Monday, August 15, 2011

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 :)

Thursday, August 11, 2011

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

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

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"

Monday, August 8, 2011

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

Sunday, July 17, 2011

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


Friday, July 15, 2011

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



Wednesday, July 13, 2011

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.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

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

Monday, July 11, 2011

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.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

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

Saturday, July 9, 2011

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

Friday, July 8, 2011

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



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

Monday, June 27, 2011

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

Sunday, June 26, 2011

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

Saturday, June 25, 2011

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

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

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)

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

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

Sunday, June 19, 2011

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)

Friday, June 17, 2011

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

Thursday, June 16, 2011

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

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

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

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Unexpected




Slipping on June sidewalks and falling
Through thin ice in
My life of
Fingers holding on for all they are worth



For Carry on Tuesday #109

Momma's Prayer



You invertebrate
Posin’ in some fancy exoskeleton that ain’t yours
I’m no conchologist
So don’t think I won’t out you
Yes I know the words
You scumopod scavenger
My boy’s a marine biologist
I put him through school
You were doin’ time
A dime plus
Remember
What you hidin’
You shouldn’t come near the beach if you scared
I know who you are
You ain’t changed
That colorful little shell
Doesn’t hide your smell
Darkness has no spine
If you real
Squirm out
But don’t be playin’ MY boy for his shells
Quit usung what ain’t yours
Be gone
I can forgive
But I can’t turn my eye to your shell game
You leave on out with the next tide
And go back to the depths you crawled out of
I’ll be prayin’
I can do that
Maybe you can find a spine
And stand tall like a man should
But until that day
Leave before I forget I went to church Sunday
Amen


For Magpie Tales #69

I'm Just a Man (Recording Experiment ... I can't sing)

I am in the mood to change my tree to a cubic version.