featured in the poetry forum September 11, 2019  :: 0 comments

There is distinction between palilogy and
paternoster, artificial flowers and real ones.
Ah! the niceties of nuance. Play the piano,
paint, or indite. Otherize negativity in self.
Pick-up parities with the otherguess. These
are baby steps to bliss.

editors note:

We achieve blessing when we stop guessing. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 1, 2019  :: 0 comments

Within an indicium
of imperfections
we have to seek
our peace.
If the search
is only for fault lines
our chase
will never cease.
It is the tempo
of waves
never to tire.
Altering tidelines
is their anthem.

editors note:

Stop faltering on flaws. We gain character with every crack. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum April 23, 2019  :: 0 comments

Firsthand accounts frozen in the mind’s igloo
require fieriness of touch by words or vestiges
from tunesmiths of our time to thaw into stanzas.
Past, however unclean has admission. Flip-flop
of feelings censure a sense of stasis. There is no
need to disclose maelstroms. Stillness is smoke.

editors note:

Fan flame, melt from mind’s eye into memorandum; mildly, now, no tempest torn. – mh clay


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

Far away from voluptuary urges
I’m an exemplar of austerity, of
sorts. Justification is a justificat-
ion. Perceptions fly quicker than
any makeover. We’re what we’re
in our minds.

editors note:

Hard to decipher when perceptions come faster than the speed of mind. – mh clay

At the Drinkery

featured in the poetry forum December 6, 2018  :: 0 comments

Predictability of patterns cry for yawings
of earlier phases. Comfort of certitudes
are like broken down loves or authors and
auteurs who once stirred our sally but fail
to quicken. Colors of my canvas aren’t of
my making. Rigidity is an enterprise of the
spirit. Hierarchies aid and aggrieve. Moon-
shine dulls sensory aches. Lips widen when
liquor soaks the esophagus. I’m an argument
against myself.

editors note: The inevitable skewing of self-pasts depicted by other painters, as tears in our beer. Or, regrets, straight up with a twist. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum September 27, 2018  :: 0 comments

If tenderness of my heartbeat seems
like tocsin to your ears, the failing is
neither yours nor mine, error is in the
edifice. Sharpness in words is vetted
as children. Adults soak in unctuous
sounds: implorations are incendiary.
We wear the cangue of other births,
some laboriously, some with levity.

editors note: Our perpetual pillory; we are shamed or we shine. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 28, 2018  :: 0 comments

Infirm like filo in caking of my fleshment
you push me to candy of other kinds. In
reality there isn’t wordlessness. Subtlety
isn’t the brief. Nuance is in short supply.
Klazomania hits. I scream like a panelist
on a news show. Audibility isn’t hark-
ened only by headsets. In this sublunary
animus has to be adhibited.

editors note:

Scream loud and long; there’s gotta be someplace better than this! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 28, 2018  :: 0 comments

Do icicles understand
transience is award
and affliction?
Sentience cushions.
Knowledge about the self
contributes to the case.
Ken to drum this
is subscription to turnstiles
one can’t see.
Eyes hurt, head throbs:
downers bring me
to your doorway.
Accept me as I’m.
Some mirth, some misery.
In rejoicing is your rig
in contrition your cast.

editors note:

Drumming up acceptance; knowledge of your brand? Better to know thyself. (I’m what I’m, and that’s all I’m!) – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum March 30, 2018  :: 0 comments

Sans passports your words fly
to my islet. From far-off places
your eyes key passages. In
reign of entropic radiations
there is no empath. Cushioned
by half-knowledge, in twirl
of half-truths we subsist
in centers of our seeking.

editors note:

Come, they fly, but land, not. You keep speaking, I’ll keep seeking… – mh clay


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

Flashbacks convoke me to crepuscular hours
when I was about seven at gramps. From
the restroom I could see his renters: didn’t
understand the intimations of their acrobatics.
They had me hooked unlike riddles in maths
or what else I was macerating. I would stand
in his washroom ensorcelled by the magic of
their moves, undertaking lessons in addiction
and obsession. I didn’t have a front seat view.
Had I a few centimeters I could have gleaned
those glyphs better.

editors note:

A few centimeters short of a full peep makes for a half-assed view. – mh clay