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

Someday I will find
a magic mountain,
and I will stay with
one million moths
rebelling against the
light, my wanderlust
will be completely
satisfied, the nova will
sustain its sublime
intensity, I will walk
with my mind swirling
in majestic mystery,
every thought, every
action will be spontaneous!
and it will be absolutely
splendid in every category.
Someday I will find a
magic mountain, I will
drink wine with the gods
and we will smile for eternity …
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 found this poem
undressed in a
restless - evening
I listen to the whispers of
butterfly - wings
my questions are
confused
the stubborn moon
only answers in
dramatic - rhythms
why does my mind
always run back
to those mountains
so far from me
I am a foreigner here
a fragile thing
I heard you are
writing again
I heard your
voice has become so
beautifully - Innocent
I know that I
stood in your way…
Clay.M

Here it is
those blue nights
in cheap rooms
the cry of cats
in dark alleys
the growl of drunks
on ***** streets
the symphony of sirens
the solitude that sinks
into your skin like
stubborn smoke
I dream of Barcelona
the lonesome traveler
and his gypsy scarf
I know that the ghosts
in every old city still
breathe loneliness ...
Clay.M