Crisis Forming

featured in the poetry forum July 15, 2020  :: 0 comments

From the soft cushiony life
of pleasant thoughts and dreams,
of life laying out on a silver platter,
of riches settling in the palate
with its sweet breath
permeating the quiet air around,
unprepared for the danger lurking,
hearing its horns blasting,
feeling it digging into the skin,
it’s tentacles grabbing a hold and
taking us up to the graveyard
on top of the hill,
the home of all dreamers,
where all hopes are dashed
and “In Memory of the Fearful”
engraved on the tombstones,
is a place reserved for the
prey of the climbing crisis.

But climbers beware
for the leveling off of the climb
as the weary plague loses its grip
from its laborious ascension,
it’s feet swelling and muscles aching,
it’s evil still in its eyes,
but its influence lessened
as it nears the top
and gone away at the summit.

Alas, ’tis the sighting of the
other side of the hill,
the glorious meadows down below,
the smiling daffodils
and dancing streams,
the ride down a rejuvenation
of all hope, a new spirit in the soul,
a forever jubilation in the heart,
and the end of the course of the crisis.
Hallelujah!!!

editors note:

In the midst of the hijinx – hope. Hallelujah! – mh clay

Oils

featured in the poetry forum April 22, 2020  :: 0 comments

Exotic delights touching skin
like soft roses blowing kisses.
the brushing of love’s tender wings,
the tingling of their romantic touch,
the feeling of heaven on earth,
creamy liquids in their soothing,
their lovely touching and probing,
rolling down the breathing hills,
seeping down into the crevasses,
cooling off the fiery nerves,
rescuing the screaming desiccation,
the abandoned moisture that once was,
the comfort of a rose-like feel,
the soothing breath of the rain
like a rainforest in the desert,
the tears in the soil,
the flowers in the sun,
the embellishment of the naked earth,
the glistening of the reborn skin,
the fruited limbs that shine in the sun,
the glowing that reaches into the groin,
the racing of the heated blood,
the flaunting of the undulating hills,
the secrets of the forbidden valleys,
the words that get lost in the viewing,
the sensual lines that parallel the rivers,
the oils that drip down the banks,
the softness that calls for a touch,
the nervous fingers with lusted eyes,
the thunder that runs with passion,
the taboo that lost its voice,
the sensual rites of the exotic oils,
of beauty that emerges in the sunlight
and shines into the heated loins
and the craving to keep that feeling.

editors note:

Here are oils I call “essential.” – mh clay

My Cyborg Self

featured in the poetry forum January 28, 2020  :: 0 comments

My intellectual me,
my boosted ego,
my acceptance among
the highbrows,
my relevant voice,
my manufactured intelligence,
my shortcut to wisdom,
my dexterous fingers that push
the right buttons,
my knowledge of their functions,
the new me that grew out of my self,
the mechanical man that surfaced,
that left his heart on the way,
that made discoveries from
pushing the right buttons,
bypassing the love of finding things
as they reveal themselves
before my eyes and sink into my heart,
the joy of a new revelation,
an accumulated wisdom
that clings to my understanding
and enters my silent depth,
the treasure chest in my soul,
my intelligence that breathes;
for I know that they
will never abandon me.

My cyborg self, the new me,
made of plastic and intelligence
with a mechanical brain
and metal heart,
who lost his passion for learning,
who relies on technology to breathe,
look at my new world
with an empty heart,
who knows how high
the highest mountain is, but not
the path leading to the summit.

editors note:

A self; ever on sale, just for you, by Really Big Co. Buy now! – mh clay

Mobile Air

featured in the poetry forum October 27, 2019  :: 0 comments

Quietude yearning for mobile air churning
as the stillness takes root in the soupy skies,
mountain tops wreathed by a bluish haze,
the tepid clouds growing tired and sleeping,
days and nights beset by the same quiet air,
the sagging sun thirsting for a drink of water,
a plunge into the glassy, invigorating seas,
a paradise in the cool from the balmy air
where the angels sing the same old song of yore,
where the stillness lays in the lazy skies,
the dawn of the days in its old familiar mood,
going through its routine in a halfhearted way,
Mother Nature dancing the same old dance again,
looking for the mobile air to break loose
and dance with the wind around the hilltops.

Alas, a stirring in the upward skies,
a breath of air to make the barley dance,
a sympathetic churning prescribed
through the mercy of the Gods,
an assemblage of the hot and cold,
a westbound air rolling with the flow,
a new sky of vigor and life and mobility,
the brewing of the wizards from aloft,
a gentle stirring of a compassionate nature,
the tears of the invisible sky born giants
with their sob stories and gentle crying,
their newfound happiness in their home,
the answer to their supplications,
the restoration of the air, the invigorating air,
the return to life as it was in the beginning,
the spirit moving across the waters,
the winds across the glades,
the breath of the gentle giants,
the mercy of the Gods,
and the mobility of the air,
thanks be to Mother Nature
and the way she moves.

editors note:

A wonderful wind up of words for wind. – mh clay

Enigma

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

The mystery of the deep down inside,
Where probing is a futile venture,
A search curtailed by fear above all,
A witch’s asylum inside the complex mind,
The darkness ne’er to see the light,
Reachable, eerie, dangerous, enigmatic,
Where angels and demons commune,
Where the laws are written on a whim,
Where goodness is a nebulous mood,
Where evil plants its heavy feet
Deep in the ground but sometimes not,
Sometimes in the fire but not always,
Where goblins wear priestly robes,
Where nuptials are devil’s pacts,
Where albs are woven by witch’s cloth
With yarn that winds around the neck,
A hangman’s noose or an angel’s halo,
A language echoing the voice of evil,
Of angels cursing and wavering in peace,
With one foot in chains and the other free,
With hands stained by the devil’s spume,
In houses of horror with saintly rooms,
Letting the spirit run freely through the halls,
Exercising the good with evil intentions,
Living in the balance of good and evil,
Or the irresolution of the two,
The favorable one that fits the mood,
The contentment of the indecisiveness,
Or the volatile mood of the impulse,
Or the mysterious resident that lives inside,
Waving his magic wand
And making up new rules to live by,
The priest clothed in the devil’s apparel,
The one too dangerous to be approached,
Or the one they call the enigma.

editors note:

Many believe and obey; there’s the real mystery. – mh clay

Down Under

featured in the poetry forum May 21, 2019  :: 0 comments

After plunging into the cold, cold sea
From his merciful mission across the sky,
The man called the Sun all tired and worn,
Laboring with each mile upon his journey,
Setting his sights upon the angry waters,
Smiling but not smiling down to the depths,
Down into the mystery of the deep,
The hell or heaven that lives down under,
The brotherhood of the Macabre
Or the fellowship of the Saints,
Each one awake when all else are asleep,
Each one with arms outstretched,
One with plastic tears and
The other with loving eyes,
Each one with a baptismal font on hand,
Standing proud at the altar,
Baptizing him with holy or unholy waters,
Anointing him with scented oils,
Sending him upon his journey back home
To ascend to the surface just like yesterday,
To become a morning like it was before,
To peek through the veil of darkness,
To shed a light upon the mysterious night,
To reveal its deep dark secrets,
To unite the morn with the day,
To show his love or anger at the earth,
To lie still or become restless,
To summon the lofted currents
To reach out and grab the clouds,
To congregate them into a body,
To kiss them or rile them up,
To blend them into a witch’s brew
And wreak havoc upon the quiet earth,
Or to smile down at the sleeping meadows
And lift up the flowers with loving hands,
To become an angel or a beast,
To rule the skies with his scepter,
‘Tis the mission of the sun in transit.

editors note:

A dark wonder; what Sun does with the night off. – mh clay

From Sound to Words

featured in the poetry forum February 19, 2019  :: 0 comments

Traveling at a high rate of speed
Like the wings of a humming bird,
From fruitful melodies
And higher cliffs,
Where music reached into the clouds
And mingled with the
Voices of the rain,
It followed me into the darkness
And touched my silent wits,
Myself without substance or worth,
A pebble washed up upon the shore,
And illuminated my soul
With a liquid flame
And drew open the
Curtains of the universe
As I peeked into its pulsating heart
And saw the alpha and the omega,
The gardens of pure thought,
Voices not of this world
But of a sound that touched my spine.

As I wrote the first word
I could sense that my hand
Didn’t belong to me.
It was part of another planet,
A sphere of dreams and higher thought.
I was a genius who knew nothing.
I could feel the words
Flowing into my body,
My prison, my inhibitions, my world,
Hammering them into my mind,
My child of seasoned thought,
Looking into the world with big eyes.

I, of inherited thought,
A manufactured genius,
A child still lost in the wilderness,
Tried to understand what I wrote
As I stood amazed at
What the music did to me.

editors note:

A man, no script, to manuscript; muse-ic man. – mh clay

The Rage

featured in the poetry forum November 19, 2018  :: 0 comments

Out in the wild where danger lurks,
She curses and stomps her unholy feet.
She moves ahead at a speed unmatched,
Without warning, striking like a viper,
As she devours everything in her path.
She sings to the Sultan of the wicked wind,
To the glory of Mother Nature’s strength,
To the power beyond all earthly power,
And whistles from her colossal pipes,
A song to the devil, her romantic fling,
Her love affair with the macabre,
An ode to disaster and what it brings,
A digging into the bowels of the earth,
And dragging out the life once lived,
Stuffing it through her fat salivating lips,
Swallowing it like the hungry seas,
Laughing at the way it goes down and down,
Like a dying ship on the way to its fate.

She is a lady with no love nor tears.
Her perilous beauty is in her vortex.
She plays with life as if it were a toy.
She hides high up in the skies,
Then strikes without warning,
And sweeps up everything in her way.

She’s that wild twisted wind,
That impenitent tornado,
That unwelcome guest,
That devil’s whistle,
That hungry child,
That bestial one,
She is, she is.

editors note: We can only hunker down, till she passes; clean up after. – mh clay

Airs Trouvere

featured in the poetry forum February 19, 2018  :: 0 comments

That force that came in search of me,
From the city streets and from the sea,

From heated passion and raging fires,
From solemn melodies and melted lyres.

It came into my house, my frozen palace.
It slipped through the guards, the hallway past.

It took me prisoner with its own silent words.
It flavored my breath with its exotic herbs.

It threw me into the ocean and set me adrift.
It hovered over me then gave me a lift.

It dug into my heart with its gilded shovels.
It dragged me thru’ stately mansions and hovels.

It took life and hung it over my rusty eyes.
That I may see the silent words of the wise.

It dressed up the rhetoric in flamboyant suits,
And marched it in front with drums and flutes.

It swirled with the tempest and played roulette.
It climbed in my dream and brought the sunset.

It broke into my house in the name of poetry,
That power that came and left me be,

As my feet were implanted in the ground therein,
My heart broke loose and danced with the wind.

editors note:

Sweet reverie, come dance with me. Thanks, Robert! – mh clay

Air Dancers

featured in the poetry forum October 23, 2017  :: 0 comments

Where homes are houses
And shoes are anchors,
Bound to the earth that
Sings out of tune,
The flight of music is a wounded bird
And dancers all have weighted wings.
Poetry is the hub of assorted data
And stories are lists of vital instructions.
Sleep is a refuge for all the rebels
And dreams are for the disenchanted.
Sound is an obstacle to the flow of music
And the passion is for heated lovers only.

Air dancers leave the earth while they dance.
They roll with the sound of the silent clouds.
They twist their bodies to the mood of the rain.
They fly into stories of space and beyond.
They kiss the angels and jump into heaven.
They sing with their feet in the mystical air,
As they dance with the poetry
Of their playful minds,
And laugh with the wind
As they sail into forever,
While disconnected to that rocky sphere,
That planet of various
Weights and measures,
That earth that touches the dancers’ feet.

editors note:

Yes! For the dancers who have broken free; may we follow them, rejoicing. – mh clay