If you return,
do not knock,
the door has memorized your hands.

If you leave,
do not turn back,
the wind carries only forward.

I was on a train from
Paris to Amsterdam
and with an empty page
a sad smile and a pen
she was looking out
the window across
the apple green fields and
into the valleys of cobbled
villages and ****** churches
and as the dead air of Paris
was leaving my mind
I began to read the reflection
of questions in her eyes
I wanted to tell her what
she already knew
that the answers are in
the rhythm of the rails
and to only underline
the words that matter ...
Clay.M

Through the olive groves
to the village that sleeps
beneath the mountain
the collapse of human
kindness is far from me
the language of nature
is universal
the wild birds only know
songs of wisdom
the Cypress tree leans
upon its intelligence
it only speaks of peace
it has witnessed the
tragedy of war
there is happiness in the
falling of leaves
there is acceptance
in the whisper of the
restless wind ...
Clay.M

I happened to find
myself longing for
some kind of change
you were telling
me this in that little
cafe on the corner
your words fell softly
through the hum of
café conversations
your eyes were left
searching in a
maze of emotions
you wore a poets frown
that I could not ignore
there’s no easy way to say
there’s no easy way to grieve
somethings that you love
sometimes leave
the thread between us
now is broken …
Clay.M

What forlorn nights this lonesome poetry begets.
My voice, attuned to solitude, sings a desolate duet.
The only voice that answers mine is baritone regret;
and yet
I wear my words upon my head: a gaudy coronet.