I Moved Blog Locations

I changed over to WordPress.  Come pay me a visit at:  http://henryclemmons.wordpress.com/

Thank you.

Henry Clemmons

P.S.  Yes, the tree is there, just on a page of its own :)

Churns Dream

NOTE:  My attempt at a Ghazal for dversePoets

Love sings through trees from river breeze, eyes closed my mind churns dream

Though limbs have knots and leaves with spots, eyes closed my mind churns dream

Deformed at birth the scourge of earth, worn cloth does hide her face

But in self’s shrine her skin does shine, eyes closed my mind churns dream

The virgin maid grows old like dates, shadows become her home

But ocean waves revive her state; eyes closed my mind churns dream

A jilted bride, alone does cry, on altars strewn with dung

But choirs sing erasing sting, eyes closed my mind churns dream

Her bed is cold, no man to hold, gray wolves circle her yard

But candles warm caress her arm; eyes closed my mind churns dream

Poet Henry’s blind heart does see, and prays for world peace

She’s not ugly, new heart’s beauty; eyes closed my mind churns dream

Look Away Please



Sarah Joncas



When woods are pink and birds court me with tokens red

When gold is boredom’s song and finest robes feel rough

My strings faint mute in search of muse’s scent of life

My name is called by sunlit streets to dance at dawn

Yet forests deep with webs as bars cripple my chance

BUT

My life really has no meter

No rhyme

No steady beat

My verse is crime

I cry on my guitar that gently sleeps

I pray for morning’s chance to breathe

I want to sing my song

I beg freedom

But weep

I’ve lost

Surrendered hope

I’m hid like a trophy

For all to see from distant lands

I’ve lost myself in wedding vows of lust

In woods of pink where birds court me with tokens red

I’m breathing dead

My faith is dust

I’m a silent slave to snare your soul

Look beyond my beauty cold

It’s not really there

I’m sold

And painted for old men

To see

Beware

And pray bold

I swear

Until my song is sung outside a screen

I’m real

Look away

Please

Let me escape

And shop at Wal-Mart for my eggs

Please don’t make me show my legs

Look away

Please

Look away

Help me escape

Cement Prophets

The crawling sun announces

A morning tender

Rusty scars blend with orange(ish) dawn streaks

But

Cement prophets proclaim torments scream

Black clouds close like stage curtains quickly

Tender moments swept away in Act I

Love notes lost

Memories walk west and disappear

For Wordle 16

My BFF: Autumn Gold

I love Autumn Gold

Not as sexy as Summer

But a cool best friend

For Haiku Heights "Friendship"

Pacifica Love :)



Pacifica Love



Inkless wells

On a sandy south Pacific shore.

A salty breeze

Cooling a hammock in Palm Tree shadows.

Rum and fruit and ice.

Your tanned belly pierced rises and falls slowly,

Curly blonde hair frames sun kissed face and smile.

No alarm clocks,

No cell phones,

No deadlines,

Just me and you

On the Isle of Pleasure.

For Sunday Scribblings "Pleasure"

A Murdered Seed

Voices, loud, raspy, angry
Hurl through the air
Like cannonballs
Red with hate
Armed with
Death
Aimed at
Me

A poor black man
Cracked skin
Indented dark
Circles
Pulling on
Brown faded
Eyes
Brimmin’
With tears
Flowin’
Down
Drippin' from
A large
Knotted
Nose
Shadowin’ a
Bristly black
Mustache
Twitching
Along with
My swollen
Upper lip
Leakin’ blood
Slowly from
It’s right corner
Split

From a brick
Thrown from
The darkness
Of pale faces
Formin’ a sea
Stirred in storm
White capped
Wind whipped
Surf crashing
Hostile
It’s waves
Mixin’ with
My stolen
Blood
Seems to
Feed the
Frenzy of
A murderous
High tide
Rushin’ in
‘round my
Swollen ankles

Tired from
Workin’
Sunset to
Sunrise
Buildin’ a church
White paint
Cross
Windows
Some pews
The first
In my Parrish
A free
Black preacher
With a license
To call
On God
Whom I
Pray to
Forgive those
Who just
Put a rope
Round my
Blackened
Scarred neck
And pullin’ me
Up off
My blistered
White bottomed
Feet
Toenails long
Reach as I
Hang
Prayin’

That the second church
With a
Licensed black
Preacher
Can at least
Share the
Word with
Fellow
Freed men
And pray
For those
Still bound in
Satan’s hate

I’m comin’
Jesus
Amen.

For Poetry Potluck History

War's Whisper

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Winter wars birth death on summer porches lit with reunion hope

Final kisses

Promises lipped

But

Shadows know better

Hearts do too

Speeding thumps

Skip

Before brass is formed to killing shells

Woods are cleared for caskets

Flags are sewn for lovers unwilling

To accept

War’s wind whispers in summer dark

A queer chilled breeze

Passes quick

A sick knowing

Ticks

As

Winter’s wail waits camouflaged

Cloaked in black suits and dresses still hung in closets bare

Lovers storing tears as they kiss goodbye

On summer porches lit with reunion hope

And prayer

For Magpie Tales 77

Roaring of Truth

Rosie Hardy

Soaring vultures
Circling whispers
Half-dead road kill … stain eastbound lanes … on Highway 6

He cheated on his
WIFE
  Wife
    wife

With that redheaded
FLOOZ
   Flooz
     flooz

That’s what we heard … no reason to doubt … has to be true

Waves of black bats
Wakes of echoes
Fly in and out … shadowed towers … silvery moon

He tormented her
LIFE
  Life
     life

She attempted to
DIE
  Die
    die

That’s what we heard … no reason to doubt … has to be true

Razor sharp tongues
Dark clouds of wasps
Wind driven sleet … bloodied whipped welts … tortured torn skin

The husband’s to
BLAME
  Blame
    blame

So’s that redheaded
FLOOZ
  Flooz
    flooz

That’s what we heard … no reason to doubt … has to be true

Cat o’ nine tails
Whistling wet air
Horrific screams … feed the roar of … Niagara lies

Hey, she made it all
UP
  Up
    up

She was crazy with
BOOZE
  Booze
    booze

That’s what we heard … wasn’t our fault … thought it was true

Meandering river
Greenish smooth blue
Glimmering light … frames a body … facedown and gone

That’s what they caused … wasn’t their first … done it before

Bloodied crude nails
Stabbing red flesh
Hanging from wood … up on a hill … truth crucified

They Called Him a fake … they jeered to His face … then asked was He true

The silence of Calvary
The roaring of truth

My Walls Rhyme Not

My walls rhyme not

My adjective’s untidy order swim upstream lazily

Insanity screams in happy colors in warm waves of cold slaps

My walls unrhyme from our vocabulary family reunion at Loneliness Junction where voices are free verse taunts of nervous laughter

Upstream my adjectives bleed in bear’s mouths

Orange drives me crazy

No rhyme or reason

The color of my mental state’s flag at half-mast upsidedown-all-bunchedtogether

Alone with my loneliness we listen in corners orange

My walls rhyme not

Love - You Lie

Jamie Beck

Love’s illusion,

    Lie’s seclusion.

Smoke’s reflection,

    Mirror’s detection.

Truth’s confusion,

    Heart’s contusion.

Red lips moist

    whisper names.

Brown eyes hide

    mascara’s aim.

Beauty spins

    roulette’s round game.

Shattered glass reeks of rum.

Starving crows eat stale crumb.

Empty pools curse noon sun.

Love lies.

Smoke hides.

Mirror cries.

Truth dies.

Heart sighs.

Deceitfulness is a beauty I cannot tame.

Why even try?

Love,

    you lie.

We Are What Is

Thomas Hart Benson

Winds

Coastal blows

Draw us close

Knit and stitched

We breathe as one

With separate lungs

We are what is

Not skewed in cubes

Or obtuse views

All natural

In our region

Left of June

Under sun and tides of moon

Hope's Infatuation

Spring loves morning's dawn

Releases dreams to breezes

Hope's reflection sings

Encroachment

There’s an Oak in the woods that tells tales

About cypress, maples, and pines

All the saplings would listen

And pay close attention

About the humans

Their encroachment

Man’s hunger

To kill

Trees

Not Guilty

I don’t want to hear the jury’s logic

No thought or twisted reason

No instinct or whim of fancy

My heart fluttered like rapids on a river

Interrupted my buzz

A poem for the world

Galloping to resist the echo of

Not guilty

For Wordle 12

Bobbie Gail

Bobbie Gail is not my friend

Ice cubes

Turncoat

Crocodile

Hootchie momma

Bobbie Gail

Is

Two

Crazy

Hells

Bobbie Gail is not my friend

Is

That

Clear

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm

Or do I need to spell it out


NOTE:  Bobbie Gail is a totally fictional character; trust me.

Let Me Fall Above

ǝʌoqɐ llɐɟ ǝɯ ʇǝl
ǝʌol ɹnoʎ ɹoɟ sʞuɐɥʇ
ǝɯoɹ ɟo oƃ ’uıʇʇǝl
ǝɯoɥ ’uıɯoɔ ɯ’ı

ʇdʎɹɔ sıɥʇ ɟo oƃ ʇǝl ll’ı
ʇınb ɐuuoƃ ʇ’uıɐ noʎ ǝɔuıs ʇnq
uʍop ǝpısdn plɹoʍ ʎɯ uɹnʇ
punoɟ ǝq ı ɟı ǝɹɐɔ noʎ ʎɥʍ

ǝuoƃ sɐɥ ǝɯıʇ ʎɯ

ƃuolɐ uo ǝʌoɯ
ǝɯoɥ ʎɯ sı sıɥʇ
ǝuolɐ ǝɯ ǝʌɐǝl

uʍoɹɔ uǝploƃ ou pǝǝu ʇ’uop ı
uʍoɹɟ ʎɟɯoɔ sıɥʇ ɹɐǝʍ ǝɯ ʇǝl
oƃ ǝɯ ʇǝl ʇsnɾ p’noʎ ɥsıʍ
ʍouʞ ʇ’uop ı ǝɯ ǝʌol noʎ ʎɥʍ

sʇsɐɔ ɟo pǝǝu uı sǝuoq uǝʞoɹq
ʇsɐd sǝɹıds uı ǝpıɥ ǝɯ ʇǝl
uʍop ǝpısdn plɹoʍ ʎɯ uɹnʇ
punoɟ ǝq ı ɟı ǝɹɐɔ noʎ ʎɥʍ

ǝuoƃ sɐɥ ǝɯıʇ ʎɯ
ƃuolɐ uo ǝʌoɯ
ǝɯoɥ ʎɯ sı sıɥʇ
ǝuolɐ ǝɯ ǝʌɐǝl

ʇɥƃıɹlɐ uo ʇǝƃ ı puɐ ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ
ʇɥƃıu ǝɥʇ uı ƃuıpıɥ ǝʞıl ı
 ʎqɐllnl ʎɯ ʎɹɔ ǝɯ ʇǝl
ʎq sʞɔıʇ ǝɯıʇ ɟı ǝɹɐɔ ʇ’uop ı

pǝq ʎɯ oʇ ʞɔɐq lʍɐɹɔ ǝɯ ʇǝl
ʞɔǝu ʎɯ punoɹ‘ ǝlƃuɐɹʇs ǝlƃunɾ
pɐǝp ǝɥʇ oʇ uo ƃuıƃuɐɥ
pɐǝɥ ʎɯ oʇ ƃuıɥsnɹ poolq

Neil Alexander

Need Shade

We are going to the river

On the sunny north bank

It needs shade

Dad says it’s a good idea

I’m going to leave you there

And return for many visits

Even sitting in your cool shadow

With my great granddaughter

And talk about her mother’s

Mother …

… my mommy

And have a tea party

Like she did with me

Her ashes will help you grow

And protect us on the treeless side

Of the big-o-river wide

Where mommy fell asleep in her car

With a letter asking

Why

Were going to the river

On the sunny north bank

It needs some shade

PRISUN

I see sun

But no dawn

Please

Van Gogh

Trapped in agony’s abstract expression

Paralyzed sunrise

Green eyes surprised eternally

With the sameness of insane

Every day

Same on same

Please

Allow this dawn to breathe

Smell real grass not splashed with oil

Scents of real soil

Warmth from sun’s embrace

Shade cooled by rolling hills

A place

Clocks tick

Faucets drip

Wheat waves at living skies

Never to fade from time

Not a trick of trade

But perspective

From soul

Please

Allow this dawn to breathe

July My Winter

Art by Bonnie from http://originalartstudio.blogspot.com/

Silence whispers sonnets sung of summers passed

Weathered feathered dusty quill tips lay alone

Swollen eyelids secret hide behind dark glass

Barren pages blaring white bleach purged of groans

Purple curtains darkly tied forbid light’s pass

Missing laughter’s purring smile beneath crushed stone

July

My winter

I drink mint tea

And listen

To her sing

Silence whispers sonnets sung of summers passed

Sergeant Pepper

Silent asps hiss in shade

Sands of age shifting shape

Copper-head bolts to strike

Flitting hare hugs four bites

Kissing doves lost in haze

Sergeant Pepper singing grace

For Wordle 10

El Amor - Nuevo Dia

Mexican Sunrise by Adam Romanowicz

Los colores rosa

Dawn’s blushing colors

La salida del sol

La gracia

   of grace

   taste like the first kiss

   of a beautiful woman

Tiernos labios de un beso suave

Pan fresco de aroma

   serving the fusion of fresh bread with melting butter and honey.

La fusión de la mantequilla caliente y miel

...

El amor

The love

Nuevo día

New day

For One Stop Poetry: Sunday Photo Challenge

Crazy Days

How can I paint a self portrait

Lookin’ out my door these days?

I can’t remember smiles I had,

Now lost haze of craze.

Today is off its chain,

A maid with lazy ways.

How can I paint a self portrait,

In a crazy day like this?

Trains crashin’ off warped tracks,

People travelin’ to damn fast,

OPEC gas hikes kickin’ ass,

D.C. hidin’ all the facts,

It’s a crazy tinted day,

In a mushroom kind of way.

How can I paint a self portrait in a crazy world like this?

How can I frame my life inside a crazy world like this?

How can a smile and a hungry child exist in oil as one?

In all this crazy haze,

Imposter’s dressed in gray.

I can’t paint a self portrait,

Inside a world like this.

Unless I go abstract and scream

With cubes and strokes of black.

Picasso’s comin’ back

With vengeance in his hat.

Trains crashin’ off warped tracks,

People travelin’ to damn fast,

OPEC gas hikes kickin’ ass,

D.C. hidin’ all the facts,

It’s a crazy tinted day,

In a mushroom kind of way.

I won’t paint a self portrait,

Inside a world like this.

I lay my brushes down and grab

A hammer, nail, and spade.

It’ a crazy kind of day,

I think it’s time to pray,

In a serious kind of way.

Not a time for self portraits,

In a crazy world like this

For One Stop Poetry; Saturday Celebration

Self Portrait

Antonio Mancini

The Sun

Commotion of self

Skirmishes with doubt

Institutionalized pastels

Zapped dark

Bold strokes

Chiaroscuro

The Moon

Cello vomits

Porridge and bread

Entertaining pedestrians

Contradictory notes

Flat then sharp

Frustrating interpretations

Explorations of id

Undress my conflicts

Of self portrait

(For One Shot Poetry Week 51)

Proofs of Life

Charles Vest

Stardust serpents shy from light

Sacred etches spark old fright

Stories tangled in temple vines

Gossamer clouds slit moon sky

Threads of bone limp from sight

Proofs of life fade in night

Stardust serpents spark old fright

Sacred etches shy from light

Stories tangled slit moon sky

Gossamer clouds in temple vines

Threads of bone fade in night

Proofs of life limp from sight

For Wordle 9

Cloud Trees

Cloud trees release their fruit to the wind

  a hundred feet above

  in fields of eternal blue.

Clouds are birthed in this grove.

My tears alone water these giants;

  until,

  that is,

  my sorrow runs dry.

But

  do sorrows ever run dry

  this side of  blue sky,

  this underside of clouds,

  where rain falls

  and orange mist rusts red bicycles?

I’d like to move to the sun fruit forest,

  but pay is better here;

  more job security,

  and I am alone

  to create cloud sounds for blue skies,

  and those who live downwind.

I need my trees;

  I’m afraid to leave,

  and the valley needs rain.

For Poetry Potluck

My Andela

Our love was the real art

She torments me

In each city

Every house I play

She leaves her mark

For me to see

Even in Melbourne

Upside down

Ironic

She’s so smart

Our love was the real art

I left

She has a voice

She sprays in screams from pleading eyes

To change the way people bleed

If you listen

She whispers

I sold her out

We had a mission

But I had dreams to read

Our love was the real art

I left

In Prague

My bohemian princess

Her eyes still ignite

My passion

Now hid by my wallet

And silent

Mute and dumb

Blind to …

Our love was the real art

I left

In Prague

For gold

She has a voice

Even in Melbourne

Upside down

Don’t forget me she sings

Don’t forget

She’ll remind me again in Montreal

She’ll be painted on my door

Our love was the real art

I left

In Prague

For Gold

My Andela

My Andela

My truth

My soul

Note:  Andela in Czech means: Messenger from God

(For One Shoot Sunday. Prompt is graffiti. At One Stop Poetry)

Sky Hole

James Rosenquist

My arm stretched through a dark hole in night skies

Shocked colors - red flowers - twin eyes - alive

Aqua streaks - splash bold - bare exposed - star light

Complex - explosions - hope mirrors - birth life

I saw within dark holes - spectrums of blue

Palettes of memories - of morning’s moist dew

I could’ve been sucked in -

But pulled love back through

The dark hole couldn’t hold you, the colors are proof

Red flower’s - - twin eyes

Aqua streaks - - splash bold

Complex - - explosions

Birthed spectrums - - I hold

My arm stretched through - - a dark hole - - in night skies

For Friday Poetically with Brian Miller at One Stop Poetry

Calloway Brown

Calloway Brown is an old salt with a new flavor,

  he sits alone on a summer bluff of the Arkansas River

    watching rafters drop and weave beyond his rock.

A Bronco’s cap crowns his receding gray haired head,

  a burnished brass cross dangles ‘round a reddish weather-beaten neck,

    Calloway Brown is an old salt with a new flavor.

Prayers always leak from his lips between smiles,

  he loves squeals of joy, but squints from screams of fear,

    watching rafters drop and weave beyond his rock.

A Ranger tattoo in bluish ink decorates his right scarred shoulder,

  bitten by a broken beer bottle on the bottom of the brownish bubbling river,

    Calloway Brown is an old salt with a new flavor.

He thought he tasted hell saving that girl with the whitish swim shoes;

  he surely would not have spotted her in the brown swirling depths of the           

    Arkansas River if not for their contrasting brighteness.

He remembers and mumbles, “Amen,”

  flashes of summer when he was lost

    watching rafters drop and weave beyond his rock.

 

As a younger man in creased khaki service pants and brown boots,

  curses hurled at the irritating rafters,

    but a Spirit-led visit to the brimstone bottom of the Arkansas River saved 

      his own life too.

Calloway Brown is an old salt with a new flavor,

Watching rafters drop and weave beyond his rock.

Note:  For Poets United Thursday Think Tank #54

Just a Man

Picasso

Rocks in my shoe
A thorn in my hand
Wind blowin' in my face
I'm just a man

Walkin' round mountain high
Watchin' eagles fly on by
Bears growl by my side
I'm just a man

I'm just a man
I'm just a man
I'm just a man
I am

Got a poem on my tongue
Pierced words for lost love
Your face stains my brain
Blue eyes blink insane

Miserable
I'm just a man

Runnin' way
I'm just a man

I'm just a man so plain
I'm just a man in pain

_____
NOTE:  A recoring of this poem in song is located at the bottom of this poetry section.
_____
Special Thanks to Don Ross for guitar music @Candyrat / Goby Fish Music/ Don Ross 2010
_____

This is for Poets Rally 46.

Love in the Scent (Reprise)

Mother:

Morning comes with heavy humid breath,
scorching horizon’s hills with red warning fire;
northerly breezes carry the scent of death
marching to the drumbeat of Yankee desire.

Mother:

I smell your sweet potato pie when I close my eyes;
brief seconds remembering kisses on my cheek
before I’d go to the fields where I’d try
to fill daddy's’s worn out shoes and seek
work to help ease your burden and blistered feet.

Mother:

I hear your prayers and I weep
because I know I must die and not cheat
reasons I carry the Rebel flag and cry
the rebel yell to help stem the invading blue tide
from flooding our land and your garden of greens.
I could care less about the “Southern” dream,
or slaves, I just protect my daddy’s bride; my

Mother:

Dawn’s final day has winked
Daddy’s waving,
Blood from your womb pools at my knees,
And I savor the love in the scent of your sweet potato pie.

For One Shot Wednesday – Week Fifty