A song with no tattoos of lovers nude
who’ve left the room to pet llamas from the

Skin scents fresh rain cleansing pain down concrete
drains of streets named Main in cities on the
plain where bushes of origin take root
without refrain

Strength of wildflower’s colored stains from
sunset’s fondling hillside breasts in breezes
of original breath

Souls unplugged

Acoustic hawks ride winds ‘bove trees budding
green in coolish spring sweaters of white clouds

Lungs filled with air from mountaintops rare where
rams roam free from the scope of hunter’s glare
and drink from snow fed creeks with the occa-
sional stray bear that doesn’t care you
are there alone in the wonderland of
original expression

Alone wearing scarves of red on rivers
of ice not fearing the dead frozen in
motionless currents below

Alone thumbing your nose at the bridge that
spans the risk of originality

Alone facing fear with no mirror

Alone jumping off a cliff with nothing
bungee-like tied to your ankle

a risk


a poem with no form

a song just born

Adam and Eve before the leaf and the
serpent tempting with wares not his own

An ocean shore sparkling daybreak’s roar beck-
oning the opening of your bedroom
door and inviting you to desire
more from your core passion wearing its own


to be


an aphrodisiac

for doves

even when lost in the clichés of love

(For dVerse Tuesday Night Open Mic)
And please check out more of Kate McGill



Emily states,
Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
I respond,
The brave; their sacrificial grave.

Wordsworth asks,
Who drag, beneath our native skies?
I whisper,
A chain with links of leader’s lies.

Joyce quips,
What counsel has the hooded moon?
I cry,
To hide, to hide, our silver spoons.

William wonders,
Where art thou Muse that thou forget’st so long?
I frown,
In mine heart, in blackened cells of lovers lost.

Blake demands,
‘O Earth, O Earth, return!
I pray,
Let roses rise from ashes burned.

And finally, Poe ponders,

Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

And finally, I pen,

In darkest sleep we dream of dreams
Of living free of dreams in beams
But in the light of see and seem
A dream still sleeps within a dream.

A conversation with the dead.


Who Knew

Dark skinned

Jewish Argentinean

Euro accent

Black Audi

Tinted windows

Blue lights

Aéroports de Montréal 

Rearview mirror

Car searched

Dogs circling

Light strobes spinning

Fingers texting

White girlfriend arrives

French words not excused

Arm waving

Finger pointing

Leave my fucking cello alone


Crisse de cave

Blue suits

Black suits




Kent arrives

Black limo

Blue jeans

Slick black suited bookends

Cool shades I need to check out

Cell phones burning

Helicopter and SUVs leave

I’m free now?

Say what?

When wasn’t I?

I’m just as dark


I hear you JayZ

Some shit ain’t right


I’m free now

Who knew …



Hooded white

Knots twice tight

Burns Christ’s


Blackest night


Dead man swings

Death sting sings

Dark strings


Blood red ink


Hooded hate

Knotted hate

Burning hate

Blackest hate

Deadest hate

Darkest hate

Blood red hate







Still today


Hooded white

Knots twice tight

Blackest nights




 A five year old poet son

Still prays for light

In Hebrew

By himself

Shakes his fist

Free from fright


I think that’s alright


For George

George Harrison


While unfolding perverted mistakes
my inverted love
guitar diverts sleep while
gently controlling
weeps for world peace

I weep
ten years
having learned this guitar piece
in my youth
while unfolding inverted
diverted love
for world peace



Pop Art

Pop Art from Henry Clemmons on Vimeo.

Pop Art
Images of mass media
Parallels between art and life
This is tomorrow looked at the day before yesterday
Expressive feeling
Tributes created way too soon
In some cases
Way too soon

James too cool Dean
Jim the door Morrison
Jimmy haze Hendrix
Biggie Smalls
River Phoenix
Bruce Lee
Marilyn hot Monroe
Elvis hips Pressley
Liz Taylor
Jackie the queen Kennedy
Duke my main man John Wayne

And the electric chair
The darkest of all art
Not my favorite fair

Thank you Andy and Mel for your eyes


For dVerse on Pop Art Prompt
Artwork by Mel Marcelo and Andy Warhol
Video produced by Henry Clemmons



Prompt for Short Story Slam

Ideas are shapes only as large as the idea.
An idea is only skin; its own skin.
Its insides are the air it takes to support its brief existence.

Ideas don’t last.

They float on streams of second’s gentle breath; spirit-like.
Ideas are birthed and usually die within the same minute.
Not brittle or frail, an idea is strong, but is created just for a puff of time; thin in its own lifespan.

Be quick to recognize an idea.

Savor the encounter, but don’t fall in love with it. They die quick and are only wet adapted memories afterward. Not the same as the original; never the same. An idea’s DNA changes in death. It will not reproduce itself in total.

Be quick to recognize an idea.

Do not create an imposter.