We all have our faults, fears,
I'll take you through my years:
guilt,
pain,
******* self blame;
lies, cheats, drugs, shame,
but I'm not the only one who plays that game.
Cruel eyes of the world
the darkness of our souls.
We try
we strive
we give
we share,
Mr. newsman tells us 'how much we care!'
for the racism,
the sadism,
no ******* ******* escapism from
judgement or malice
or the ****** up roles we practice,
that we pass to our children,
who pass them to theirs,
and it seems to me no one cares, that
the depths of our nature,
our instinct in fact,
will battle with us, till
we revert back;
to our agression,
our need for oppression,
our greed for power and possession.
So,
I want to fight back.
Because we are people
because we are strong
and no matter who takes us,
hates us,
breaks us,
we will carry on.

that buzz starts
and my palms flood with
sweat.
the needle hits flesh
and it’s all familiar;

I’ve been here before.
still, it’s all forgotten,
except for the idea
that the images I’ve
asked him to mix up
on my arm are very comforting
to me.

Our Lady of Guadalupe
and an ink pen,
I’ve grown up surrounded
by both,

so to stir them together is safe
in its sacrilege,
not sacrilegious at all;

permissible in fact,
because of their combined power,
a display of faith in my own
ability to create, to destroy
darkness and demons

with notebooks and prayers
offered from a small stage,
through a live microphone,

or in a coffeehouse with
the newsman,
the laureate,
the tiger,
the bundle of nerves,
and the denim-clad
troubadour.

Our Lady of Poetry
will watch over us all,
in our church,
the church of the spoken-word.
*
©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell

Puzzled by your too sudden disappearance,
I sat in your dim little room
trying to put the pieces together.
Sifting through the past week
trying to find something strange
you had said.
I kept coming up blank.
After sifting though each conversation twice
I dug deeper into the past.
My memory never did let me down.
Deeper.
Deeper
I kept digging and sifting through
the past 3 weeks of conversations.
Then after sitting for hours
on your made-up bed
it hit me.
In each little coversation
of the weeks,
there was a different flicker in your eye.
A change in your voices tone
and a shift in your body language.
You'd been building up to this.
You had planned it
and I didn't realise.
I should've known.

I then noticed your bed was made
and you never made it
unless you weren't coming back...

You
were in the headlines
of every local newspaper
and on the lips
of every local
evening newsman
just the very next day.

Missing teen found dead at the bottom of a cliff.
Family and friends swamped the lookout earlier today.

They say you fell...
But I know you jumped.

The newsman said there was a lot of angst out there. I'm gonna

break apart the word angst, rearrange the letters leaving "ants"

with a "G" left over.  I'll put the ants on display at the San Diego

Zoo and use the G as a nickname for the punk kid who lives up

the street from here, as in " hey G how's it going".  A few ants and

a nickname and just like that,  no more angst!

Your welcome America.

Don’t play out in your yard in Miami
I heard it on the evening news
The newsman’s lips slowly moving
Repeating words he’d never choose

An 8 year old girl caught in the crossfire
A shooter so blinded with rage
That he never noticed she was singing
Standing up on her homemade stage

The reporter keeps giving the details
How the shooter had aimed for another
Over getting revenge for a break-up
How he got the gun from his big brother

He found it under the seat in his car
Children find what adults hide all the time
That it’s not unusual to hear when
A toddler shoots his mother in the spine

One mother grieves while another’s relieved
Either outcome leaves one dead kid
Playing out in her yard in Miami
The last thing that she ever did

Labour all day to make another man's dime.

I find myself on the wrong side o' this paradigm.

Turn on the television, distract me from my career.

There's a newsman speaking, I'm sorry I didn't hear.

There's a politician speaking, I'm sorry, it's not very clear.

There's an army of robots marching, excuse me while I blankly stare.

let me lose my mind to the screen.

jingle your keys before me.

I am bereft  of independent thought,

what our ancestors predicted this was not.

For those on top, this is what they want,

an army of robots bereft of thought.

A kind word and an autograph
were the sort of things he did..
He always had a winning smile
The man we called “the kid”.

In Victory; magnanimous,.
In defeat: A stand up guy.
He was the newsman’s hero
with deadlines looming nigh.

With his Mets down two games to nil
and a must win game to play.
He drove the ball to Lansdowne Street
and showed his team the way.

He hated making the “last out”-
In game six he never did.
His single brought us to our feet
The man we called “the kid.”

Now the opposing pitcher, Death,
has slipped a changeup by.
That Gary went down swinging
will cause grown men to cry.

But somewhere, in some little league,
There’s a kid with curly hair.
Who loves the game like Gary did,
He’s the answer to our prayer.

He’ll play the game the right way,
just like Gary always did.
Then, when he smiles, we’ll think about
The man we called “the Kid”.

another killed in helmand thats what the newsman said another soldier coming home but this time he is dead.
another family grieving  there hearts so full of grief watching as there soldier is buried underneath.
now is home is heaven with the angels up  above now is war is over and all he has is love.

This world is threatening me

This giant abyss

This newsman
Is bla-bla-blabbing

But he's just part
Of the program

I won't name
Her name

I wouldn't want
Her to be seen in a bad light

And although I think
Of the fun times we had
They are gone...

And she was just playing after all
She never really cared
That much

I mean I'll give her some credit
But people love money
Most of all

Remember that

The love of money
Is the root of all evil

For forty years he wrote thousands of
obituaries at his hometown newspaper.
This selfless solitary childless widower
never dwelled on shortcomings, never
mentioned flaws. Instead his writing was
fueled by the milk of human kindness,
nourished by a wellspring of compassion.
His reputation was built on shamelessly
deifying shady politicians, duplicitous
bankers, the occasional CPA with an
affinity for loopholes. Everyone - man
or woman - no matter what personal
failings they had, was elevated to near
sainthood by the time all caskets were
lowered, all tears shed.

And then the lonely newsman faced his
own grim diagnosis, his days numbered,
death imminent as it was for all of his
subjects. When they found him alone,
disheveled and deceased, in his tiny,
cluttered walk-up apartment, they found
a little handwritten poem stuffed in his
pajama pocket:
             "I praised and eulogized
              My less than perfect neighbors.
              To my successor I simply say:
              'Kindly return the favor.'"

“It Could Have Been Worse”

New York City, 31 October 2017

Our thoughts and prayers are with the families
copycat we are Something Strong we are
not afraid plow into mowed down it could
have been worse the new normal lone wolf we

will not change the way we live our thoughts
and prayers are with the families copycat
we are Something Strong we are not afraid
plow into mowed down: "it could have been worse…”

*Oh, newsman, how could it could have been worse
For the eight innocents murdered in the street?

I put his ***** in my mouth,
and he puts mine in his hand
and we laugh in unison
except my laugh sounds
like I'm gargling marbles
and his laced with
painful joy

We're on my mother's bed
and it's my fifteenth birthday;

The television is on,
and the sound of a
newsman fills the
evening air

60 dead and 5 others wounded
is all I can manage to hear

as he begins to make his way inside
of me, a silent joy consumes my
soul and I'm floating away to Heaven

I see God, and I feel him
fill me with contentment;
his hand is placed on my forehead
and I kiss his fingers
as they slowly leave my face

The front door shuts
loud with a bang and
my friend and I struggle to put
on our clothes;

It's father;

I've gotten
used to the loud,
calculated steps
he takes up the stairs

We both sit on the bed
and act as if we just finished
praying

The door opens
and he smiles,
and asks us
why we are
sweating;

but his eyes make his way
to the television;
he becomes distracted and tells
us with a grimace on his face
to go downstairs and
play a game

I grab my friend's
hand and rush
down the stairs

just to be alone with
him once more.

Au revoir to the fever dream valentines strung out on the idea of an almost always that never was quite anything
To the ash tongued burn scarred stigmatized and delusional messiahs shivering outside the unemployment offices
To the leftist inquisition huddled together for the warmth of enlightenment,
In poorly knit thrift store sweaters,
In drug induced nightmares,
In outdated self referential rhetoric,
In visions of a reckoning that has already come they couldn't be bothered to notice
I can not be bothered to notice
I watch the dead eyed newsman cut his sweetheart a chelsea smile with dimestore switchblade and now he's reading to her manic and weeping from his ***** diaries
She's an actress and I can't feel anything anyway
The spirit is exploding out the back of the skull from shotgun epiphanies and the psych ward prophets are holding on for dear ******* life and I am losing control every second I think about it
I know they'll come for me this time, I can hear them calling for my blood when I turn my ears to the sky
Deliver my eulogy as if you were there to see the end
Fake whatever you have to for the crowd
Paint your idols in shades of gray and your wayward ******* fathers the same
We're building up to some kind of ****** here and I'd like to just get to it
Maybe the lights are only on because there isn't anyone home to turn them off
But I can't make any of that matter now
I have it, all of it
I have a medicine cabinet's worth of reasons not to wake up,
I have enough clarity of vision to know that I can't see anything,
I have a page that never fills and a poem that never lives up,
And I have a sign hung round my neck that reads:
"Days Clean: 0"
The only thing I don't have is something to lose

Accosted constantly by broken dreams ,spinning spiraling out of control it seems
Bright beginnings quickly quaffed while routinely enjoying your  morning Joe
Shocked to the core effective in that they won't become a bore with daily schemes
Shake it off ,fresh air, but then the radios blare, commuters absorb newsman whoa

We smile but then accept all brash,rash craziness as it is played out on our day
Angry outbursts grab for space along with parades and time honored holidays
Common community thoughts & playing quickly becoming Passe
Begging for the beginning ,fire needing to rise higher than basics & normalities

Relaxing within reality ,heinous having the heading ahead of regularity
No longer the top lists for cinemas, full time becoming fixated  on flashes of fear
Gloom,doom for noon leave us wanting an upper by supper or at least a similarity
Happy is simply half as important when redeemed with a tweet speeding in high gear

Vehemence can be be a double sided word why not the thrill with a big joy
Daily intake of faster moving "news" with pre conceived views is blindly hypnotic
While painting the world as a rainbow is off balance,showing all the ill is merely a ploy
Big world being reduced to a tweet,snap,c&p; A.P. dialogue being taken in as almost ******.
R.C.

Several poets have told me
That I wear the wrong hat;
I should be a journalist
And let it go at that.

That I should write who-what-when-where
And put it out as news
And turn my eye to everyday
And pay the newsman’s dues.

I can’t put my quill pen down
And give up making rhyme.
I have vistas in my soul
That snare me every time.

Though I dance among the fairies
My words create brick walls
Devoid of hollyhocks and lace
When answering the calls

That urge me to take pen in hand
And share what moves my heart.
The need to see reality
Will doom me from the start.

I won’t wear a reporter’s hat
The double yous can rot.
I’ll keep searching for the elves
Whether finding them or not.
ljm

You’ve known the morale of Earth to be shattered
In present times it is simply tattered
But sleep not
Taking no example from wars fought
Comes the forbidden country with its Asian H-Bomb
Not King Kong
Headed by the mastermind of Kim’s ding ****

Promising more fire and fury
In the face of people dying in Syria cruelly
Waiting for Marie Curie’s discovery of radiation therapy
In vain amidst the conflicts of the politics and terrorism influenced crowd
300,000, 500,000 deceased
You don’t need the weatherman to tell you which way blows the cloud
As war blows out the populated masses
You know the breaking news is just about to grow oh so loud

I know a drunken political brawl is going to break out
As each belligerent ostentatiously displays their tiny fists and clout
Since H-bomb fads are usually unclarified
We need a report to be verified
For substance in a conspiracy to be amplified
I have mine and I know I have not lied

But we’re out of this
Floating on our crowded cloud
Moving where the newsman predicts where the wind will blow
Sifting through all lands even the ones troubled by disaster and war sound
After you foolish anti-Semitics and xenophobes have suffered for your racist lies
I will know when the Supreme One dies
Or when my fairness is darkened by ashen skies
Still suffering from your opposition to the movement of Civil Rights
You better finally unite
And not fall to his rallies made of dynamite and a false nationalist’s delight

CNN’s got nothing on me
Or on Kennedy
So now they need a story
Of a close-up of battle fury
To burn BBC
In foolish jealousy
Let’s see who’ll get first claim on my conspiracy theory

While everything down on the rocky and urban terrain
Gets vanquished and torn
After long when there is no question of who will remain
Thanks to the lovely UN
I’ll be forlorn
Playing my guitar and saxophone
To ease me and everyone aboard playing harps within the musical Trinity
Shifting my sights to Germany
For homeless refugees washed on the sea shores of hopeful destiny
As they look forward to a life full of opportunity
And I’ll finally know that our chalked out journey
Shall be peaceful and trouble free

Finally I come back to my intended caveat
Trump if your crowd doesn’t change
Then neither will you get over the possible economic speed bump
But you’ve already sent Wall Street in a frenzy over your antics
And your loyal critics will be jittery and pensive
Over your reckless statements reeking of belligerence
When you should be on the defensive

But you want show your democratic prowess
But remember the World Trade Towers
And you’ll know that the Dictator only means us harm
He doesn’t believe in logical calm
So you should use the diplomatic arm
To protect the swarm

If you go down
Our cover will get blown
And the only one left laughing
Will be that stereotyped mad clown
In the apocalyptic now
With no one to wear the thorn crown
Of forgiveness
And Catholic renown

But go on with your game
You’re only one to manage to put the electoral college to shame
But it’s not only your politics
It’s the crowd too
The bunch of asinine fanatics
Who will tear apart their beloved country
Before the H-bomb’s entry which heralds doom

One needs a ****** devil or an angel
For an entry
Into your country
You’ve made everyone wary
But till now most of us have survived
Without racism and xenophobia getting revived

I beg you to please bring fraternity
To bring peace on this clueless cloud for eternity
For us to finally get down safely
To bring about the plenary

the tube
on a synch
remedy for sickness
a kitchen sink
government says
stay at home
wink wink
for the most
part
the situations' stink
left here
to take
hold my drink
newsman says
this is what
to think
neighbour
peeking
through their curtain
turns into
another fink
love that
was all
around
gone in a blink
your finger
broke
searching
yet another link
we take nothing
with us but
our soul
think

Talk of peace as rivers of life flow from your fingers
a shadow of a shell meaning well still within the shattered soul
foul and fell sitting there on the shore still lingers
your intentions prowl from the blurry hell, dull embers in your skull
a fire that hides from other light, deep down in a hole

In line with design, deigned to reign the stars malign
warlord's prayer, profit rules divine, oh men see everything but the sign
tie your notes and postcards to carrion birds, whose beaks will wine and dine
wet in the flesh of you before the last night is through, no good killers resign
plan to feign the bane of prophets, trained to rain remorseless, streaks of fire like red twine
inherited these causes, never known the pain, only been loaded onto a plane to fight your father's fight; your sons will do just fine

Newsman come and cover our tears, we weep for the world to see
a message that no one ever hears, the tale continues on tape, cautionary
fallen like some precious angel, encapsulated in a tapestry of memory
they prefer to close the casket on the presence of the corpse with their honors
and when they're all finally gone, it's just another death in the family.