that old sad faceless

featured in the poetry forum May 20, 2019  :: 1 comment

slim & glim
it glubbed right cool

the thin thune drop
roll down earth the copyway

chalk calendar on the wall
this is the now of the loud bell

– J.D. Nelson

editors note:

Right raised to ear, wail of the bell; money come. Better now than later… – mh clay

The River’s End

featured in the poetry forum May 14, 2019  :: 0 comments

Bleached out moon in blue sky
high noon possesses the zen of a snowflake.
The river is a chain that links the lost spaces in
the desert between stars. The stars

are like the remains of any anonymous poet’s
bones that suddenly wash up on shore
somewhere in Mexico. In Palo Duro Canyon
ghost Kiowa follow a Cooper’s hawk to a

dry stinking spring. At the museum,
Shakespeare’s first folio is on display and open
to a page from Hamlet: unpack my heart with words.
It’s Valentine’s Day Sunday, the world is trying

its best to love me. Unpack these words and
underneath in the circumspect late light of day, the
lissome river gathers up the heartbreak, the beauty,
its altar boys, spider’s webs, snake rattles, politicians’

barbaric kitsch, the face of Buddha and deposits them
on some far shore of my mind where there is still
elasticity and order, no war.
A dusky peace settles over the land

just as the river defuses its long, hot summer and
flows slow on the earth into autumn.

– John Macker

editors note:

Run its course to our soul salt sea. River you, river me. – mh clay

When you breathe your last, Sister

featured in the poetry forum May 12, 2019  :: 0 comments

Could you take me with you when you depart from the world?
I cannot live without you even for a moment
You are my rhythm if you go, I will lose my rhythm of life
What will I do alone here when I don’t have your company?
I don’t need this life when your kind words I cannot hear in my deep heart
You are just a little cute doll for me with whom I want to share my joy and sorrow
Let me also go with you when the world carries your coffin to the graveyard
I don’t want to mourn behind you
That is the end of my life when you breathe your last
Don’t leave me behind
Hold my hand when you close your eyes forever
Do not betray me if you move alone
I will not forgive you if you don’t take me with you
Promise me, you will not go alone
Please keep the promise not to break it at any cost

– Pushkar Bisht

editors note:

Though we make demands; from across the divide, death is deaf. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 9, 2019  :: 0 comments

first they were outside
the words
the voices
of parents and grandparents
and counterfeit gods

then came words
from other adults
from songs on the radio
from people on tv

from a barrage of ads
for things i should have
shiny things
that made people smile

and still more
from the mouths of classmates
in the schoolyard
hurled like stones
or sand in the eye

a blitzkrieg of them…

i should be this

i should be that

and then one day
the voices weren’t out there

they were in here
closer than inside

like the ringing
of hammer blows
as a mob of blind sculptors
chiseled a beautiful stone
down to a nub

– Brian Rihlmann

editors note:

They can wind up or wear down, careful how you wield them; inside or out. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 7, 2019  :: 0 comments

Street lights come on
as evening falls
and her guest arrives.

Her dogs welcome him
with barks, howls,
an occasional growl.

She puts on some music.
He comments on the jazz
she chooses,

how the percussionist
commands the tune,
how each tap of the tom tom,

each clap of the high hat
measures the night in alternate
rhythms and spaces in time

against the uncorking
of wine, conversation,
glasses clinking,
laughter and lovemaking.

The dogs wait outside the bedroom door.

– Jonathan K. Rice

editors note:

Tails wag cadence to the beat of this dogs’ life. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 6, 2019  :: 0 comments

I go into Cumberbund Farms
to buy a newspaper.
A catchy pop-tune on the
a fat girl
at the ATM machine
gives me the once-over;
“Steve” makes change of
my sawbuck
as a short guy
behind me
exudes an aura of menace
that is hard to ignore…
Out by the pumps
pretty girls
get in
get out
of cars
(but do not come inside).
Thin roadside trees with buds
on their branches
sway in the breeze.

– Wayne Burke

editors note:

We are all in a meanwhile to someone. – mh clay

Sundays and breakfast

featured in the poetry forum May 5, 2019  :: 0 comments

Here, I speak the truth to you,
the lies of occupation in appealing people’s sorrow
and the green urban dirt — a ghastly deduction of smiles
makes me a crooked vase of emptiness.
Monday: oh, it pours the spikes in my stomach
and churns the pancreas till the heart bleeds.
Saturday: a monotonous tone of soils parching,
producing fungus and mushrooms
Nothing remains, a wall of concrete harmony.
This tongue here craves the stardust of sunshine if any.
Something between moist eyes and moist thighs goes missing,
something between the linings of bricks and charcoal is vintage epoch.
The aprons, the tables, the cigarettes
the Sundays and the breakfast of savouring
my thunder, clasping the pharynx of my scandalous worth
is my favourite.

– Devika Mathur

editors note:

Ferocious fare to wend the week away from weakness. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 3, 2019  :: 0 comments

Onward and leeward I plough through the current,
Even when having fun I’m wondering when it will end.
Wishing it was tomorrow night so that I’d be over the mundane work,
Instead of enjoying the sunny day post meridian.
The reality as I live being of perpetual discontent.
So used to being discontented that contentment would be insufferable.

The only ones who are truly satisfied are those who have to be.
We persist to indulge our pain.
Like the burn of a clean shave makes us feel fresh and sore,
We’re haunted by the present,
Racing towards the past flinching at the future.

Residing memories threatening to spring to life at any moment,
Nothing more vacant.
Echoes of silence fill the abandonment.
A child’s beloved toy discarded with age.
Ghost towns of nuclear test sites.
Dilapidated theme parks gone to ruin.

– Anthony Ward

editors note:

Even in the good ole days, when a buck was a buck and a shave was shave, no got out o’ here alive. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 2, 2019  :: 0 comments

This will be,
The last false dawn,
Sweet sunlight shines aplenty,
As her beauty radiates,
And illuminates what was empty.

– Paul Donnachie

editors note:

Face bright, sunlight; it’s not biased if it’s true. – mh clay

Alphabetical Playlist Reveals Truth About Everything

featured in the poetry forum April 28, 2019  :: 0 comments

First, there’s bang and blame,
then black, then blank space
followed by blurred lines.
There’s freedom before
free falling, let down
and then lose yourself.

No sugar tonight–
no surprises, and run
before run on.
Shout, sweet dreams,
then take a bow.

There, there, and
what it takes
without you.

– Stephanie Bradbury

editors note:

Looking for a spiritual DJ? Spin yourself. – mh clay