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

As I search this anxious city for
something pure something good
I carry a hundred heavy dreams
I don’t mind when the sadness hits
see I’ve been drinking with the poets
they follow me down every street
I rest beneath the crayon blue sky
I see my heroes scratching their
bellies behind the sun
I see the threads of my mothers
summer dress I see the ghost of her
flying like a painted bird
I try to hold her like a secret
I untangle this mind of loose strings
maybe if I remain silent I’ll become
obsolete maybe if I write words that
are worth remembering I’ll feel complete
I listen to the wind whispering apologies
maybe they can sell my dreams in the
market place with the cattle and the
rattling of chains I think about quite rooms with naked shadows in every lonely corner I think about small birds crying out for the crumbs of your love and if you can hear me I wish that you knew me
when I was still kind …
Clay.M