Spinal Kneading

featured in the poetry forum June 11, 2017  :: 0 comments

Oh sweet music with thy soft fingers
Come and knead me as heaven lingers
Run up my spine on angel trails
Roll with the waves and burrowed swales

Bring thy melodies to love’s holy feast
Riding on the sun and rising from the east
Prepare me for the sacred fire where love goes
Into an exotic world as heaven only knows

Move inside as tempests flow and flowers sing
As love takes up residence and residues cling
Command my limbs to dance with the sound
Release my tired feet from their earthly bound

Thank you music from your heavenly depths
My spinal kneading followed its dreamy steps
The language of the spirits took form inside
From this day forth I shall abide

Music, sweet music, oh sweet music!

editors note:

Massage by muse; a little lower and to the left… right… there! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum April 9, 2017  :: 0 comments

Random words scattered into space
An empty book, no name, no face
Of hungry chasms waiting to be filled
Room for fallow souls to be tilled

As tasty words long for confinement
Of sacred thoughts for their enshrinement
Each go to their own proper places
As empty music pines for uplifting basses

Words are the calming of all-out rages
Or the riling of too tranquil stages
Each combination serves its rightful mood
A savory platter of passion’s food

An ode to words and their influential power
Like nature drawing a bee to a flower
Combinations gather up the best they can
For the spirit to flourish since time began
To love, to fight, to laugh, and to cry
An ode to words and their rousing combinations
Words, you have served me well
I thank you from the bottom of my
Poetic heart

editors note:

Yes! No words, no wonder. – mh clay

Ameba Pride

featured in the poetry forum October 10, 2016  :: 0 comments

Lift your heads high amebas
If you have heads to lift
If you don’t have heads
Then what do you have?
If you lift your feet
Will you fall on your butts?
If you don’t have butts
Then what do you have?

No more jokes
Will be aimed at you
You do have feelings
That we overlooked before
For that we’re so very sorry

Ameba pride is what you deserve
You can walk? or march?
Swagger? swim? or ride?
With fortitude and confidence
If we laughed at you before
We take it all back
You deserve much more than that
You will always remain
The most noble
Of all the nobles
Ameba pride is what you deserve

editors note:

I say “amoeba,” you say “ameba.” Either way, say it proudly! – mh clay

Damn Those Poet Gods

featured in the poetry forum July 17, 2016  :: 1 comment

Sleepless nights and distant days
Through thorns and sordid blinding haze
Pushed through comfort and rest about
Steady hands molding faith in doubt
Stopping when hell is a sacred place
And earth is a lofted planet keeping pace

Those damn poet Gods and their pushy ways
I’m a rag doll losing my way thru the maze
My own thoughts are sufficient words unheard
A ragged warbling from a song-less song-bird
My pride is an anchor wrapped around my feet
A sweetness dipped in a sauce made bittersweet

How beautiful those commanding poet Gods
I hear their words, their palpitating vocal throbs
The overbearing ways they enter my mind
Their passionate journey to find what they find
Their dashing to my heart like a shooting star
I stand amazed in awe for what they are
Those damn poet God’s, please come again
I beseech thee to blow your breath on me. Amen.

editors note:

As we are damned by them. Amen. – mh clay

Little Slot Boy

featured in the poetry forum April 18, 2016  :: 0 comments

Little slot boy that you are
Running through the middle
Lost among those big ferocious giants
Who eat little boys for breakfast
As lions eat Christians
And missiles overpower spears

Life made giants for football
And made you for knitting sweaters
Don’t venture onto the gridiron
Life is short enough
You are up for the kill
Stay home where it’s safe
Little slot boy,
Where are you going?

Oh no, you’re lining up in the slot?
Or hiding in the backfield?
With all those giants all around?
Now you’re getting lost in the middle
And they can’t find you
When they see you, you are dead
You, you little needle in a haystack
You little Speedy Gonzales around the bend
You greased pig, you invisible little brat
You’re in for a great big spanking
When they find you if they can
What is that you got in your hands?
Is that a football you’re carrying
Across the goal line?
Hurray for little slot boys!!!
Hurrah, hurrah!!!

editors note:

Underdogs everywhere, arise! Hurrah! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum December 12, 2015  :: 0 comments

Man the throttle, full speed ahead
Fire up all systems to the max
Take the devil aboard and go
Hammer down, wait for nobody
Ram the hell out of whatever
And whoever gets in the way
Don’t take heed to danger ahead
Don’t listen to nobody or nothin’
Throw yourself into the fire
Savor the sweet aroma of burning flesh
Fill your nostrils with black embers
Then ride across the blackened skies

Keep going ‘til hell freezes over
Keep going ‘til the devil gets tired
Keep going ‘til black angels sing
Keep going ‘til the seasons run out
Keep going ‘til matter goes back to nothing
Keep going ‘til apocalypses close down
Keep going ‘til there is no more
Charge ye renegades, ride across the sky

Muscle your way into another’s dream
Throw him aside and laugh at him
Take his wife, his treasure, and his goats
Burn down his house and build your own
Stand affixed until the moss grows about
Stick out your chest and wave your banners
Tell the rain when to fall and the sky to clear
Tell the oceans to part for you
And tell the seasons when to stop
Keep muscling away until
There’s no more to muscle into
Then what are you going to do?

editors note:

So much ado about an accumulation of goats; more than anyone else. (With this third accepted submission, we welcome Robert to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

The Stirring

September 15, 2015  :: 0 comments

Breathless masses
Airless forests
Choking leaves
Ghosts of seasons
Brittle skeletons
Quiet tombs
Love’s requiem
Amputated limbs
Narrow prisons
Dusty chains
Blocked hallways
Crumbling stairs
Sluggish streams
Dead waters
Abandoned hopes
Grounded spirits
Antiquated laughter
Stagnation of time

Merciful sunrise
Vibrant colors
Exquisite shapes
Sweet jasmine
Deep breaths
Beautiful air
Running streams
Smiling meadows
Pink clouds
Musical wind
Whistling maples
Dancing barley
Swaying skirts
Beauty embodied
Sensual melodies
Rousing spirits
Nature primed
Cupid’s arrows
Love’s playground
Life living again
Oh beautiful life

editors note:

Dark to light, the one you like comes ’round again. Just keep stirring. – mh clay

Two Thousand Sixty

May 22, 2015  :: 0 comments

While digging in the backyard one day
Faust’s dog Clyde, dug up a funky old box.
A time capsule from the year
Two thousand fifteen appeared.
In it was a primitive smart phone.
“What hast thou done, Dog Clyde?
Hast thou dug up the past with thy digging?
What say thee?”
“Nothin”, replied Clyde

As he examined that funky old piece of junk
He came upon the following observation.
“Back forty five years ago
The phones couldn’t grow
Arms and legs on them.
They couldn’t scratch your back,
Drive your car, do the laundry,
Do the cooking, do your homework,
Curse you out for being stupid
Wow the ladies,
Pat’em on the butt for you,
None of the above things
How could the people live under
Such primitive conditions?”

Dog Clyde replied,
“See thee, Master Faust,
Technological plateaus force their
Own redevelopment when
Advancement becomes obligatory.”
“Huh?” replied Master Faust.

editors note:

Is this pathetic, or prophetic? Gonna name my dog Clyde, just in case. – mh clay