"clemens" poems
The Isle of Print
What a place it can take you anyplace you can meet anyone I met Sandra Locke when she wrote about
Her relationship then her break up with Clint she told about as a child how she sold pop bottles at a
General store that was one that took me back but even more exciting was where she was at a place
Called Shelbyville Tennessee I know it firsthand one reason it is seventy miles from Nashville and is the
Tennessee walking horse capital and all so my wife was born and raised there until she was six we would
Take trips there quiet often until two trips we carried her parents to the family cemetery on horse
Mountain we have my wife’s brother fighting Leukemia he said thats where he wants to be buried but for
Now God’s mercy is preventing that I met a guy and I’m sure you have met him many times also his
Name is Samuel Clemens he got a little more famous name when he had one of his many jobs as a Mississippi
River boat captain they called him just like when they measured the rivers depth mark twain he was a
News paper editor in Calaveras County he brought a simple frog leaping contest national notoriety for
Ever after known as the Calaveras bull frog jumping contest I bought three acres for retirement
Unfortunately I made like a bull frog and jumped off the property I drove a truck several times into
Hannibal Missouri you got a quick leap in your heart and head as you thought about the great river
Running by and all of the characters Twain created two losses are recorded there of course twain met
A fiery personage that was even greater than him a space traveler with a glory all together wondrous went by
The name of Haley the other less known but my heart slows when I think of her eight years old blond
Blue eyed her father’s and mother’s pride and joy he was a pastor in northern Illinois she lays in her
Sacred rest in Hannibal until that great waking up day as time goes on I get less and less patient if it
Weren’t for so many precious ones in danger I would be tempted to pray come Lord Jesus. Well not done
By any means just going to stop for now plan on going and doing some hard thinking
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
My friend is an amazing poet!
You see, I never knew
Till recently when he showed me a piece
While we were out for a tea date that was way overdue
We used to talk about everything and anything
My friend and I, we have many things in common
We'll talk about Star Wars, music, movies,
TV shows, shoes
Even books from James Clemens
But we stopped hanging out a while back
Even though we still see each other daily
We hardly talked, we drifted apart
We were so busy but I did miss him greatly
One day I noticed that he had this vacant look in his eyes
And I knew that he must be troubled
For although he was smiling at everyone
I felt this urge to look out and catch him if he stumbled
So after bugging him for a gazillion time
That we needed to catch up
He finally agreed to go out for tea
Where we talked with no one to interrupt
We talked and talked like we used to
Time passed slowly as our cups of tea and cigarette butts cluttered the table
Then he showed me a poem he had written
Which left me speechless and looking at my new idol
Wow! He sure can write
His writing is so inspiring it touches the soul
I felt ashamed sitting next to someone such as he
Someone who could turn his words into gold
So I would like to thank him for sharing this part of his life with me
I know my poem can never be as good as his has been
But hopefully he'll find this pleasing
Thank You Ryn!!!!
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
Red blood seeping down the walls and pooling all over the pearl white floor.
Finally unleashing a scream boiled inside, which pierces the air with an unmatched fury.
A menacing growl with every rev of its engine, an Audi R8 proves to be an evil on the road.
A fish has a slight taste of salt and cyanide, the poison killing millions without a look from the government.
Avenged Sevenfold’s Nightmare album, proving that even the happiest moment in your life. Can be a nightmare.
Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mark Maquire, diminishing baseball’s glory with steroids.
The turmoil surrounding the government of Somalia and the pirates corrupting the country each and every day.
The unbearable scent of sulfur, burning the nostrils of your nose with every intake of air.
The lighting strike and the thunder crack.
Hell.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
God said it is a dream
And I Am the Dream
Then man the one He
Made in His own image
Said A Dream What is
A Dream? I shall find
Out-Then after using
All his reason; his tools
His science ;and coming
Up with many enigmatic
Arcane and complex ideas,
Formulations made up of
Pride, vanity and bestowing
A great sense of superiority
Over his cowed and ignorant
Fellows and to be fair paid for
with much mental labor and
Sleepless night and much
Oppression of others thru
Ages and ages till at last
He declares I have got it,
Almost got it as he falls
On his bed sick of all his
doings and there hears
A still small voice, a child's
That He heard long ago in
His youth: "It is only a dream
A dream and I the Dreamer
As Mark Twain said in his auto-
Biography: "It is mostly true"
Sam Clemens said it all in the
"Mysterious Stranger"
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Father Time stood undefeated.
Bonds came close, but Barry Cheated.
Roger Clemens had a career for the ages
but oft fell prey to roid based rages.
Mariano Rivera was a more worthy foe
No pharmacological freak was Mo.
He threw one pitch, his control well learned,
and he chose to leave on his own terms.
I stood up and joined the cheers
the day Rivera last appeared
and, though I wept to see him go,
Time would never lay him low.
Mo Struck out Time, he had it cooking
A called third strike that left Time looking
like Beltran caught in the bright lights
good morning, good Evening and Good NIGHT!
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Last night we kissed hands goodbye,
never dreaming that it was forever.
Unsuspecting that you, my dear child,
soon would lie cold and still neath the heather.
The graceless Sun thoughtlessly shines
I would eclipse it forever.
The death I prepared for was mine,
but God twists the knife and is clever.
First your sister, thirteen summers ago
Then, soon after, I lost your dear Mother.
Now you, daughter- taken from me.
There's no chance this old man can recover.
The comet that shone at my birth
Will soon light its way through the heavens
I beg that it bears me away-
lets me stop being Samuel Clemens.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
Sam Clemens had room to complain.
I'll givem that.
However,
lyin' in wait to confuse little boys,
that's cruel.
which is why I waited to say
I learned my meanderin' ways from Huck.
I never learnt a thing good fromnerabout that Sawyer kid.
I thought well o' Jim, and felt I knew
colors well, I knew
Uncle Tom well, when Jimmy *** portrayed him,
at the Ministrual Show
at the high school gym, where the Globetrotters play.
Mr. Clemens, had room to complain...
I can't say I know why nor how, but he lost
all he held dear,
he did,
after that some later
however,
he died in the presence of a loving daughter
who was first to read his dying words,
Give me my glasses, which he wrote while smiling.
That eased my boy's confusin', when I
made that smile worth a wait this long.
Wait'n'see.
(btw my grandma was born mar 6 1910. It comes up on a test)
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC
Sam Clemens snagged his nom de plume
from a boatsman's measuring cry,
"Mark twain," two fathoms depth - quite enough
to keep a stern wheel free from mayhem.
What are the markings of our voyages?
What leadsman within will navigate us
through the rocks and shallows
of feckless greed and foolish delusions?
The captain waits uneasy at his station
then above the engine's quiet purr,
and the music of gently lapping waves,
a voice from the deck cries out, "mark twain"
and he nudges the throttle forward.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
You’re nothing more than ink on an old, unread page in a forgotten urban library; one not so urban as to have visitors but so urban as to have the unlearned come and pretend and imagine themselves as their antitheses. Your name is nothing more than history, the past. Your life affects no-one to this day. Your father’s name, work and moustache are unimportant. Your “very happy family”, Clemens, or has your name changed since? is dead, gone and forgotten except those lovely souls trying to find between the books, the pages, the lines. His Roman Nose isn’t important to your adoration. Your adoration is nothing. You’re nothing.
But then why is your beauty so enthralling? Why can I not take my eyes off your face, lost in time? Your lips, shaded on the left, stay silently unopened eternally. Oh love, oh love! Your shadow casts a spell of your beauty on the wall. I am simply lost In your brown eyes, in black and white. The contours of your timeless face pursue my thoughts and take them as lovesick captives. Your hair, full, and pulled effortlessly back. Oh, love! If there was only more of you to see, below the neck. Your pale skin, white dress. Gold, necklace. ****** ears. Your chaste, elapsed beauty has once graced this world. But now resides here as a photograph.
A face lost in time.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
Pens have been silenced and quills no longer spew forth words. Chirps, tweets and post have taken the place of polite communication. Letters are now seen in a museum and one blurb can be around the world in a moment. Oh how it grieves the soul to see the art of relating diminished to nothingness. Were Shakespeare to see the folly, he would shake his head in disbelief. Samuel Clemens might lay down his pen and return to a river boat captains ways. Lord Byron would lament and Mr. Poe would brood in a dark and morbid way. What shall become of the future generations, who have lost their way. To even be able to form two coherent sentences may be too much to ask of them. Oh how do you mourn the death of the written word?
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
Before Mark Twain knew he would
Always love Becky Thatcher the boy
Sam Clemens knew her as a just a
girl in the neighborhood Saw her as
A fellow child jumping rope giggling
To her friends Not his It was the same
With me when I was small- there was
A girl Pauline with pigtails and very
Shy. We never spoke but I just knew
She very nice and proper too much so
To notice a mutt like me Such like was
The girlhood of my wife All she gave
Me was a sketch of a girl I never met I
did not know I loved her back then but
I know it now. I know it now.
My Dad he not long before he died
Made her a bright tangerine colored kind
Of hassock that when you zipped it open
Four tangerine cushions were stuffed in it
It was carefully crafted something I
Could never make and She loved it
. It was leatherette and a a little gaudy
where has gone to I do not know
but I think .ll find it with her in
Heaven where Father took her When I
Was faraway I loved her then and I love her
Now She was the girl for me; now she.s gone
l loved when I saw her skipping rope
n my mind
So long ago
I loved her then
I love her still
For Barbara
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 6:09 PM UTC