There was an Old Person of Crete,
Who walked on the ***** of his feet;
When they asked why it was, he responded, "Because,"
That taciturn Person of Crete.

There was an Old Person of Finland,
Whose cabin was upland and inland;
He lived in a region where fish spoke Norwegian,
That flapperous Person of Finland.

There was an Old Man of Geneva,
Who had an encounter with Shiva;
They patty-cake played in a hornet-loud glade,
Shiva and the Man of Geneva.

There was a Young Lady of Paris,
Whom ****** couldn't embarrass;
She wandered the city with ***** and *****
Exposed to the city of Paris.

There was an Old Husband of Arles,
Whose wife had a passion for quarrels;
All day and all night she'd invite him to fight,
That exhausted Old Husband of Arles.

There was an Old Man of Kyoto,
Who mastered supremely the koto;
His tea was the greenest, his dragon the meanest,
His koto the best in Kyoto.

There was an Old Man of Algiers,
Who listened with elephant ears
To streams and to trees and to birds and to bees
That delighted the Man of Algiers.

There was a Young Lady of Arles,
Who married a ****** named Charles;
When they asked, "Does it fit?" she replied, "Not a bit!"
That unsatisfied Lady of Arles.

There was an Old Man with a beard,
Whose ****** expressions were weird;
He'd grimace when glad and he'd twinkle when sad,
That curious Old Man with a beard.

There was an Old Man
Of Japan,
Whose limericks would never
Ever
Scan, that instupendious Old Man of Japan.

It is still cold outside.
I step into a warm patch
Where the sun's rays caress.

You reside in those spots
Where I begin to feel, again.
Then the warmth of you returns

And I feel your loving touch.
But I must go on, as do we all,
Making and collecting memories.

In the bite of blue mornings
before the swirl of the
buttery sun disturbs
the dreams of birds
I write I drink coffee
I write I drink coffee
I cross out words within
the belly of black clouds
I try to disappear
this kind of poetry
is never offended by
your distance it has no
need for company or
meaningless conversation
it waits for the sound to fall
it waits for the subtle sense
of true isolation
it waits for the ghostly
stare of memories
it waits for the cold sting
of lost love  
it waits for the tears
it waits ...
Clay.M

When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M

Looking out my window
the stars are mine to keep
The corner light lights up nothing more than
the asphalt on the street

I thump my pencil against my thumb
Whilst I wander aimlessly Lost in the past
not liking what I see

I feel my insides twisting tight
My breathing becomes restrained
while going over all the errors . . .
it softly begins to rain


I let out a confusing sigh
as the thoughts fade away to die
I long to confess on paper
giving answers to all my questions why


I'm looking out my window
The stars no longer looking in
Both are burning wasted time
Tomorrow . . .
I'll do it all over for the millionth time again

I was thinking that If we create an all-knowing, all-wise and all powerful AI, we should probably pay someone to sit next to its electrical plug.