All Things Must Pass

featured in the poetry forum April 30, 2023  :: 0 comments

I’m not complaining that they got all the credit. Even the Maharishi nudged next to Paul – and, get this, even HE had stars in his eyes.
They kept me out of their “brainstorming” sessions, though Paul was by far the most antagonistic.
John apologized with his eyes, pleading. We have something special together, George. How can you hold it against me?
Who could argue with success after success? But he never offered to write a song with me – and then the lawyers wrote it into stone – they’d all be Lennon-McCartney songs.
One song per side allowed for me. Taxman, Here Comes the Sun, Something – not bad.
I was always there; my voice can be heard like a bell behind them,
Ringing out from in between the brothers’ Mozart.
And my guitar playing – let’s face it, the only real guitar playing on the great songs.
But I’m not complaining.
At least I got to play with Clapton, Orbison, Dylan, and Petty.
Paul and John played with each other and mostly with themselves. Read that again.
And yeah, maybe a woman came between me and Clapton, but we managed.
We were direct – you know, the whole gestalt thing, the sixties, feelings, speaking your mind, dope, blah blah blah.
And I kept playing, making new music, good music.
I was forever putting the Bhagavad Gita to song; people thought they were romantic love songs.
By the end, I had an entire album piled inside my skull. The songs practically emerged fully formed,
Squeezed out like popped blood vessels.
They were trapped in me, slowly shaping while I endured endless takes of Hey Jude and The Long and Winding Road. You have no idea.
And the White Album? One gigantic ego fest. 30 songs? Honey Pie? Rocky Raccoon?
I had four songs. Some say While My Guitar Gently Weeps is the best one on the album.
I did the concert on the roof,
Wore my fur coat.
I too was almost arrested.
But I went along.
It wasn’t for me.
It was for them and for everyone else.
All things must pass, but the Beatles will last as long as there are ears to hear.
And, you know, I’d do it all over again – Everything, except Hey Jude.

editors note:

Fan channeling. Tell us how you really feel, George. – mh clay

Tiny Vessel

featured in the poetry forum February 10, 2022  :: 0 comments

A tiny vessel streaks thru the dark of space

racing forward to the


The capsule’s surface sprays beams of light

into the void

Its lonely glimmer like a lamp

on an empty street

As the little humans busy themselves with gadgets and dials

back on Earth

a song is hummed by a child

her eyes wet with anticipation

as she dances around the rosy

a pocket full of flowers

Her sweet melody

bound with the thoughts and cries of every person that ever lived

hurls across galaxies


like breath

like fire

its steady sound splicing space

like a million tiny diamonds

to the farthest reaches

editors note:

We’re just a song in space, searching for a cosmic ear. – mh clay

The Diamond Sky

July 31, 2021  :: 0 comments

I saw her again today, following me. As I turned right on the corner, from a left-side glance, I saw the shiny blue of her shirt. First, she waited a few beats, hoping I wouldn’t notice, then continued slyly walking. Why is she following me? What does she want? She’s been following me for years now. I didn’t feel threatened …

Twenty Twenty One

featured in the poetry forum December 30, 2020  :: 0 comments

2020 burned with flashing ambulances and police lights.

The system’s false cradle, kicked over and exposed
Showing its fleshy underbelly.
With death and suffering all around us, we cried.
We lost so many people.
But 2020 was only the wake-up call.
And yes, 2021 is around the bend. I can see it from here.
Let’s remember our vow: all people are created equal.
With our souls saved somewhat, perhaps we will not further poison the soil, too.
We can learn to care for the Earth, the sky, the trees, our animal brothers, and sisters.
Honoring all their equal status as non-persons.
Will we say we are ALL the Earth?
We are all ONE!
Our chance begins in 2021.
The choice is up to us.

editors note:

Here’s our New Year’s invocation for some positive visitation. – mh clay

Death Before Beauty

August 1, 2020  :: 0 comments

“You dream of me less these days,” my father says. Even in my dream, I feel guilty, like I did when he was alive. He would say, “You don’t call no more?” even when we’d talked earlier that week. I try to hide my shame, but he can see through it. I am dreaming. My mind is wide open. “I …

The day the vaccine was discovered

featured in the poetry forum May 16, 2020  :: 0 comments

The day the vaccine was discovered
They gathered in parks.
They marched in parades.
They sang songs.
The world would return to normal, they dreamed.
Then only the very rich got the vaccine.
Then only the celebrities and congress.
The vaccine is available to anyone who needs it, it was said.
To get it, you had to prove you had never had COVID.
Which meant you had to have had a test.
Which not enough people had.
Which not enough people could get;
To get the vaccine, you needed to have insurance.
But not all insurances covered the vaccine.
And due to demand
The cost was very high.
Which meant that not enough people could get it.
Then the parades turned into protest marches.
With guns.
Then many turned against each other.
Those who wore masks and those who didn’t.
Those who were tested and those who weren’t.
Those who had the presidential vaccine stamp on their arms
And those who didn’t.
The day the vaccine was discovered
Was like pulling on the string that held things together.

editors note:

Poetry? Or, prophecy? Oof! (Read something with a lighter touch from Mike on his page. Check it out!) – mh clay

Lamentations of Scottie

May 16, 2020  :: 0 comments

Scottie’s Log, 2550:

We appear to be stranded somewhere in the Vega system.
3 suns and boy it is hot.
Course, Kirk has had his shirt off since we landed on this damned planet, prancing around in his nylon Speedos.
He is always on the prowl – even now.
I messed around with the Dilithium Crystal configs and blew the life support system, so everyone is pissed at me.
The captain especially.
They forget the time I pulled us off Tantalus before its 2 suns simultaneously exploded.
Or the million times I’ve warp sped away from enemy pursuit.
No one notices me until something goes wrong.
Maybe Kirk is getting newly laid every week, smooching with every pretty yeoman that gets beamed aboard; not me.
New planets, new women for the captain.
I’m not sure if I’m mad because I’m jealous or because he’s a bastard.
But I do love him – loved him since we met at the academy.
Will I die out here in space? So far from my home – away from everything I have ever known – green hills, rocky cliffs, Mary MacDuff’s blue eyes.
Must I go on?
Can I bear this heavy load alone?
Too much time by myself in the basement of the Enterprise.
Too much time waiting for something to go wrong.
Too much time.
When will the luck go my way?
Back to the pickle I have got us in; as soon we’re off again, I’ll be off the hook – until next time.

editors note:

Glad to know we’ll have a Scottie to help us out in 2550 (Speedos, too). – mh clay

Calling Vito a Guido

October 5, 2019  :: 0 comments

Having tied his Capezio shoes, Vito brushes his white slacks and gets up from the chair. He walks over to the mirror in the living room to brush his black hair — again. He tilts his head to one side, looks at himself from the corner of his eye and runs the brush across his coal black mass of hair. …

Swollen Seconds

featured in the poetry forum April 30, 2019  :: 0 comments

Glorious organ and cheering horns
Swarms of birds
Rushing the cushioned clouds.
And there is you.
Your yellow eyes melting.
Yesterday’s crying on your face.
Fallen seconds trickle down your
Swollen cheeks.
The weeks worn
Around your neck
Like broken diamonds.
Tonight is still.
The moon eclipsed.
The stars unfixed and the lighted
Sky dims.
Look! A hush inks the darkness
Even Darker.

editors note:

A hush to comfort, a breast to rest. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum February 11, 2019  :: 0 comments

Reaches down into
Itself.  Where demons mingle.
Knotted roots signal battle.
The blackened soil, a hollow
For unseen wars. Muted screams stored into
Silence.  The roots coil back,
Like harrowed victims chased home. Once inside
The dark terror subsides and they can rest. Tomorrow, as leaves,
They sing in the sun, their flapping kisses the pearly air.
Where angels cushion
The light

editors note:

Where birds of feather flock, not scatter; fight fears, threats shatter. – mh clay