To the soundtrack of silver gulls

featured in the poetry forum November 20, 2023  :: 0 comments

Post storm, pre-apocalypse
knees scraped in scarlet,
we collapsed in the aftermath
finding “home” ‘mid the dirt
the debris and the carnage

with stars miming scars
and barely a moon
to console us.

Side lined by syncope
I took a slug
of the stuff that we brewed
from the dandelions.

Loyal to the craft
you wore your poet hat
through the muck and the mire
still piping with poetry.


It rained come the morning –
light and forgiving as

we woke to the sound track
of silver gulls.

editors note:

Who knows what night before can bring this morning after? – mh clay

Cookie dough

featured in the poetry forum December 22, 2022  :: 0 comments

With precision perfection,
her holiday cookies, in serrated
edged trees, elves and red
mistletoe, confection’s delights.

Mine were haphazard, sloppy
but the tastiest bells on the plate.
We’d battle to be our mom’s favorite.

My rival, my sister, my all time
best friend, with one fight too many,
each waits for the other’s apology.

editors note:

A little sibling rivalry amidst the Season’s revelry. – mh clay

On the rain, seven

featured in the poetry forum November 1, 2022  :: 0 comments

Nine on the nightingale
four on the firmament, six
on the cirrus clouds, clanking.

On the rain, I wrote seven.

I wrote through the stink hours
the stars in remiss; the moon
weeping over the wildflowers.

While the pen bled the blues
I just wrote

as the night grew more lonely

the night you went back
to her.

editors note:

Some things you can always count on. – mh clay

When the cuckoo clocks out

featured in the poetry forum May 26, 2022  :: 0 comments

The moon’s gone round
the cuckoo’s clocked out.
I’ve circled six summers without you.

But it all drizzles down
with this half pint of Hennessy.

You taught me the semi-colon
how to make sauce from tomatoes
and how to write from the gut.

Your cologne lives its life out
in the notebook I buried your sonnets in.

What began as a poem, morphs into a recipe
for ways to forget you
and that shirt that you left on my nightstand
full of sweat, sex, and Marlboros,
was cut into rags –
for cleaning the poop up
when kitty kat misses the litter box.

editors note:

A memento for misses. – mh clay

Hoedown at high noon

featured in the poetry forum March 23, 2022  :: 0 comments

They write stories for me;

on the branch, off the branch
zip lining, crisscrossing, aerial
artists, designing on sycamores

this window watch Wednesday
northeast November
frostbite and filigree

the squirrel time, story hour
inviting me in
to all that was hidden
now that the leaves are gone.

editors note:

The best storytellers live in trees. – mh clay

Chronic pain

featured in the poetry forum November 12, 2021  :: 0 comments

When it’s gone,

there’s that moment
you realize

that you no longer
think about it

and sparrows

start writing you
poems again.

editors note:

A sweet surprise, the sparrow’s script. (We welcome Emalisa to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.)- mh clay

Your blue tamborine

featured in the poetry forum August 11, 2021  :: 0 comments

With a mutual penchant for
old timey markets, film noir,
and posthumous tributes to very
dead poets, we’d connected.

Imbibing on moonshine, divinity and
your blue tambourine, we made art in
an all night rococo, rounding the clock.

Then we simultaneously parted, for
reasons, unknown.

The canvas, part empty, mid a quandary
of questioning, brushstrokes and sudden

Our poems on the nightstand, glimpse
an etch-a-sketch theater, of our “once
was the time.”

editors note:

When once is not upon but was, remember… – mh clay

this poem’s for you my dear editor (exclusively yours)

featured in the poetry forum May 6, 2021  :: 0 comments

thematic of lovers
at breakup; this one
is hinting, then he comes
in for the kill

this one is fancy
with tight terminology
’bout how it’s determined
who’s in and who’s out

this one is terse, mad,
unforgiving; smashing my
inner child, with barely
a nod of ‘try us another time’

this one is madness on
moonshine; i swear she is wasted
going on with apology, then
offers a rose, fawning over my
poetry, but yet pulls the plug on it

this bitch is mea my culpa on me,
berating how i know not the rules
to dare not submit the trite simultaneous
after she tied up my poem for 3 months

and this one — exclusively yours, my dear editor
thrash it to pieces; please don’t send it back to me.

editors note:

From behind the green curtain, an editor’s process (and a poet’s pique) exposed. – mh clay