Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!

Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say-
'Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!'

Consecrate us
to grow more!

Bless us
to climb high!

Craft us
to become helpful and useful to all!
Furnish us vigour
to stand sturdily !

Radiance us    
to swell your splendour and simplicity every where!

The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.  
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.

-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014

I climbed the dark heaven to meet myself alone..
To smell all the roses and espy the stone..
Nevertheless, the cloud was frozen and the breeze was calm..
I saw her descending and coinciding with my palm..
Her plain white vesture was contrasting my red..
She was diffusing the divinity that I could not even bled..
Our faces were same but our aces were inverse..
She owned one whole entity while I was a disperse..

The moment was priceless and so were my emotions..
It was indeed the most breathtaking phase to my notions..
My other twin was bounded with a definite time span..
She was entirely a woman with the heart of a man..
"You don't live inside me, I have never sensed you inside,
Painted with shyness, you rather live like a bride.."
I peeled up my heart and had the eagerness to know..
If the sun lives in me, then why do I fall like the snow..

She smiled and glared down on me with the rays of her starkness
and told me how sturdily I have been lidded under the darkness..
Holding the flowers, she stands in the island of my soul..
She ponders my echo and waits for  the control..
She imparts her colors when my pallet runs out..
but puts on her cloak when my demon comes out..
Surprisingly, I asked  "You are my part. Why don't you fight out..!?"
She had an answer. She works eternally from the hideout..

In the midst of the stirring stillness, she reminded that I had to leave..
Ironically, I could not crave for what I had been dying to receive..
The same ladder showed up and slanted me back to my nook..
and the wind narrating slowly what I had given while what I had took..
I returned to my place which was as murkier as ever..
I sensed the time-It was cursive and clever..
Perhaps I will reap more strength to deflect the chirping into the roar...
to mend every single lapse and bring her back someday on my door..

Wisest Wood

The tree limb reaches
In silence it teaches
Some lessons told by peaches
It gives somber knowing
All the while it is bowing
In perfect stillness volumes it speaks
nothing so sturdily rooted streaks
arm of solitude so finely creeks
in winter climes wonder glows so bleak
inspiration swells for those that seek
how perfectly it fits the suroundings
though stationary across fields it goes bounding
it frames the day all with out any sounding
wisest measure trully its grasp outstanding
what else contains such extraordinary? Profundity

The air is incredibly thin.
I can’t breathe, and my
hands are shaking.

When I was a boy,
a playmate hit me
in the head with a
glass ashtray.

In an instant,
my father had snatched
the boy up and carried him
****** outside, suspended
by one ankle.

I’ve heard also,
stories of my great-uncles
two brothers, run out of
Saint Louis County
because they’d fought in and
been banned from every tavern
on both sides of every main drag,
of every township therein.

Maybe that’s where this
comes from.

There is a fire inside that
most days is only embers,
but stokes far too easily into
infernal inferno.

The grey mush in my skull is
jacked into some electricity
with jumper-cables made from
too many sour thoughts,
a fierce depression, and
huge piles of self-doubt.

Gladness, contentedness,
feels like fraud, like failure,
like not leaning into it sturdily
enough.
Like not staring into The Abyss hard
enough.

It feels like obscenity to
not see conflict,
to not rail against
some dark thing,
some enemy.

In doing so
is found the ability to
feel like
enough.

But,
what
is
enough?

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

When I Learned to Run*

I Walk and walk and walk
Eyes are at my every step
I walk and walk and walk
Lips are narrowing my way
I walk and walk and walk
Few smiles, thousand grins

I walk and walk and walk
I stumble, fall, it hurts
My vision bubbles shame
My chest feels the surface of humiliation
I feel the gravity against me

The utters weakening my bones
It disperses all over me
But my heart holds sturdily
And so,
I kneel, launch and stand

My ears are back to reality
I walk and walk and walk
My feet, ankle, knees stronger
I Walk and walk and walk
One… two… three...four
I run, stronger, faster

to love
it is
the me to care for lips seriously fragile. the

for me

to leap strenuously knowing
and dance amongst unknowing
the towering cadence, my heart. to

the for me (love) the

sturdily upheave the slowly clamoring of soil,
and march widely the span, my kiss, through closing

and meet with your kiss, the legion, my soul;
(a parting of silence. a fiercely innocent foal)

The walls around the labyrinth that is my mind aren't very tall or thick. They aren't difficult to tear down. You're just scared because you've never seen this kind of wall before and you don't know how to get around it.
Or maybe you were initially intrigued by this maze that suddenly fabricated around you, but you grew weary trying to find your way out.
Maybe you just had some time to spare and that's why you gave it to me.
You had no idea that while you were circling around them, the walls of my mind were studying you too.
Maybe your arms wanted to see if they could hold up my flaws and thats why they wrapped sturdily around me.
You analyzed the direction of this maze trying to find your way in the same way you found your way out. The direction of the walls of my mind were following the direction of the curves of your sly grin.
You were following the lines of my internal structure and that's when you figured out that you were running in circles. You were following yourself.
Maybe your heartbeat wanted me to know that it could beat on its own and thats why you pressed your chest against my ear.
That's when you broke out of the maze and left it unfinished.
The walls of my mind stopped twisting in the place that you left.
Maybe your feet wanted to seal the walls of mind and thats why they burned your footprints in them forever.

Afear not the prison of the felons
But the prison of the spirit and soul
The heaviness of emptiness
In men’s lives
Suffocates the illumination of elation

Even around human beings
It is rare to find a circle of humanity
Only the centre of silence too loud
We never care

Silence built sturdily amongst mankind
To restrain and strangle the mind in solitude
And fading its peace away

Thus void be called my hearth
Till I embrace the shadows of death
Alone and alone the angels of hollow
Shall cuddle my soul cold
And drag me to the grave

Sing no song of sympathy
Nor thy cold condolences
When I’m gone
For thou shall forget of liberty
And venerate divinities of lonesomeness

When silence sighs alive amongst your souls
Let it not breed
And defeat humanity
Relent not to that kind of wicked war
Let it ebb afar from thy generation
And construct love and care strongly
For my children

For unity is the reliable strength of society
Let it be a custom to keep it firm
Since it takes society to raise a child
Raise them warriors
And patriots of humanity
And thou shall breathe happiness eternally
And love be spread to my people

Oh honey, depression isn't pretty,
it isn't suppose to be,
people always connect sadness
with depression
but the connection is different,
it is a train of thought
like a chain cut short,
that is sturdily held together
but it doesn't last forever,
it is an armour that is worn
and polished everyday
just to say, 'I'm not sure'.

Oh honey, depression isn't pretty;
it isn't suppose to be,
and I want you to know clearly,
that there are always people
out there, somewhere,
who appreciate you for you
and who is nothing more than
a teardrop or a sweat dripping
away from help.

Some might ask,
'Are you depressed?'
and I can say, 'no I'm not',
so what I write is an expression of mind,
of how I wish you could find, that you
have a chance, because you deserve that chance,
the past is the past, a certain glance at the future
says that you could be doing so much more
and if you don't want to, that's your choice
but honey, depression isn't pretty
and it isn't suppose to be,
but you sure are beautiful,
so please keep staying strong
and marching on.

gold

that beneath from
sturdily shouts a girl
in milk as body white

easily

that snipped of barely
perhaps flits enormously
which face is hers

curiously

curling upon
most girlish smile
of most maybe lips

gone

behind quick glass
–and rain started
to fall

The potter and I had arranged a barter.

So, I went to see him and complete our business.

This same potter is also a painter,
and so, when I arrived,
he was in the middle of a deal that would put one of his paintings on someone’s wall
while putting more money in his pocket,
right then,
than I make in a month and a half.

Rather than impede a more artful capitalism,
I left his shop so as to pursue
some time inside of these pages.

Purchased of some small food,
a cold drink on a hot day,
I sat down to write for a while.

Having paid my own art some attention,
I made my way back toward the potter’s space
so as to complete our transaction.

On my way there,
I felt two pairs of rather wild eyes
upon me.

They, those eyes, pierced my side,
with the intensity, authority of a Roman Centurion,
stared at me with the zealousness
of The Old Testament,
fell upon me like the weight of The New Testament;
King James edition,
and I knew it.

I felt,
strangely obligated,
to acknowledge this weighted gazing,
asking these ladies how their evening was going.
My efforts were polite,
rhetorical.
I left them sturdily in my wake.

These women faded from my thoughts.
And, I wish, retrospectively,
that I had vanished
from their minds as well.

Alas, these missionaries
had been set to their devine task
by none other than
Yahweh Himself.

And, their mission,
it seemed,
was me.

They tracked my progression to the potter’s field.

“Can we pray for you?”

“Sure, you can do whatever you feel compelled to do.”

“Do you not have a relationship with The Lord?”

“I have a relationship with the entirety of The Universe.”

“Do you not seek salvation from sin, the wickedness of Satan, and the evils of men?”

“I do not. However, I do know that you seek the ability to feel good about praying for me, a disabled man, because you seem to believe that because I have legs that do not work like yours do, I must be fundamentally lacking something that you can bestow upon me.”

“Have you no faith at all?”
“Have you no relationship with Jesus Christ?”

“I do have a faith. I have a faith in my own humanity, in my inherent ability to commune with all that is honest, true, and good in The Universe.
I do not need your self-serving prayers.”

My friend,
the potter,
the painter,
sang these ladies a song;
played his guitar.

The ladies swayed in time to the music,
just a little.

Together, we bestowed,
upon this pair of zealous women,
kindness and patience
that they seemed to accept
along with our collective faithless, heathen, message
of goodwill;
love for their humanity,
if nothing else.

“Well, we didn’t come here for this,” they said.

And they left us,
none the worse for not
having been prayed over,
or preyed upon, to commune,
in each, our own way,
with each other,
The Universe,
The Great Spirit,
The Buddha,
or Whomever.

Once they had gone,
I traded three books that I had written
for a very nice vase that the potter had made.
The vase was gray,
spun with earth tones,
was flecked with robin’s-egg blue,
sits beautifully on the shelf.

It is now part of The Universe
with which I commune.

I pray
that it
is always
so.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018

Another  dull day,
Without much to say,
is silently slipping,
While dodging a gripping,
again, empties my will
Leaving all so sadly still

Once sturdily strong,
Always chugging along,
Fell in a deep  hole,
and for now is all gone.

Yet maybe with luck  
if not completely down struck
will rage a return,
to, again, light up my yearn.

there were colorful rag rugs stitched
together with wool, spun sturdily to paint
the largest impression upon the floor.

there laid flattened pillows, stuffed of hope from
our compressing bodies; which fought
to protect us from the holding hardwood.

there grew basil on the windowsill. where
we were free to pluck and pair it with our cheese,
then sip our wine as we walked along the river.

where we were, there; that was something.

I used to be a lighthouse, standing sturdily
Shining my light that others might see
Guardian of your safe passage through life’s treacheries
Until the day my light began to fail me.
I struggled on illuminating hoping to shine through
But ominous clouds amassed and grew
Leaving me with the dimmest view
How can I get through to you?
There you stand in the midst of the storm
Innocent substance this tempest has torn
I try to reach you, to cry out, to warn
I am broken, despairing, forlorn.
Time now to take down my beacon, you see
Not part of my nature, but setting me free
The new role that I’ve chosen for me?
To shine within and hope others will see.

Mischievous little moon
You are beautiful
I wonder if you know
Though you’re often told
(You know
You can take that hood off
It ain’t cool
You look like a squished football
or an orange rotten from one side
No offence)
But really, you’re beautiful
It is strange
I have words, but none better
Yet beautiful is so much
Mustard flowers
And bluebirds
That girl down the street and her bright-pink smile
Mother’s laugh
Myself too,
Sometimes

But I do not mean that.
I cannot compare you to Arabian Jasmines
Or Sapphire stones
You’re beautiful
unlike all
I think everything’s like that
sigh

But there’s this moment
In the middle of a breath, in the middle of a day
Unbidden
It sprouts sturdily out
Like a Morning Glory seedling
In the midst of a Mint shrub

When it drizzles
And I lose my body for a while
My eyes fixed
At the knitted pattern of the chair
Mother places scraps of stale bread
For the crows to finish
And little brother, not so little now,
Rants about his Minecraft battles
The dragons he defeated
And forts he conquered
(through massacre, but let's not talk about that)
He complains about the sun
(It is not square, and, well, it is real)
Mother complains about his complain
And, vaguely,
I hear the traffic
Four storeys below
That of cars and bikes
Gossiping and giggling
An ambulance
wailing

I think
Someone might be in it
Wincing and pleading to go faster
Or maybe silent, a still god
I think
I still have my test to prepare
I think
Whatever
**** the test
I think
That darkened bird
And its undeniable existence
Is kind of offensive  
But it’s pretty too
Rich purple peeks through that night
Blue and gold
And silver as well, a little

Mother talks about my climbing rose
That’s taking over the balcony railings
And a kite soars by
With a hoarse hiss
I think
Did I sleep last night?
Was I awake?
Perhaps, it was a lingering in between
I think
My brother looks so much
Like that crow
I think
****, dude, he really does

I voice this epiphany to him
And I get a smack
He gets one back
‘Cause mama didn’t raise a sweet
Frail butterfly
But, dude can he hit
I hit him again, which is unjust and dangerous
one must not meddle with little brothers
But mama couldn't groom the idiocy out of
Her daughter
I think
You've tickled the snoring beast
Now flea, you idiot
I run, he runs
Mother squints up in the sun
(Look who came to see the show)
I run, he runs
I laugh when he stumbles
And falls

Cement rough over his innocent skin
Clouds dripping on

It is strange
Those moments
I lurk through loudness to the quiet of my flesh
Then sneak into the noisy life within
And yearn for peace
All about
I flutter with a merry dancing
In my bones
And something weeps, weeps
Weeps on

I think you’re beautiful like that
A divinity I cannot touch
Nor see
A hymn I dare not grasp or
Or perceive
But I need not.

in march, i stopped breathing.
one entire year spent stumbling,
and then finally, a friend to us, lost,
never to be heard again, seen again,
in my memories, he keeps on smiling
under the fireworks he lit in all of us.

to the lost ones, to the ones who keep
flailing and flailing through any cities,
any families, any wishes,
i pray for our feet to walk sturdily
to flee our own sorrows, our sad
mistakes, sad, like everyone else's.

Transform me into a tenacious tree
Rooted in perennial love
Intricately twisting up towards light
With mangled arms swaying sturdily
Always stretching
Always reaching higher for the golden enchanting clouds
I will grasp them
And be cradled by the sky
From there, I will emerge as an eagle
Nomadic and noble
Guided by the wind maneuvering me to secluded, distant dreams
Meandering, I become a river
Powered by the silky snow fallen from the heavens
Drifting though the backwoods where contented souls reside
Until eventually pouring all of me into the vast sea of conciousness
Where all are free

I felt the breeze greet me, tenderly,
like arms that hug, sturdily,
tightly puling closer towards a chest,
with heart, beating,
pump,
pump,
like a wind that leaves one refresh.