Neptune Madness

featured in the poetry forum October 3, 2021  :: 0 comments

Way down under the sea
where Davy Jones’s locker lies
or one fathom down from
the roof of the water’s house
where the crab boats sail
on the edge of Neptune’s domain,
where the waves have no rhythm
like a song without a pulse,
the waters churn and the devil romps.

The Bering sea becomes the Devil’s Sea,
the devil’s harbor outside of Dutch Harbor,
the assemblage of the crab, the land of plenty,
waters stirred up by the pockets in the depths
and the flapping tail of the sea beast.
No longer is the rhythm
of the crests and troughs,
the poetic undulations of predictability,
but a madness of hodgepodge,
of rogue waves teeming and running wild
in the playground of the devil’s lot
like the churning of the witch’s brew,
attacking from starboard and port side,
an assault upon the fleet
with their acts of demolition
powered by the pockets in the depths,
the peaks and valleys of the down under
where hell has its glory,
then rises up to the surface
and attacks the fishing fleet
as the fishermen flirt with death,
men with nerves of steel and iron hearts
who die for the sake of the crab,
placing themselves in the bowels of danger.

On the table at the five-star restaurant
where the crab is decorated with parsley,
where the people gather to dine,
nothing is thought about the fishermen
who risked their lives to catch their dinner.
Nothing is said through their thankless hearts
as they throw away the food that is left
after stuffing themselves full of crab.

For the men of the fleet who lived through
the Neptune Madness, job well done.

editors note:

Not a thought for tales fantastic that let us wear our bibs of plastic. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 20, 2021  :: 0 comments

My hat, my own,
My possession, my slave,
My rain repellentthinger,
My object, my dummy,
My lumpa’ felt, felted lump,
Closet dweller, room taker upper,
Piece of junk, no named nothin’,
Lower than the lowest,
Dunce in the closet,
Closeted junk, nitwit, nincompoop,
Waiting for me to come alive,
To be worn by me,
To gain prominence,
To take over, gain control,
To become the wearerer,
The one who wears me,
Me the wearee,
Me the nitwit in the closet,
To doff me and
Smile at the ladies,
That no-good piece of crap
That became my slaver daddy,
That *%#%* son of a *&$#&%.

editors note:

When self-control loses to hat-control. Doff or be doffed. (Congrats to Robert on the release of his new collection, “Rhymes of the Joke Machine,” just released on Amazon, June 8th. Get your copy here.) – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum January 29, 2021  :: 0 comments

Ancient killers and contemporary killers
Pterodactyls and jetfighter planes
Knuckles and grenades
Battle-axes and missiles
Spears and assault rifles
Fire and gun powder
Strength of body and strength of mind

Satanic strongholds and biblical triumphs
Evil conundrums and puzzle solvers
Killers of hope and killers of hope killers
Air of depression and air of exhilaration
Virus running free and fences being built
Aerial beasts and aerial thinkers
Bestial cannonballs and holy exorcists
Toxic air and its decontamination
Corona germs and laboratory militias
Pestilent rats becoming rats of heroism
Germs supplying ammo to fight germs
Futility fighting and genius retaliating
Killers in the air shot down by a vaccine

Era of depression runs into a new era.
The good and bad are only temporary.
Time is a fast-moving train
running through the past and present
with no time to let depression take root.
Hope is the track into the next town and
Vaccine is the town of destiny and
jubilation is the new spirit of the town.

editors note:

Killers to quell? Let’s give it our best shot, then Glory Be! – mh clay

Cell Phone Instructions

featured in the poetry forum October 20, 2020  :: 0 comments

“Hmm,” thought I.
“I pressed the button
on the phone called the
(balabala) button.
It says that it might cause a fire.
Yikes! My house might burn down.
The way to deactivate it is to
press the (hoseblows) button, then
wait for it to start flashing.
Then if it doesn’t, press the
(powpow) button if you start
smelling smoke. If the smoke
intensifies, press the
(yukyuk) button. If you see fire
coming out of the phone,
press the (flamebam) button that
automatically calls the
fire department, but don’t worry
because it might just be a warning.
If it is, press the (toratora) button
and hope that it is a warning.
If not, you can activate the
(spashsplash) button to turn on the
sprinklers to avoid calling
the fire department. If the
sprinklers don’t work, press
the (barabara) button, and if
it doesn’t flash, press the
(panic) button. If that doesn’t
work, get the hell outta there;
fast, pronto, speedily, swiftly,
like a gazelle or a bat outta hell
or a hippopotamus on drugs;
mucho rapidamente.
Goodbye and good luck.”

editors note:

And, for damn sure, leave that infernal thing behind. – mh clay

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.

editors note:

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


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


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