Anonymous (Friday Poetically)

Why can’t I be anonymous?
Why can’t I
hide among two dimensional shadows of shallow minds,
walk in the world of me,
drool, if necessary,
speak French,
cry for independence,
and ignore my fat cat neighbor’s  
                                                 intestinal woes.
I can still be invisible and listen to Jack White’s guitar,
even though Detroit is not synonymous with anonymous,
but the man has a gift of creative riff,
and if I don’t crank
                               too loud,
I can be nameless, still.
I can help the poor with money orders and cash,
and wear a mask to help dig through fallen rubble.
I can even send good luck cards to freedom fighters in trouble,
I can be anonymous, still,
                                        can’t I?
Or would I be a shallow minded
                                                              of self indulgence too?
No, I’m not talking about you.
Hello, my name is Henry Clemmons.  Comment vas-tu?

I Want To Be a Penny (for big tent)

I want to be a penny,
laying on rails,
waiting for a train.
Have you ever seen a penny after fifty grain cars flatten it into
    oblong coolness?
I’m tired
             of worthless,
collected in topless mason jars,
         just to be stolen,
                                   for some blow and a little weed.
I want to be cool,
smashed into something somebody finds,
and says,
             “Wow, check this out.”
Instead of,
                “tails, bad luck,”
and thrown inside some bushes,
                                   to be alone;
a penny from hell.
I’d rather rain from Heaven on poor people with mason jars for food; with hope.
I want to be cool.
I want to quit smoking;
                                   kill two birds with one
          pulling thousands of tons of
                                   oblong creating coolness.
I want to be a penny,
laying on rails,
waiting for a train.

Just thinking….


My Day (a thursday quickie)

Not all moments exist
                                  in black
and white’s
                  contrasting comfort.
Some moments b r e a t h e,
        some bleed,
some battle in layered
                                            of slate.
Moment’s sum,
                        portray my day.

Respites (A wed. night short)

Thought it
I could befriend
High noon and moon together,
They represented
Where long ghostly shadows
Of tragedy and guilt
Could not smother me
In blankets of
                                                                                                                                       Brian Scott (Colour Pencil) 

The Dusty Horse (Poets United)

                              Laurie Pace  http://www.lauriepace.blogspot.com/

The dusty horse stands lone with reins unmanned
Its saddle slants with bloodstains dried and brown
Sweat pours like mud from heaving sides distressed
The cowboy’s dead and lost on prairie’s land

A red bandanna dances ‘cross hot sand
It’s torn and damp from tears and sweat and fear
An angel’s breath blew home the faithful mare
The dusty horse stands lone with reins unmanned

A pistol lay uncocked in limp scarred hands
An ambush flashed from friends with smiles and guns
A prayer lay froze on lips now pale and chapped
The cowboy’s dead and lost on prairie’s land

The dusty horse stands lone with reins unmanned
A red bandanna dances ‘cross hot sand


Where Sharks and Whales Only Swim in Books (One Shot Wednesday)


A morn will break in life when you sense safety,
And they’ll be no safety,
Because there is no safety on a sea hiding monsters.

An altered, borrowed thought from Melville’s whale,
I took as prophesy,
Slightly changed because I will not live by the sea.

I sense land and know its land,
I live on land,
Way inland, where sharks and whales only swim in books.

It’s been that way ever since that poster sucked us in
To the darkened sea of theatre’s trap,
Haunted by the simple pattern of alternating notes E and F.

Jaws of fear forever chased me to the plains.
Quint’s scream echoed Ahab’s plea,
As they both drown in swirls of unknown depths in grasps of monsters.

I still see it hanging, taunting from theatre’s red brick wall,
The great white killer of innocent swimmers;
Straight up, mouth open, death stalking, a frantic thrashing,
Gurgled screaming, an eerie silence, a bloodied ocean, once still, once serene,
Once Safe.

There are no creatures of the deep in Kansas,
No Brady’s, Hooper’s, or Quint’s drunken songs of false courage,
No great white killer of innocent swimmers stalking my life from

The poster changed my life.
I live on the Rock, firmly on the Rock, far from a shore hiding monsters.
I believe in Amity, but not as an island, it can’t be an island; never an island.

I saw that film with my father; I was young.
It was the only time he ever took me to the picture show.
He was so strong, he would have survived like Brady, if not for the monster,
Not Spielberg’s creature, but a swift silent killer of cells from beneath the

It was 1975,
Two alternating notes blown from a tuba,
And a large placard of a great white shark Mr. Benchley named, Jaws.


The Birth (For Poetry Pot Luck: Muse, Art, Music, and Poetry)

                              Painting by  Leonid Afremov  http://www.afremov.com/

Crying between rhythmic thighs
Stroked legato, gently
Uninterrupted, long and smooth
Then quickly, sharp, staccato
Pleasurable whines, whimpers
Strung tight, perfect fifths
Passionate fingertips caress neck, glissando
Rising, falling, seamless
Air flows, in and out, of F-holes
Her bow, a perfect touch, taut
Orgasmic vibratos
They’re one.
Muses celebrate in multi-colored frenzies
Symphonic life, birthed
Forcing art forefront
From muse’s womb
Creation’s water breaks
One last push
Angelic face free
Umbilical leash cut
A slap
Life born


Thank You (One Stop Poerty Photo Challenge)

Thank you
    for pushing me.
I’d hate to miss Easter services.
I prayed all night
    for help to get there.
I’m surprised no others
    are going,
    unless, I’m late,
    or early.
It is Sunday,
    isn’t it?
I like your after shave,
    so fresh
    like someone left the windows opened last night.
Better than the usual here, you know.
I’ve never seen a volunteer so tall,
    and young.
I don’t understand the sword though.
Are you security?
You know I write poetry?
I see things.
God speaks to me.
I need people to read them.
Could you help me?
It’s been such a battle to get them out of here.
Thank you, Michael.

When Blooms Explode (My Easter/Spring poem from the devil’s POV)

I nominate Kim Nelson at Kim Nelson Writes
Thank you Vinay and Jingle
I hate the season
That grows between
Frozen beards from winter’s treason
Summer’s sizzle with heat so mean
I can’t even say its name
I hate the odor
That screams from green
April’s warmth stalls winter’s motor
Summer’s drizzle defeats a dream
I can’t even say its name
He rose again
And breathed once more
And freed my slaves
From Hell in scores
Proclaimed my death
And slammed my door
I can’t even say His name
I hate the trouble
When blooms explode
And ice sheets warm to shallow puddles
Tadpoles turn to frogs and toads
I can’t even say its name
I hate the season
That lets you know
Jesus lives and is your reason
I with demons have got to go
I won’t even note His fame.
He rose again
And breathed once more
And freed my slaves
From Hell in scores
Proclaimed my death
And slammed my door
I now have to say his name
I’ll bow my knee
And must proclaim
He is the Lord
That rose again
I am defeated
In the spring
When blooms explode
And He
Is King.

Before (For Friday Poetically)

Sleep whispers delicious dreams
Pools of sour green sweet
Treats of blue moon pools
Sunny sounds
Magic beans
Funny friends
Dance and drink
Ride yellow balloons
With true love
Above teardrop clouds
Before old sounds of
Cold rain
Carry her from here

(Note: We had to write based on a list of given words.  Quite fun.)