featured in the poetry forum June 22, 2016  :: 0 comments

Misplaced thoughts are broken stones.
The sides of the road hold treasures
for those walking by. Old newspapers
separate us from yesterday’s tragedies.
Wisdom is born in diners and roadside
Cafes. Painted signs on old barns hold
the innocence of roadside marketing.
Paper hats have character against the sun.
Popsicles were once five cents. Longer
steps will get you there faster, even if you
don’t want to arrive. Birds work the winds
in every season. The eyes never lie.
Everybody’s your friend till the rent comes

editors note:

Roger’s road-worn realities keep us cruisin’! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum March 13, 2016  :: 1 comment

I got out the big car, the flashy one
where you’re absorbed into the soul of your seat.
We turn on the black roads with no names
past road signs peppered with bullet holes
and other signs pointing each way to towns
and places somewhere to go.

The moon plasters a gray canvas like my
single headlight, beaming a path of night.

Cold and flat, suspended and smoking the
old car slips past cemeteries where we tip
our hats at the crossroads where tales of
life changing like Monday morning sheets
turns the heads each way while praying.

The road is hard as it surrenders the lost
and curious at deserted rest areas where
carved initials in picnic tables tell a story.

editors note:

Smooth cruisin’. A story to tell, pocket knife ready. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum October 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

A ripple of air passes over a
curtain in an open window.

Papers tumble gently, trapped
at the base of a picket fence.

A weather vane signals
direction, twisting quickly.

A furious language descends.
Shutters slap senselessly
without rhythm.

Tree tops swirl like ocean
bottom seaweed.

Leaves and branches are
swallowed by wind’s appetite.

Clouds swell. The sky ignites
with jagged bristling tails.

Rain releases the beginning
of healing.

The storm finds reason to move.
Sounds fade to welcome release.

editors note:

There’s a bite in the air this morning; I feel the season turning far above. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum March 24, 2015  :: 0 comments

The second self of me is the gift
The adventure in need of a path.
A stone to be dislodged.
A bridge that crosses every part,
leading to passions and fears.
It’s a road without a friendly door
or room without a place to hide;
My second self forces me to sunlight.
I’ll shed a skin, maybe between clouds
or a under a soaking rain
and find a place I best fit in –
my second self and me.

editors note:

Better two-for-one than full price; make ‘im fit. – mh