featured in the poetry forum June 8, 2017  :: 0 comments

Now, finally, I want to carry the clear corn
Resurrected in my grandmother’s veil.
I want to place the selenium where
It must sustain the object
Of this most cautious of customs;
Retain forever the bread Host’s transmutation.

Smoke is rising from the chimney. I will.
Bounteous mother, treat our guests
To a wake of your finery. Figs,
I have gathered.
Tomatoes and crushed almonds!
Sweet yellow wine is to be shared with
The herdsman’s son,
The Carabinieri and those

From the grotto. Not wastrel nor saint
Should forget how you sang
And nurtured here. Concordantly, the eyelids
Will be covered by the palms of your
Confettied hospice. Crickets hum
In nearby thickets. At yuletide I’ll toss

The sachet of camomile into the lava’s
Compendium… then
Lay down
With the corn.
With the veil.

editors note:

Take what’s passed until we are past. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum February 24, 2017  :: 0 comments

Beyond reasonable doubt
There’s an entrapment
The lesion
Of the spirit
Contorts to ~

The abandoned echo,
Hewn into
A judicial
Stone kiss.

Perversity preys upon itself.
Humankind is not
Kind… fevering
The white-washed hands
Of faith’s tactician

Where hearts, hung like
Bedouin relics,
Are made
To be

editors note:

Makes a combatant’s mouth water. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum December 8, 2016  :: 0 comments

… Whoever’s prophet material
Had best seek counsel
From the nation
Of ‘The Northern Lights’:

No velure head-hunter need apply –

No Moulin Rouge mudslinger –

No tyrannous protoplasm
Batting an evil eye –.

Lucidity epitomises
The cold ground’s
Imminent banter;

“Where man ends
The flame begins” *

And we will never
Put Prague
Or Jan Palach
Back together, again.

{*Miroslav Holub}

editors note:

If self-immolation was the required imprimatur, we’d have damn few prophets. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 28, 2016  :: 0 comments

It’s Growing up diagonally
At 64 and remembering
September 11
(Not specifically because
Cousin Ricki
Was there…).

It’s the tick-tacking accuracy
Of whether anthrax spores
Are absorbed
In our
Morning coffee…

Pseudo market forces.
PC hackers:
(Con amore)
Or – tri-lingual brokers
Ensnared by
A crust of
Bullion rising

That collars the phrase
… We become
What we

editors note:

With less and less of us each year… – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 13, 2016  :: 0 comments

Distance, how far away
You’ve wandered
From the maladies
Of attachment.

From the quiet room where
We read Kafka’s tribulations,
My head resting
On your chest,

The clatter of pine-cones
Scudding the roof
… And the wind
At half-mast
Soulfully singing.

Distance. A derivative,
Brought with it
An unbridled
Dark steed

To infiltrate
The yellow night.
The red comet.
The absentee –.

editors note:

A distance crossed in the firing of synapses. – mh clay


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

… After I have conquered some of the world’s ills
In my fashion.
After I have climbed what’s left
Of the parasitical plot and attempted
To bring it down.
After the unwanted-wanted posters
Have yellowed and curled – so that
My name’s been struck off
The records, the too human records…
And I’ve greyed a little –
And shrunk a lot –
And my hands have lost
Their bitter cures…
Will you, once again, take me in!
Take me in and not mind
This new stranger
As your lover of old?

Once I’ve been pensioned out – Yes! I’m aware
That it will happen.
Once it’s known that what seemed
Scholarly and spectacular was no more than
Someone held
Hostage by an every-day innocence.
Once I design… the final line
And I’ve nothing left to do,
Say, or display – will you
Find it in you to forgive
The neglect
I shelved for you alone!
Will you
Forget that I served
But one light; and that
It was your ‘light’!
Will you mind, mind my return
… And keep this gypsy poet

editors note:

Old poets never die; they just rhyme ad infinitum. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum October 26, 2015  :: 0 comments

Found trespassing
   In my night-climbing shoes
And little else…
   At the third rung
I told them, ‘I’m assembling
   Uranus and the five moons
In less traditional
   Circuitry.’ For this
They threatened
   To lock me away, my daughter.

Your grandmother, back in
   Forty-one, was the keeper
Of several interlocking
   Platinum rings [history’s
Repertoire leaves
   Its trail of orderliness] but
Know how she swapped
   That war time dowry, worth
A fifth of gross entitlement,
   For sacks of rice and sweet potatoes.

These days you cry
   Songs of losing; as if I, none of us
Had ever known the pinch
   Of letting fall
What was crystallized
   – Or consciously aspired.
Damn it! I taught you not
   To accept diamond dealerships:
They’re none other than
   The dual wall-eyed bitch –, sobriety.

Two moon discs are left us. These
   You’ll divide between
Your choreographed children.
   May they understand
Compassion is measured
   By wealth inherent
In all
   Its bright
   …My daughter.

editors note:

Crystals drop and shatter; aspirations scatter. Seek the brighter thing. Yes! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 16, 2015  :: 0 comments

That drawer with its two handles,
One in, one out;
Files on the evergreens,
Files on the banished…

And dust inspectors
Lolling about the hall;
And crusades of custom-built
Panicking muses come to stare

– Come to sound.
Come to turn you on.
Come to ask why
You’ve settled in –, vanishing.

Come to suggest you ‘fill in’
The questionnaire
While invisible spells strike
Moloch’s vacant chair…

I was there. I saw the emery claw
Tug unsuccessfully
At the two-handled draw
– One in. One out.

editors note:

Keep those files in order; categorized by darkened deed. Keep the drawer closed. (We welcome Stefanie to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. There’s another new poem in your future, plus more of her madness, on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay


August 16, 2015  :: 0 comments

There’s an unshared
Sadness about
Joy before
Its end –.

The destroyer
His most
Victim –.

A flower, worn by
Seasons, and
The cross-eyed
Dog no-one

Wants for
A pet…


featured in the poetry forum June 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

My love, best not invite
The dowager again
This Easter.
Realise how
Such an incessant
Will have
The bone china
Reheat its fare,
The flue
Choke yellow,
And the pennyroyal
Cry foul.

And, come nightfall, she’ll
Sup and marinate
The marquee
Into a ballroom;
Fan raised
Warding off

Mark my words,
The agitation
Of the Un-merry Widow
Won’t stop there.

editors note:

Change the locks, pull the shades; better house empty than upended. – mh clay