Submitted by Neil McKay on August 9, 2013
Oh, you're still here?
I wandered away for a bit.
Not realizing you would remain
Seated and patiently waiting for the next poem.
The truth is, I never have believed
My poetry was all that good.
Compared to yours, compared to anyone's
Especially compared to the dead poets
Of my former acquaintance.
The truth is, my poetry
is simple and maybe pedestrian
is theraputic and less universal
than I had once hoped.
The truth is, my poetry
Speaks to me and I can't expect
any more from it than that.
How could it be your truth
Unless you deliberately misinterpret it?
But if you do choose to wring out
Some arcane truth of your own design,
I can't stop you, unless I stop writing.
So keep on sitting there and try
To wrap your head and heart around this next one.
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on August 3, 2013
He sits at the table
In the cool gray evening
Outside the Red Light window.
Speaks carefully chosen words,
Rhythmic hands smooth gestures
Before the words are put down.
Inside the window, jazz plays.
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on July 30, 2013
The soft square mattress set in the corner
Soon followed by a beige silver muzzled
Grey hound sniffing each inch before
Curling round and round and round
Into a very well deserved nap
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on July 25, 2013
Gulls know something
Never to be measured
About necessary wings
Lovely updraft glides
Keening over the bay
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on July 23, 2013
If ethics is the science of morality,
where do you stand today,
yesterday or tomorrow for
friendship and romance, war
and peace, work and play.
Men’s wordy arrogance
chosen carefully or not
in the whys and wherefores
without necessary tenderness
or ears to hear what was said.
Does your disdain contain
an aperture, a small slit for
my words to slip through or
Is sanctimonious obeisance
required to circumvent intent.
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