what happens to you if you have been out of touch,
no television, no computer, no cell phone or such n'such,
working in the remote parts where very few care
to tread, waste their time, staring at rolling terrain,
with trees twisted by winds that blow and reign,
animals pass by like you belong and none are afraid,
             if I lack social graces and look right in their eyes their faces,
no ambulances sirens, no engines boasting horse power,
and an hour is just an hour and there is no hurry,
                                                   why do you worry,
I will not take away from you, your news,
I will not remove your technology, your views,
I will not, I cannot do that,
For I have experienced the freedom,
                  the pure taste of living on my own,
                   by any means, survival
                   deep nature is my rival,
and I will not take what skin deep social circles
you have, that is not in me,
for I know you know the hypocrisy,
and see,
as I present my scrawl, on hello, poetry
that is all.


©ClemC082013

They were like gun shots but softer,
They were like firecrackers
                                              without the crack or fire,
There were so many I could not count them all,
                     then they were stopped in their fall.

The cars driving fast by the house,
were louder than before, a woosh, with a splash,
there was rumbling in the distance and a flash,
those meteorologists were right,
sixty percent chance this night,
                               of showers.

It is good to be part of the majority
for a change of weather,
how strange,
                      my dog is now glued to me,
I take no solace in her endearment see,
even in the midst of the slight downpour with
pyrotechnic effects,
                                  she wants me to take her
out the door to do her *business, but not alone.

Where is the warmth,
not of another human,
not of the parka,
fake fur wired rim,
to take
shape and protect from
the relentless wind,
that cuts and maims,
with minute particles of
ice that travel so far,
to cut and melt on your
face, sting your eyes,
bloodied and cold,
"too bad you shaved?"
you think
out loud
talking to
no one
but the cold,
the cold
that can't
hear you    for    the    wind,
that howls at your
trespassing,
still you walk,
crunching and
leaning into and
on all things the
cold has touched.

All is white and pure,
ready for a sacrifice.

If the cold could
bury you, and
embrace you,
it would if
you let it, go get it,
take it to the cold,
be a bold fool, lean
into the wind and howl
back.

But remember,
they are relentless,
they travel in pairs
cold and wind,
wind and cold,
and you are all alone,
and that is how they
will find you in the Spring
after the cold is gone for
a season, but the wind
will move over and
watch over you, howling.

don't believe me?
Just ask the cold.

the brook wanders by the farmhouse,
an animal falls in, and cannot swim,
the brook does not know this,
the brook lets the animal struggle, it is tiring
the farmer sees the animal tumble in,
he checks to see it is not one of his, poor animal weakening
he knows he does not have to save it,
he too has more important things to tend,
a person in an ocean of people, (two or more)
wears masks to make them seem to belong,
they hide their struggle, from the closest ones
to them and from their co-workers, and family
as well,
all of who do not want to notice the battle,
they do not look beyond the mask,
it is not their business,
it would be rude,
it might take too much out of them,
that is right,
just ask the
brook and the farmer.


©ClemC072013

Large figures chasing you with soft noises,
                                                       for voices,
     long fingers reaching as your short legs,
  and little feet run and your laughter begs,
                                                         for more.

The heart pounds
     as you run laughing.

          Growling faces chase each other in this place,
  of sport where points count and effort on your face,
on each combatants face, explain the pain of the pace,
all for a ball without mercy or grace, to give up
                                                              ­         a disgrace.

The heart pounds
    as you run to do battle.

You see that person for the first time, or the tenth time,
                                              you
hope, you will see them over and over for the enth time,
your eyes meet and            
                                             you
                                                         fall harmlessly into the
drumming sound, that suddenly got louder in your chest.


The heart pounds
                  as you.. .. race toward.. .. each other.

A small cry, tears to your eyes
more to life than meets the eye,
more pairs of hands and feet,
         your family is complete.

The hearts pound
   as you two live out creation.
                             And dreams.

Alone, with walls chalk white and no feeling,
     watch sticky flies move and paint peeling,
the only visitors are lost in the colour of the walls,
                                         you
hear voices so familiar, distant echoes down halls.
Then they are gone, all is unwelcome and strange again.

The heart pounds
      irregular growing weaker,
                                                  like your resolve.

                Still, the heart pounds, catching on every
                                         hope,
                                                  you ever had.

©ClemC082013

They sounded so close, waves
flashback in my memory, of
a filled back seat circled by, cars
as the movie played on, speeding
us along until that moment goes, by.


©CLEMC072013

is available,
                       to most,
which causes a host,
                               of
                           problems.

If it wasn't for
"the text"or a phone, a call
some wouldn't communicate at all,

other than selfie-
                     emulation
your life in the palm
                              of your
                              hand
taking the world out of His,

palm,
His care,
                His love,
don't worry though He isn't
           going anywhere
for He put the power in words
                          His spoken word.

So close as to hear,
           you whisper, "mercy"
for the power of words
is not in the loudness,
but in word choice,
spoken poetic voice,
in any lanuage, "Hallelujah"

    
ClemC012014

I have a friend who lost something,
he cannot put it in words, it comes out tears,
he cannot breathe easily, every parent fears,
                                    this one thing.

There is a friend we have in Jesus.

I have a friend who may not see it this way,
his eyes are pools and I am no comfort,
the shock is enough to stop
life in its tracks.

There is a friend we have.

Anger and resignation,
frustration and
sadness that fills and fills,
that pours that pours
out of the human
chemistry
like some reaction,
that adds pain to emptiness,
and fuels fire,
that needs to be thrown,
at anything thing that
is not as sad as you,
but you don't
know that no one
person will ever be
as sad as you,
even if they
mourn,
they
grieve,
for the very
same one unreasonable
pain.

They all wish that it had been
them instead,
is not answered.

There is a friend. I am he.
I am here. For all of you.

©ClemC072013

sleeping in my bed,
strange,
to be home, from Gladstad

I knew we were in a bad way
on that fateful day,
no one else seem to notice,
I was a guy, not a poetess,
I was not the Captain or a deck hand
I was an average guy not high in demand,
          Found myself on the high seas

'Rough day on the seas,'
I said
water up to our knees
slapping not clapping,
drowned out the vultures
and gulls overhead,
I was going to be laying
on the sea bottom for my bed.

She is a poetess the sea,
She has squeezed the last
Drop of words out of me
By drowning my sorrows
While adding water
There are no more, tomorrows.

what is like to steal the weather
from somewhere else,
instead of the blues,
like a thief in the night
take the Sun and make
the day bright
while they tear at the
clouds for the usual share
of shining sun,
a cold hearted ****,
possessing stolen warmth
the crooked old man I am
with two left feet and cane,
hope they can't track my
steps across the dreamy
starry night back to
my hovel now heated
by rays of a borrowed
ball of molten light
burning guilt into my
back and my shaded eyes
looking down and
to the left, telling lies
about where I was,
with no alibi, and my
permanent burnt fingertips
leaving imprints looking
like sunspots,
showing me to be
that thief in the night.  

©ClemC082013

My dreams are like the dried up stalks
and stems in my Garden,
I have not watered them except with
my tears, the dirt is so porous,
what is against us is not for us,
I mean...me and me.

The container Garden has holes drilled
for purposes (use them for what they were intended)
for greater good (hold on, did you say you were offended?)
why let your mood spoil a sunny cloudy freezing windy wet day,
why do you brood??

Question is can you stop,
and do you, know IT when you are,
and is the Garden only the sum of its fruits
Labour on,
Labour long,
Do you need or want to leave anything behind,
for to be remembered, you know Life the Grind
by ME, or do you want to go out like the hikers
walk in the park, and leave no trace.

Get me out of this place,
the four walls have mirrors,
I am sick of looking at
my face, do it for ME.
I can't break though
or breakout, 7 years of bad luck
may be all that I have left,
unless I cut myself on exiting,
like a bird with a useless wing,
flightless, and bleeding tears.

Pulling at my hair like they are weeds
rooted, like pins to grenades going off
in a worn out hollowed stump that
once held a brain.

©ClemC072013

Walking ( ) birch trees,
knee deep ( ) crystalline flakes,
piled high on one another,
bright sunshine glaring,
white reflected light as
seen ( ) a birch bark slit
in the snow goggles,
being ( ) with winter is
not easy, when
winter is not ( ) with
stilling any liquid,
chilling any warmth,
filling the air with
silence ( ) and ( ) and
moisture
in the breath
moving slowly away
until caught on the
frosted breeze,
blowing ( ) the trees
covered in birch spots
and birch stripes.

wheels turning
miles burning
sun is moving
music is grooving
clouds dancing
music balancing
the drive.

Oh it is good to be alive!

Mountains rolling
bridges tolling
water is lapping
earth is mapping
man's changes
to rearrange
geography.

Living in these times, these places needs drive!


©ClemC092013

A baby,
a toddler,
a child,
learns first by;
undoing pieces,
tearing down,
taking apart,
all by heart,
then a child
assembles dreams,
then a toddler,
holds hands together,
then a baby,
makes a family,
with so much love,
it is my undoing.


©ClemC 062013

Bricks! Mortar!
feathers. more tar.
to hold it together, too hold it together
without using my hands.

I use my eyes to see.
I use my ears to hear.
I use my lips...
                       to shape words.
When I am speechless around you.
You may never read this.
You may never know it is about you.
                            But it is!

i can't hold it together, i can't hold it together
my legs are heavy and my feet awkward,
my heart beats like someone pounding down
the door downstairs, hammering, hammering
will it hold together, will it hold together

it won't, I won't, my life won't
                                                 unless we are together.

Let's throw in together, forever?
                                                   But, how do I show you I can hold it together.

Windows shut and locked.
Doors shut and locked.
Shutters closed over my heart.
                                                 So no one can see, my failure to hold it together.

Unless...we  .   .   .



©ClemC102013

I thought it was knives or guns with bullets or bombs,
that injure, or maim or ****,
I have no ill will,
but somewhere,
across the ocean,
there is word,
I heard,
that a law,
killed someone
at the hands of a man,
tell me it isn't so,
as that is a place,
I will never go,
won't you join me?


©ClemC072013

I think I might move to Phoenix,
Will they let me on the plane
with feet in blocks of ice, the pain!
Will they let me in the aircraft,
my icy hands, blue, cause a draft,
                     when I would wave,
                        my boarding card.

I think I might move to Phoenix,
I hear they have a hockey team,
to watch them, it would be a dream,
come true, I would find comfort and care,
for my cold extremities at the arena there,
                         for my heart is always beating
                         time as I am running hard.

Moving is so strange from the free range I live on now,
             but I know when I retire it will not be to Oslo.
And you where would you move, you concrete block?



©ClemC012014