Featured Poems


by on May 5, 2021 :: 0 comments

Take a few scattered words
assemble them into a thought
which can be woven
into the finest of threads.
Weave the thread into a rhythm and flow
that creates a vision,
an intricate web of idea
to paint a portrait of conditions
and circumstance.

Introduce the characters
that participate in the play on words.
Place them into the scene that unfolds
before you, awakening in metaphors
and dreams
capturing the movement of life
as it begins to seep into the muse.

Get lost within the flow
and feel the fuzzy vibration of energy
as it emanates from your soul.
There is no form nor outline, no structure
just a field of delight, a poetic energy
like the movement of oxygen
to the source of the breath.

Whisper the words down the alley
so they twist and distort
like an effluent prophecy.
Street talk it to slang
and bang it into your vein like a hit
to feel the rush of the rhythm,
the burn of the beat, feeding the fire.

The efflorescence of flame
speaks the essence of your verse
carefully tendered into golden embers
that provide warmth
to all who have gathered
throughout the long night.

– Carl Kaucher

editors note:

Finding the fuel for fire and comfort in the night. – mh clay

Crushed apples, sweet

by on May 4, 2021 :: 0 comments

Today my fifteen-minute break arrived
Upon the minute that work bade it should
And so I, weary, made my way outside
Where soon beneath an apple tree I stood.
The heat released a fragrance from the fruit
So sweet from apples crushed upon the ground
That put me in my grandpa’s yard, a youth,
Delighted so, I laughed and twirled ’round.
The heat had made the apples start to rot –
A buzzing pair of wasps around me flew.
They almost kissed my skin but I cared not,
For freedom’s rush and calm I’d found anew.
I jumped and caught an apple from the tree
And, landing, found my work in front of me.

– Sally Jo

editors note:

Break time maximized. Sweet! – mh clay

Backwards, Briefly, Into A Fragmented Nostalgic Interlude, Of Sorts

by on May 3, 2021 :: 0 comments

The word ‘Bellowing’
is a lion’s yawn,
in imagery.
Her hands are timeless,
when kneading dough
… I can see
her shifting ‘Costumes’
back through the ages,
as her fingers work.
Dogs always look like
‘That’ when scratching
… and 3 flying ducks
hung above a fireplace,
always make me feel
nostalgic, & homesick
for the ‘Childhood’
that I should have had.

editors note:

Tested triggers, bitter recall; what was over wasn’t. – mh clay

The More Things Change…

by on May 2, 2021 :: 0 comments

Remember when
the beast
was still approaching?

All the hours,
all the days,
all the years
spent in preparation?

It’s called black boots,
baby, darling,
sugar pie, sweetheart,
& there’s not a damn thing
about them treading
on our necks.

I told you so
a thousand times
and more

about the New World Order
and all its
sold out

editors note:

Shined in sweat and blood; beware the beastie boot. – mh clay

Dead Water Parks Make Me Wet

by on May 1, 2021 :: 0 comments

Water park parking lots aren’t for church buses,
they’re dried urban gardens for starved grackles.
Clouds split sun same as children who flushed themselves
clean with water slide enemas.

No laughter’s missed, it’s the loss of the loss of humiliation.

Red eyed burdens, we hope to carry sunburns again,
slide tubes to inhale waves and rise to see spotted blue sky.

Who knew without water white clouds could be apocalyptic.

What a way to start and end wet in the sun’s teeth shaking bodies:
Suits not stuck to skin of no girls not swimming just not to be seen,
no overweight boys in white tees hoping to never not be invisible.

Children aren’t allowed to be anything but alone.

It’s not how many kids have drowned, it’s those who lost opportunity
of diving in and floating up dead to be dragged across asphalt
brightened by smudgy church bus windshield sun reflection prayers.

Think of all this and ask forgiveness.

Summer! Please come back!

We won’t be better but we’ll be different. We’ll be desperate
to see constellations with chlorine eyes, what came and went.
Every inch of skin drips, lungs deflate, eyes sting
to see life at the bottom of this,
speaking in bubbles that if we live happy for much longer,
we’ll die down here.

editors note:

Remember, “church bus windshield sun reflection prayers” get to god first; but don’t forget your sunscreen. – mh clay


by on April 30, 2021 :: 0 comments

Places where the dead are plugged
…electric to all passion’s core
wandering the peasant groves
…confused by an uncertain brain
and terrorizing man and beast
and women also
like a boar
searching warmth
in fear of fire.
Destruction in desire’s feast
the way the dead can feel desire!!

editors note:

Like this, we grope our grove, in search of life’s bright bolt. – mh clay

You know not of sacrifice

by on April 29, 2021 :: 0 comments

Loving someone who shows no love in return, that’s no fun; that’s sacrifice.

Taking flight from a fight when you’re in the right and you know someone is in the wrong; that’s sacrifice.

Willing to die for someone you love or a greater cause; that’s sacrifice.

Watching the flickering flames of candles

In the darkness, not able to get a job due to judicial convictions, judgmental thoughts, and now you have to hit the darkness of the cold street to brighten light bulbs to greet your children with hugs; that’s sacrifice.

Tears fill your eyes while you don’t speak as you listen to a liar’s speech, heartbreaks and you somehow stay meek; that’s sacrifice.

You know not of sacrifice if you are not willing to sacrifice at any given point in your life.

Have you sacrificed????????

editors note:

If we don’t show, we’ll never know. – mh clay