The Three Bears

featured in the poetry forum November 28, 2016  :: 0 comments

After the golden haired girl had run away
after intruding and breaking furniture,
Papa Bear carefully fixed the bed and chair.
Mama Bear served fresh hot porridge.
Baby Bear sadly said, “It won’t be the same.”
So they all had a think and then Papa Bear
took his family to town to buy new locks.
Instead, they came home with a Golden Retriever.

editors note:

After upheaval, loss retrieval. – mh clay

The Three Little Pigs

featured in the poetry forum September 8, 2016  :: 0 comments

After the wolf had been roasted on the fire,
the three little pigs lived happily in the house made of bricks.
They grew, plump and no more little,
so they packed some food and looked for another home.
They walked up hill and down dell
until they found the perfect farm.
The rest of their story is told by Orwell.

editors note:

Conflict to contentment, complacency to conquest. Watch how your story unfolds. – mh clay

For Brendan Constantine

featured in the poetry forum June 16, 2016  :: 0 comments

Tattoos on your skin.
Isn’t there enough
pain in the world

Children draw bombs
falling from the heavens.
No human rights, no homes left,
no comfort for them.
The sky has fallen down.
Parents weep.

I too have cried
for the loss
in my life.
No anonymity,
too much trauma.
I am dying.
You are a

Children draw bombs.
You tattoo.
I have many piercings.

editors note:

Compassion for all who have suffered pain; there are no exemptions. (We welcome Chrissie to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this accepted poem. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

The Statue

featured in the poetry forum March 24, 2016  :: 0 comments

He takes her hands in his
she is warm to his touch
and smiles though she has tears.
He leans forward and kisses her

tasting her mouth, salt on her
face. He is hot, she is soft
as his tongue is aflame, his
stomach ablaze. Snow falls

as she steps back, smiling again.
There are flowers to gather and
snow flakes to catch, she mustn’t
miss her bus.

He stands as she withdraws her
fingers from his fire she turns
to go, he is rooted to the spot,
water running off him as she

catches snowflakes in her basket
and poppies in her hair. She sings
softly a lullaby to herself. He is
planted where he stands, watching

as her hair fills with crimson, her
basket with cool white. Slowly
she makes her way, as his blood
turns to stone in him and he

will never move again. She steps
aboard her bus, she gazes toward
the statue that she touched. It is time
to return to the asylum.

– Chrissie Morris Brady

editors note:

Stone cold love or hot delusion? Get back on the bus! – mh clay

Mink Coat and Hat

October 22, 2012  :: 0 comments

In mink coat and hat she briskly walks
Summer and winter the same
Talking to herself in hushed tones
Making no contact with eyes

She is old and faded, lined and grey
But carries her height so well
I wonder if she knows how to dance
And imagine her at a ball

Perhaps she was a society girl
With men at her beck and call
She may well know passionate love
Though she looks an old maid now

In mink coat and hat she briskly walks
Summer and winter the same
A woman with secrets to hold
A starlet once in her day

editors note:

One day, when each of us is “old and faded, lined and grey,” may young poets see us as the stars we are. – mh clay