featured in the poetry forum April 16, 2024  :: 0 comments

It has been some time since a woman,
Naked beneath the thin blanket she
Was wrapped in, appeared at my apartment
Door. Back then, I suspected
She had been locked out and wanted
To use my phone – but I was
Hoping there would be a more
Entangling mission within her.
Now that it has happened again
I am thinking a man cannot be
This lucky twice in his life,
And my phone all the coming week
In ringing will do so as if the woman
Were thinking better of her visit,
And might want a chance to offer more.

I still have the locksmith’s number.

editors note:

Maybe, if picked; if not, (lock)picking. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum January 6, 2024  :: 0 comments

The weatherman tells us snow
Is coming, but none of us believe him.
It is July. We have come into this bar
To outrun the heat, cool down
With a cold beer. Thunderstorms,
Perhaps. A clatter of unexpected hail.
A flurry of rain hitting so hard
The ground will not take it in:
It collects and rushes for the drains.
An hour later, the crowd is pretty much
The same. The local weather is back
On the television above the bar, given by
The same weatherman. The bar door opens.
Buck naked and beginning to drip,
In walks the snow. On the screen
The weatherman tips forward and smiles.
“See,” is all he says.

editors note:

Six months from now, we’ll be ready to believe this. (We welcome Ken to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay


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

The balloonman is standing just at the
Corner of your property. He holds
Perhaps fifteen balloons of all
Colors, sated with helium. The green
Tank proves it. Most of your neighbors
Will not yet be out. Maybe the one
Three doors over, who walks his dog
While others watch from kitchen windows
And think it is too early to walk a dog.
The balloonman moves in slow, easily
Anticipated tics. There is no reason for him
To be here: no traffic, few children
In this settled neighborhood. He peers
Along the street which bends out of sight
Six houses right, empties into a connecting road
Nine houses left. The balloons chatter
In our light wind. In your housecoat
And torn pink slippers, you go out
With your change purse. Yes,
The yellow one.

editors note:

Whenever the ballonman comes, better buy. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum September 29, 2022  :: 0 comments

It is a loop.
We suffer from rage and
Being impressed with ourselves
And so expand our chests, expand
Our chimeral wealth, expand
Our tribal reach and so commit
Unspeakable violence, sing
Of self, discord and domination.
Then we defeat ourselves, look back,
See we have accomplished nothing,
Push forward our sincere regrets.
We redefine wealth, offer homage
To humility, subdue the worship
Of self, learn the lattices of cooperation.
In twenty years we have forgotten,
And enter the cycle again. Perhaps
If we go around enough, we get a prize.

editors note:

You’d think we would, at least, get dizzy. – mh clay

Pleasing / Raincoat

September 17, 2022  :: 0 comments

Pleasing Quibble is not licensed to operate a grazenda, but the crowds that come to see him are so large and appreciative that the authorities are loathe to step in and arrest him. One unlicensed grazenda operator should not be the source of a riot. Nonetheless, the authorities plot: harmless though Quibble may seem, the law is the law. Order, …