me tell you about the tomato
plant I found growing
on a gravel bar by the river.
A seed from someone’s picnic fell,
germinated, and took root
in the sparse dirt the flood
had swept between the pebbles.
The plant is thriving, bears
four ripe tomatoes. I left
them for the critters and for other
wanderers to marvel.
Where ever you fall, bear fruit. – mh clay
You have learned
there is a word
for this
mourning someone
who is not yet
dead
liminal space
between hope
and letting go
lingering
at the threshold
of loss
no-man’s land
you must cross
on your own
afraid
to reach
the other side
To see it coming stings no less. (We welcome Agnes to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay
The catalyst emerges
from the cauldron
unaltered,
miracle agent
that caused the reaction
to erupt and burn
restored after fleeting
transformation,
indifferent,
required for the miracle,
but not consumed
by the flames
that forged something
irrevocably
changed.
Make change, yet keep the change. What a transaction! – mh clay
There are no judges
who weigh one person’s grief
against another’s,
no trophies
for the heaviest burden,
no ribbons
for the most deserving despair.
Do not compare.
That others have survived
worse will only add guilt
but not lessen
your depression.
You must still pull
yourself out of the swamp
by your own hair,
declare
yourself healed.
There will be no spectators
applauding at the finish line,
no paparazzi snapping,
no journalists waiting for an interview.
Only you
will know
that you have made it,
with nothing to show
but your heart still beating.
Selah! – mh clay
