"clifford" poems
All the glitter and the baubles and the fake razzamataz,
Forced jollity and bonhomie berating me by turns;
The jostling and shoving in the shops and all that jazz,
The same unwanted present where the giver never learns;
And I will dream of summer, tidal ripples in the sand
An evening's float of thistledown adrift in hazy sky
The small face of a daisy, lying cool against my hand
The vast coastal horizon, where the seagulls swoop and fly.
You can keep your holly wreaths mourning your lack of taste
You can keep Sir Clifford, all the mistletoe and wine
You can stuff the turkey, lay the hangover to waste,
You can keep your sentimental dreams, leave me to mine...
Just let me dream of summer, how I miss its warming light;
The soothing breath of lavender, the grass beneath my feet;
The bright palette of verdant greens, the shorter hours of night;
I'll deck the halls with roses, daffodils and meadowsweet.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
men would always tell me about the
arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair,
the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before
Leah and her scythe
this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho
working for her father
preparing food for her brothers before their schooling.
she was made to stay at home,
and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized
business men in windup cars would see her off the highway
her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun
singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair.
these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this
Leah was burning too much for them.
her heart was different from city folk
and most country folk for that matter.
her ventricles were connected through a series of
crimson twigs and gnarled vines.
it pumped like any other heart,
but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm.
those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town.
but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and
snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments.
she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could
a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth
and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart.
but she never quite found a man like that.
she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills.
the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins
and her lungs breathed for the farm
just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood.
she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh.
every morning she watered and plowed and every while,
with scorching eyes and whipping locks
she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat,
and would quietly sing,
like a rocking chair.
Posted by David Clifford Turner at
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
Appointment to have ***** removed by robot-assisted surgeon.
Air-conditioned, no mosquitoes in the OR. When you arrive
You'll remove all your clothes. Naked before the ladies, nurses
Who have seen it all before. Mainly remember you're not unique.
Think about the government while they're mixing up the medicine.
There's always governance even if there's little or no government.
Back to counting backwards. Inside out, if I die, will I know it?
At 70, Jack's running the gauntlet with some skill!
Benny Golson wonders aloud what might have been
Had Clifford Brown not been killed in that auto accident.
Jack's girlfriend once said he was the reincarnation of Clifford
But he doesn't believe in ghosts, karma or an afterlife.
Benny's old girlfriend Betty inspired the tune Along Came Betty
And that's the most afterlife Benny or Betty's gonna get.
The Trojan bench being not as deep as the Greek
Once Sarpedon and Hector go down even the lucky shot
To Achilles' feet is not enough to save the town.
Aeneas is no match for wily Odysseus
Although unbeknownst to all he has the last laugh when Rome
Conquers Athens, the Myrmidons, what's left of Ilion
And the whole known world from India to Britain.
It's not bad to acknowledge death's primacy
Although after a while you stop remembering
To fear. That's when everything becomes clear
Purpose v. purposelessness matters less,
Anomie v. rule of law, that's a preference
Love v. loneliness, worth about 25 cents
Or a million bucks in the light of the holocaust.
Nothing but light, love and the majesty of death in the room.
Machines stand ready like marines, their beauty is in the motion
That overcomes inertia. The food supply is deeply compromised
So eat whatever you want. Mourning the dead is part of the business
Of healing and staying alive. When you get to the afterlife, walk with
eyes open,
Ocotillo and cactus may be in flower. The robot does the work,
imposes
Its own small order, like a girl on a bicycle with disorder in her hair.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
The bachelor and the spinster
stood together, hand in hand,
before the Priest who’d wed them
in the chapel Kilmainham.
With two prison guards as witnesses
there in Kilmainham gaol,
Joseph Plunkett and Grace Clifford
wed at midnight goes the tale.
At dawn a firing squad awaited
her brave bold ****** man.
She’d remember their one, stolen, kiss
and the ring placed on her hand.
Her Joseph chose a dark way home
when he tweaked the lion’s tail.
In martyrdom he found a way
to rouse the sons of Gael.
Some marriages last many years,
some, a shorter time-
but a love that lasts a lifetime
is truly hard to find.
Joseph, knowing what he was to lose
His love and fate embraced.
He died when bullets pierced his heart
while in a state of grace.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Once was a girl,
nameless to say,
family had problems,
so she couldn't stay.
Forced into a relationship,
with one so wrong,
Nothing alike,
but no harm done.
Silence, Silence,
Beauty and Dusk,
Wake up to sunshine,
voice full of husk.
Slept in his arms,
but I must go,
far far away,
for his heart my explode.
with love and kindness,
sadnes and tears,
i pack my bag,
before i fear.
they will find me,
i know they will.
This has gone to far,
So i spurge and take one last pill.
body found,
lying on the floor,
he whom she ran away from,
actually loved her.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Louder than my voice, You have spoken in me
Deeper than my longing, You have sprung eternal
Beyond my foresight, You are prophesying to me
After all my reason, You are unimaginable (unfolding unimaginable things)
Before my expectation, You've exceeded what is conceivable
In the most secret place, You consume completely
And deep calls out to deep
Above a kingdom's reach, Your reign overcomes
Beneath the meaning of existence, Your laws dictate reality
At the moment of seeking, You have sought and found
Greater than my strength, You uphold the infinite (and I within it more carefully)
In the fulfillment of time, You are waiting
With the wisdom of ages, Your ways are everlasting
And deep calls out to deep, whispering your fullness:
"If there is faith, You are believed."
"If there is hope, You are looked upon."
"If there is love, You are reflected."
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
"Don't forget your hanky," Mom said
almost eighty years ago
as I went out the door,
and I think that's why
I keep a generous supply
clean and folded square
along with socks and underwear
in my middle dresser drawer.
When my brother Clifford died,
Mary Jo gave me an unopened pack
that Cliff had kept who knows how long.
I'm guessing a reminder
had sounded in his head, too,
so, having taken heed,
neither he nor I would be caught
unprepared.
Often enough a nose bleed
or a seasonal sneeze
would not be blocked
by paper tissue.
More lately, at weddings
when the couple vows . . .
"in sickness or in health,
for better or for worse,"
folded cloth absorbs my sobs.
Most often now, it's at memorials
whether for youth or aged alike
that I check my pocket
hoping to find that a hanky is there.
Tonight, though, cries of laughter arise
in surprise, with no need to be stifled,
but sputtering, slobbering
Great Grand Kids
find perchance most sacred use
for a hanky that catches it all.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
I am from pancakes, from ovaltine and cheerios
I am from an empty street that welcomes bare feet at twilight
I am from a big green back yard
from lilacs and daffodils
valentines and Easter eggs
from road trips in the van
And tuna sandwiches with extra mayonnaise
I am from being late to everything
And bedtime and naptime
From Bactine and band aids and bee stings and remember to wear shoes
when you ride your scooter
or walk over the pine needles
or under the slide where the grass is dry and sharp
I am from everyone is equal and religion is not a bad thing
And no one is wrong to believe,
But you don’t have to.
I am from Cheese pizza and Chocolate Milk
From the dinner bell when dad gets home from work
Or the candy cookie at the end of the day
if you help mom with the groceries
I am from waffles and homemade peach ice cream on the forth of July
From water melon and doctor Suess on a picnic blanket
From Crayons and markers and coloring books
I am from stuffed animals covered in dust cause you left them outside
From ski school
From pink lemonade and M&Ms;
I am from no matter how cold that water is
I will swim in the rivers and oceans
I am from flying kites
From riding bikes to the end of the street
From sleeping outside on the deck
But not the whole night,
Cause you start to miss your bed.
I am from Halloween is scary sometimes-
And so is the queen in Snow White and Sleeping Beauty
And the witch in the Wizard of Oz
And the abominable snowman in Rudolph
From I think we will stick to the jungle Book and Lady and the *****
I am from snowmen and sledding hills and hot chocolate
with extra marsh mellows
From hanging Christmas lights in a snowstorm
And Dads sorry he let you jump off the deck
when you hit your nose to your knee-
He thought the snow was deep enough.
I am from Sprinklers and Trampolines
From Lodge Pole, Columbine, Bear Tree
From Ten minutes to bedtime
Junie B Jones Clifford the Big Red Dog and Bear in the Big Blue House
I am from Juice Coffee and Cinnamon toast
From broken heels and Sticky fingers
From counting stairs and sheep and pennies
and the days until Christmas
From the top of Dad shoulders at the tree lighting
From falling asleep with your head in Moms lap
in the booth at the restaurant.
I am from love
From hugs and kisses and holding on to one another so tight
Because what other way to show them you care.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
Daughter of Clifford and Edla
Mother of Josh, sister, too
Of 4 quite different brothers
And good friends, there are a few
I favor holistic healers
Over things that are fake
If I’d been born back in Salem
I’d have been burned at the stake
Animal lover, radio girl
Jazz, rock or blues, I’ll give it a whirl
Aging athlete, my red hair is grayer
I’m now a bike-riding ping-pong player
I’d rather be reading, alone time I need
Sentimental poetess, kindness is my creed
Organic gardener, kayaker, seeker
Herbalist, meditating autism teacher
And now I can no longer
Say I’m middle-aged
I thought by reaching sixty
I’d become a Sage
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
in my room
a sunday afternoon on the island of a burgundyacidparadise dream
the pinch and push of human faces, cartoons shrinking rainbow triangles
a glance to the drawer - melting, melting(is it a bear or an eagle?)
the music echoes in a head room full of autumn sun
clifford brown cutting the light and springing joy
books floating, books falling, books fluttering fractal butterflies
and the painting flows together and becomes one
lanterns shooting dragonfly dots above the piano
hot, hot, the fan exists and fades, roars (did i speak just now?)
chemical reaction inside a chemical reaction
trip along with the music let it guide
and shake it out when it goes dark
drip into the wall ripples (is there a storm? or is it the fan?
which direction is the door? and where is the incense blowing?)
take it fagen, take it becker
time out of mind indeed
handprint, faceprint, dust in a yellow tint
don’t want me to leave that’s fine by me
lie down and let it take me where it wants to go
lyin tyga in my head
push me down upon my bed
cancel out the need for time
and make my visions warm
sublime as a sunflower
a spiral leaf of hummingcomb
water, water, fizz, fizz
take me where the sunset is
(how did i get outside)no noise
getting calmer but just as beautiful
in my room
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
I’d never met Mr. Campbell
Or heard of Mr. Stone,
But now I’ve ceased to ramble,
They’ve provided me a home.
A place for old and older,
Not poor or broke nor rich.
For meek and mild and bolder,
It runs without a hitch.
A bus to take us shopping
Or cruising to the mall,
And even island hopping
There’s something for us all.
Pat Pepper keeps us busy,
Not anchored to a chair
Al Widener’s in a tizzy
If we’re not happy there.
The staff is neat and clever
At Bradshaw’s restaurant
I plan to stay forever,
‘Cause it’s my favorite haunt.
No need to roam or gamble
For we are not alone,
God bless you Mr. Campbell
God keep you Mr. Stone
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Green was his favorite color.
He hated spinach.
It was funny, the face he made when he had to eat it if he wanted ice cream after dinner.
He loved Clifford the Big Red Dog.
He wanted a dog just like him.
He was a very sweet boy, one that everyone loved.
I loved him the most.
He was my son.
I stood over his casket and my tears dropped on his face.
I almost thought he would wipe them away for me, "Don't cry, mommy. I love you."
It wasn't his time.
He was 4.
You took him away from me.
I want him back.
Give him back to me.
Please?
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
From the early, early morning through the late, late night,
The tweekers keep on coming and it just ain't right.
Yvonne gets up early and she's feeding the fish,
And here comes Ernie, he's wanting his "ish".
So she breaks him off a little so that he won't gripe,
Now here comes Pino wanting something in the pipe.
And next comes Debbie just a shaking that ***
She's supporting the casino selling half price gas.
Then comes Clifford call him Big Daddy Mac,
He got the Clabber Girl can goin' clackity - clack.
From a quarter to a half, to a teener or a ball,
She's got more traffic than the Hill Top Mall.
Now the daylight's fading and the night's coming on,
On and on and on and on and on,
The Tweeks have worn a path in the ********* lawn.
Yvonne can't take it, she's headed for the hills,
Yelling back at Ernie, "Yes, I took my friggin pills!!"
Betty, Sally, Gary, and James,
The faces keep changing but never the games.
They promise to pay you. They only need a puff,
A little more please, that's just not enough.
And they bring you lots of things that you just can't use,
Like fake gold chains and someone else's shoes.
A cordless drill I got no way to charge and brand new jeans three sizes too large.
"Say hey yo bro, I bet you need one of these".
It's a freaking leaf blower when I ain't got any trees !!!
Yeah, they call their hustle and they're good at what they do.
You know that they are 'cuz they always hustling YOU !!
HERE COME THE JUDGE ! HERE COME THE JUDGE !
COURT'S IN SESSION NOW. HERE COME THE JUDGE !!
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
painted royal blue (blood cells) from a seaside without a from our
sea the air thinner (our last year among) next to a forest with no life now
trees beyond the inner (our last night) stood a moment once erased laid to waste
the queen of the earth
is ******* on my rebirth
ohwhargirthhasmyrebirth!
the queen of earth is without mirth
she regrets
there is a dearth
but still she *****
forallshesworth
avirginbirthihaveunearthed! (limited space) clifford brown in nega
tive space an impossible place (max roach)
all in a day’s pace kenny dorham first base
forever to replace
the worst case
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
My name is Terry Fitzpatrick
I see familiar faces all around
Perhaps some long lost relatives
Still in County Cork who could be found
My grandfather, James William Fitzpatrick
Made his way to South Boston, Mass,
Just like thousands of Irish refugees
Was looked down upon as low class
“We don’t hire the Irish”
Signs posted on many a door
So he played piano and wrote songs
To feed his family of four
Side by Side and Beer Barrel Polka
Were 2 of his most famous songs
He sold the rights for so little
Few dollars, no credit, so wrong...
He had left County Cork in a hurry
Like thousands forced to leave town
His family, I’m told, were horse thieves
But The Famine’s what took them down
The Troubles continued in Boston
Fifty years before the Kennedys were crowned
My Grandfather kept drinking and singing
Grandmother died young without a sound
One of their 4 sons was my father
Clifford Joseph then had 4 sons and me
I’m proud of my Irish heritage
First one back to visit since 1893
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
O’ let us lay together love
when this World’s cares are past.
My Queen I have had locked away
She was treacherous to the last.
Accept this rose I’ve named for you,
A heirloom hybrid bloom.
I’ll have them carve its like in stone
Upon our honored tomb
So that, my Love, in years to come,
Our children’s children see
How I loved my Rosamund,
How much you’ve meant to me
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
By: C edric McClester
Where or when shall I begin
With this explanation
Black boys look like men
Or should it suffice for me to say
A black man of 51 passed for 20 that day
The perpetrators mentioned
On the police radio call
Were both in the their twenties
And both were tall
Now lets look at the facts in this case
So as not to proceed with undue haste
His stepfather was tall but Clifford was short
I guess killing some people is still an in sport
Now to hear officer Shea tell it
Young Clifford was armed
And he was in fear of ****** harm
So the police searched
Both day and night
But no gun was ever found
On that site
Yet Shea said he fired
In self-defense
I guess from his perspective
It made perfect sense
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
I’d never met Mr. Campbell
Or heard of Mr. Stone,
But now I’ve ceased to ramble,
They’ve provided me a home.
A place for old and older,
Not poor or broke nor rich.
For meek and mild and bolder,
It runs without a hitch.
A bus to take us shopping
Or cruising to the mall,
And even island hopping
There’s something for us all.
Pat Pepper keeps us busy,
Not anchored to a chair
Al Widener’s in a tizzy
If we’re not happy there.
The staff is neat and clever
At Bradshaw’s restaurant
I plan to stay forever,
‘Cause it’s my favorite haunt.
No need to roam or gamble
For we are not alone,
God bless you Mr. Campbell
God keep you Mr. Stone
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
In twilight's embrace, I sit alone,
Melancholy's touch, a gentle moan.
My heart yearns for you, my dearest love,
In these moments when the stars weep above.
Whispers of your laughter, once so near,
Now dance as echoes, faint and unclear.
Your touch, a brush of fingertips so fine,
Chased away fears, a warmth divine.
Your eyes, a galaxy of love's embrace,
Once held me close in their tender grace.
But now they dwell in distant memory,
Fading embers of a vibrant reverie.
The world, a canvas devoid of hue,
Since the day you bid this realm adieu.
No vibrant strokes, no colors bright,
Just monochrome days and endless night.
I reach out for you, in empty spaces near,
Longing for your touch, your presence so dear.
Silent tears trace paths upon my pillow's crest,
Yearning for your head upon my chest.
Our hearts, once united in rhythmic dance,
Now play a symphony of solitude's expanse.
In night's embrace, your essence I feel,
Yet cruel illusion shatters with dawn's appeal.
Alone, I navigate this world unknown,
An empty vessel in memories sown.
Your absence, an ache that pierces deep,
A void unfillable, where tears still seep.
No time or distance can heal this pain,
In my heart, our love forever remains.
Tethered eternally, our souls entwined,
Until the day our paths realign.
I'll count the stars, and whisper your name,
Hoping my love reaches you, all the same.
Until that day, know you're missed profound,
In depths of my soul, your longing resounds.
Yours in a world where colors fade away,
Ikimi Clifford Festus, forever I'll stay.
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 6:24 PM UTC
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumping prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog speed!
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
alternately titled: breast ****** fallacy hi-jinxed!
In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version
swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically **** cleared
on a stack of video nasties,
and ****** 'zines
now she can live rest of life
guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop
with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,
who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)
shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
****** free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird
mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that *** hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ***********
of Peter ought to be heard
where sudden sound
sans ***** seams burst
**** strapped unseen bulging Johnson's
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
automatically immersed
within ****** tabloid pulp pit
***** sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,
NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eylit
of trouser snake split)
yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
Clifford was having a tough year
money was tight, couldn't get in the clear
by the time it was autumn
he'd reached rock bottom
nowhere else to turn
and nothing left to learn
he decided to consult
a man of the occult
who sent him on a quest
to help him manifest
the riches he desired
but it all backfired
now there's demons in control
asking for his soul
all because he messed up the spell
and opened up a back door to Hell
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 11:06 PM UTC