University Creative Writing Club

featured in the poetry forum May 26, 2024  :: 0 comments

My nine line poem circulates
like a minor infection
we’re too stubborn to wait for
at a doctor’s office for a prescription,
and the professor holds a pencil,
sharp as a scalpel starving for surgery,
underlining lines suffering
from cliches and malignant wording,
while my metaphor comparing
a lovely face to a watering can
quenches some of the more romantic members,
but the professor wasn’t fooled
by my diseased sentimentality,
which left me with another scar
I laugh about now
because there’s no other way.

editors note:

The club where clubbers take a clubbing for art. – mh clay

After the Metaphorical Beep

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

This page is cold as a tin can phone,
where the string strings me along,
while I wait for an answer
that’ll never come, but at least
my words, all words,
can make a long distance call
to silence, and leave a message
more interesting than any pocket dial.

editors note:

When just the saying is enough… – mh clay

Cemetery Lane Beach

featured in the poetry forum August 23, 2023  :: 0 comments

The water was warning us,
but we ignored how easily
youth sinks,
while we believed in life
vest padded lies,
and the doggy paddle,
the best friend to a dead man’s float;
all of which proved we knew more
about skipping stones
than the names left stranded
on mossy gravestones.

editors note:

He floats best who sinks last. – mh clay

Another Great Day

featured in the poetry forum May 16, 2023  :: 0 comments

Force feeding on optimism again
in between flipping through a supermarket flyer,
where apple sauce is 20% off
and the coupons bright
like a cartoon sun
trying to sell me breakfast cereal,
but the paper flimsy enough
to prevent a paper-cut,
while my grocery list
writes another poem about inflation
that no one wants to read.

editors note:

Too much ennui to raise interest. – mh clay

The Postage on Life After Death

featured in the poetry forum March 18, 2022  :: 0 comments

Reading a dead man’s letters
doesn’t tell you how to live forever,
but proves someone cared
enough to keep them for publication,
and that he had some friends
who are or will be licked
in an envelope by death,
while the cost of stamps rises,
causing complaints from those
with nothing to send,
as they allow paperless words
to fill empty air,
leaving behind no evidence
they ever were.

editors note:

It’s postage paid or the dead letter pile, no matter what the letter says. – mh clay

A Living

featured in the poetry forum September 27, 2021  :: 0 comments

The noise in the hallway
while you’re trying to sleep
because you have work in the morning
will die. Crows cawing
over string falling from your pants
as you start your car will
die. Your alarm clock
set for 6 AM will die.
Even those tiny bugs
(you seem to only notice
on weekends)
that love spilled honey
Your voice already dead,
as you recall those summer nights
when hair over shoulders looked best,
the shape of another
impossible to miss,
even in the dark,
and moaning made the most sense
as you felt alive just long enough
to say nothing.

editors note:

Inaudible implications alive from the dead. (We welcome Richard to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

The Closest I’ll Get to an Afterlife

featured in the poetry forum June 25, 2021  :: 0 comments

He lived in a morgue
that was renovated into a house
(an old friend of mine
I haven’t seen in years),
and the spirits would come out
at night, poking you in your sleep,
or so I was told
because I’m yet to meet a ghost
who wasn’t still alive.

editors note:

Still, would rather meet than be one. – mh clay

Trail of Blood

featured in the poetry forum March 30, 2021  :: 0 comments

The quiet among snow bent branches
tries to tell us how footprints usually go in circles-
our tracks barely worth sniffing
by hungry wolves who know dogs easier prey,
while we fall asleep watching TV,
microwave popcorn on Friday nights,
sleep in on Saturday mornings,
only to complain about our beds being too soft,
and sometimes Sunday is a hangover
or 7 AM, staring out a window
at trees, swaying in a winter wind,
not sure if they’re agreeing with or mourning
the years consumed by a silence
we try to silence, yet it’s louder
than any crying from an unplanned newborn,
laugh track we smile at every Thursday at 6 PM,
or World’s Best Dad mug dropped,
destroyed by the same child who gave it
five Christmases ago
(our swearing muttered as sweeping up shards,
afraid of cutting feet,
leaving a trail of blood we’ll have to clean up too).

editors note:

Leave it like you found it; no tracks, no one here. – mh clay