I’m at the top of my game
she said
writing a few good
pomes a day
completing my second novel
I’m published in all the best
journals you know?
I poured another drink
looked at her face her hands
they were almost perfect
no scars no sign of life
death had not touched
her beauty…
Clay.M

There is a silence before the war
a fragile anticipation

throwing flowers into the sea
I watch them drift into
the setting of the sun

now dripping in winter shadows
I have fallen into a wind swept field

I found love in your sad eyes
then watched as it flew away
like a sea bird in a storm

now I see you in the distance
like a soft piano memory

in the stillness of simple things
midnight taps at my window
all past wars are now
hiding in heartbreak

now as the light grows dim
there is a soft touch of peacefulness
a dark chord on a blue guitar

I can not sleep
it is not over …
Clay.M

I learn from the waves
when to break
when to retreat
when to remain calm
I learn by observation
your awkward confidence
your theater of movement
your obscure dance with insecurities
your behavior when time becomes still
with our splendid gift of imperfections
I follow you to the sea..
Clay.M

Tonight when the
wild flowers scream
at the matador moon
and the Bull dies alone
amongst black poppies
young girls will stand
in front of mirrors
with sad china doll smiles
wishing they were thinner
tattoos of broken hearts
on the edge of their hips
she only shivers
when she is touched
in that special place
she only tells you this
when she is lonely
the stars fade away
like old love letters
intangible no longer loved
and middle aged men
are always threatening
you with leaving
perhaps to a city like Paris
where the women know
how to please them
the night is restless
like a thousand
Butterflies in Spring
and in that dark room  
you are still sleeping
like something forgotten
like a silhouette of stone...
Clay.M

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

I will sit here beneath
the warmth of the sun
I will listen to the slow
movement of clouds
I am comfortable in the
way that time always
leaves me behind
and when I grow old
I hope I grow into
some kind of stranger
in a sleepy village at the
foot of a white mountain
where I’ll write poetry
about wild birds and the way
love never promised to stay ...
Clay.M

I am writing to you from a
park bench in Amsterdam
there is a gentle breeze
of rest-fullness
the cherry trees are in
full bloom
I look for you
in every pretty face
I look for you in the
mannerisms of strangers
I look for you in the
architecture of amazement
I think of you
between the sidewalk
and every step
I hold you in my mind
like a memory of
something precious
I almost found you as the
sun set the sky on fire
in Barcelona
but you know
almost is never sweet
I will find you
before I unveil this
madness of my wandering
I miss you
even when I sleep …
Clay.M