featured in the poetry forum October 8, 2020  :: 0 comments

She was artistic as hell,
creating lovely drawings at will,

like the one of us in the rain
under the giant umbrella.

She claimed it showed
how her tears could not move me

to love her the same ferocious way
she loved me as if I could save her

from the undeniable forces
conspiring against her

in this sad life with its hard edges
and unforgiving tragedies.

Rain is another name for death,
she claimed casually.

But I couldn’t imagine
any five-day forecast

predicting a good chance of death
next Wednesday.

She was over-emotional,
but she sure could kiss

and back then that might
have been enough.

She was working on a series
of extremist abstract fairy tales.

They’re all about us, she told me.
Wolves and monsters and such

captured in watercolors on canvas.
No wonder she hated the rain.

editors note:

For lasting love, keep your umbrella ready and your brushes dry. (We welcome Gary to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page AND he has a new collection out, from Cyberwit Publications, “Rocky Landscape With Vagrants,” – get your copy here.) – mh clay

Piece of Ash

featured in the poetry forum March 17, 2020  :: 0 comments

World is burning with fiery unrest
while my winter blows icy trees
with wavering irrelevance.
Every statement’s a lie
invested with political leanings:
ramification, consequence.
Sinners as saviors in mad jumble
of propaganda-led confusion:
denial, diversion, destruction.
This is painful shortened breath
of death’s shiny new decade,
innocence piling on top of
vanity’s bonfire like birthday candles,
and there’s no escaping
encroaching conflagration,
mad heat surrounding:
unflinching, astounding,
increasing with age.
Make a wish quickly,
one to blow it all away.
Enrage. Repeat. Engage.

editors note:

Eyes closed to blow. – mh clay

The Song Plays On

featured in the poetry forum July 12, 2018  :: 0 comments

Stuck in a unidirectional flow,
staring at ocean view out our window,
sharing wisps of last night’s dreams,
connecting to colors, old melodies,
a wide realm of touchstones,
spinning lack into another great maybe.
Abundance is here, merely hiding,
waiting around the nearest corner,
whistling a happy refrain.
That cloud looks like a heron,
a sign of hope, omen of portent,
potent with potential, a coda
full of unresolved possibility:
wanting warmth, needing love,
not ready for that requiem yet.

editors note:

Cloud watching to wend wonder, fend off the wake a bit longer. – mh clay