No More Reversions Into Fear

featured in the poetry forum February 15, 2024  :: 0 comments

Multi-toned families of Earth,
those who face significant challenges
by compressing anxiety,
heroes of a century
sharing the burden and the load of determination,
Having sufficient means
to possess real power.

Time goes on.
The picture is reversed.
The darkening of skies clears.
The worship of beauty returns.
There is abundant kinship
of the mystically faithful.
Lassitude diminishes.
The pursuit of destruction
dissolves at every turn.

The baffling problem
of curved exits is solved,
and the distinctive ranks of higher ideas
are replenished with experiences
worthy of attention.

editors note:

Longing for this. Is it here? Is it now? – mh clay

Beggars and Barking Dogs

featured in the poetry forum May 31, 2023  :: 1 comment

An astonishing amount of pavement,
far too large to be discreet.
A collapse of order, a rupture.
The circumstances out of which sometimes
come almost no solution
for the tightly packed forever population.

Despoiled property displaying existence as dead air.
A confusing atmosphere wherein junior despots rave,
using exaggerated motions.

The adaptation of laws,
damning the achievements of the past,
no nostalgia prevails,
and greater time periods are wiped away.

About all that can be said about unused hearts
is that they press against the necessity for kinship,
for decency,
and are not vitally concerned with civil crises.

We need to learn not to deny
the existence of the curve that persists.
Must demand a return
to the reverence of prophets,
the conferring of salvation,
our searches for lost ships.

Reeling us back time and again,
to remain next to what
some think now lies dead.

editors note:

Through our rises and our falls, we seek that thing to define us all. – mh clay

The Turtle Lies On His Back

featured in the poetry forum July 11, 2022  :: 1 comment

Fire put together what grew,
whispers pierced eardrums with their screech,
and angels spoke from under muddy fields.

Dark days inspired.
Grace’s power soured in the cup.

Everyone wept, but Jesus.

The toasted bread of the prophets became burnt offerings.
Commandments were cast over cliffs.

And Ao screamed.

editors note:

Given recent events, we’re screaming, too. – mh clay

Bells and Berries

featured in the poetry forum December 22, 2021  :: 0 comments

Within the Nativity

Bloomed cactus and rose, don fancy Yule clothes
Joseph, Mary, Jesus

Piled yule log blocks, a bright Christmas box
Adoration, Celebration, Decoration

Greeting cards and cakes, sweet fruit pies to bake
wooden barrels, water troughs, crooks

Clear carols and cheer, for loved ones so dear
Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar

Crisp cookies and crackers, for midnight snackers
donkeys, oxen, lambs

Warm pudding and presents, holiday music events
gold, frankincense, myrrh

Ornaments on trees, shelled chestnuts, and wreaths
Michael, Olivia, Angel Unknown

Sliced turkey and ham, add nice figgy jam
fisherman, shepherds, bakers

Stockings and stars, all these things are:

Offered to you in the hopes you will find peace, joy, and comfort
that we all seek during this special time of year.

editors note:

Noel? Yes, El! – mh clay

Silver Screen Shots

featured in the poetry forum July 15, 2021  :: 1 comment

That sad day when she had no will of her own.
A birthday cake pop-up,
but wearing a mask, wearing a TRUE mask,
troubled in a bikini.

Try screaming louder.
A $700 an hour who?
Leave the earth, after cocaine.
Delete, delete, break your silence.
Flash, flash, she should flash her midriff.

Leather pants, still single, why so sad, why so serious?
An illusion that will not die.
Cozy, cozy, after a terrible fall.

Rent, rent, rent, the world has changed.
One hour before his death,
still no will for the one who raised the bar.

editors note:

Exeunt icons. Arrive eulogies. – mh clay

The Waiting Man Paints His Mind

featured in the poetry forum October 12, 2020  :: 0 comments

No one stops to listen
while the holy painter
describes his technique,
and why he chose his colors thus.

Even with his pitiful disassociation,
dreams of this portrait will haunt him.

None suspect his stuffed background of experiences.
This unimportant man,
this waiting man who asks the day
if anyone feels love.

A torture battles his thousand spirits,
as the sanity thief lurks,
unwilling to offer a reasoned viewpoint.

Inside this consequence,
his spooky abilities still let him manage his brush-
fresh paint thrown upon the canvas.
He shifts his emphasis
to the form of the subject,
until he completes his binding task.

And no one stops to listen, nor answer,
as this waiting man asks
if anyone feels love.

editors note:

Just gotta paint, answers or no. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum February 3, 2020  :: 0 comments

When Spring is in
the air, but not quite arrived,
when the King’s Cake is naught but crumbs,
after Endymion and Rex
have strutted their stuff,
we will endure
the fuzziest examinations of ourselves,
the day after we have hoarded
all those bejeweled singing strings
and rolling doubloons, but
in the meantime,
let the good times roll!!

editors note:

It’s no lazy lay to “Laissez le…” Introspection after is hard work. – mh clay

Bitter Cold Can Burn

featured in the poetry forum October 17, 2019  :: 2 comments

Perhaps the fires of hell
are meant to describe
a wintry mix rather than that of flames.
Greetings and affection met with chilly, cutting
aloofness can break hearts and stretch the nerves raw.
Such deep and keen, sharp pain within the breast,
the sting of rejection felt in sinews,
like a pitchfork,
such will freeze the blood
of all but the most heartless, soulless beast.

editors note:

True hell; what we do to each other. – mh clay

Lamentations on the Discovery of Evil

featured in the poetry forum September 22, 2018  :: 0 comments

In my teens
I always slept with the radio on.
Even in slumber
I’d hear my favorite songs.
But, I awoke two different nights
and my regular music wasn’t playing.
That’s when I knew the world was changing.

First it was Martin
and then it was Bobby.
I spent the next hours
repeatedly sobbing.

The day after each event
I met with my friends.
Through our tears came sounds like the
ragged breath of tired dogs.
We stood as ones stupefied.
What were those sounds heard within the train?
It seemed
as if stars screamed
as we chanted for the sun to rise
against the news of those days.
The reporters
with their steely dissection
of the facts
were as
nettles on our hearts.

How many more years
would we be subjected to fears?
How much pain this all caused
even after the radio button was paused.
“Don’t worry,” they said,
“There will come a settling of what’s been dusted.”
“No,” we told them,
the world will never speed up again
because the center is now rusted.
And what we once believed
will never again be trusted.

We knew the Devil was a liar,
but he still showed us a horrible truth.
That man may love,
but also hate
and only man can create
those things that can’t be soothed.

editors note: It’s a hard pill, the consequences of our free will. – mh clay

The Shriek

featured in the poetry forum June 12, 2018  :: 1 comment

The shriek,
the ear piercing harbinger
of escalating devastation.

It always starts with the shriek.

The screech owl,
power from the sky,
feathered menace
swooping down,
destroying the mice,
rolling their bones,
dive bombing,
tearing them apart.

Their homes strewn across the landscape
as the pulse of life winds down
and the shriek subsides.

editors note:

Deaf to destruction; shriekers never stay to hear the sobs, see the stark desolation. – mh clay