Dawn Clouds
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
—Kim Clyde, Sacramento
The city
Is growing yet again.
It has eaten up
A corner
Of grasses
And trees
And wild growing
Chinese mustard.
The first flowers
Of spring
Plowed and
Broken
Under the
Storey-high tires
Of the grader,
Yellow
Like the flowers
It destroyed.
Rows of lighting
Have been
Thrown up
Like steel trees.
Their promise
Is the
Dimming of
The glorious moon.
The lighting
Is
Necessary
To no one.
No pedestrians here.
Few cars
After dark.
Insatiable
Our lust for
Development.
Why this
Fear of the soil?
Of nature?
Why cover the crust
Of our mother?
Why bury
Our only hope
Of salvation?
Without open spaces
We are bereft
Of the green-man
Our natural spirit.
Of our place
In nature.
We can look
Into the screens
Of our devices
But we will never
There
Find the scent
Of a meadow
Or
A stand of trees.
Never know the feel
Of mist
Moving on the shore
Kissing an upraised cheek.
Feel the wind
At your back.
To experience these things
You have to step off
The concrete path.
This
You cannot google.
This
Nature
We must strive
To protect.
Nature
Has roots
Not legs.
It cannot
Run away
From us.
_____________________
TANGLED IN SLEEP
—Kim Clyde
In the dream
The poem is long
The words, scribbled
Over the walls
Along the back
Of the sofa,
Defacing
Pillows.
The scratching sound
Of thick black
Felt-tipped marker
On embroidered linen.
Writing and
Crossing out
Passages
In rooms lit
Brilliantly
By the mid-day sun.
Realization comes
That this is indeed
A dream
With that
Illuminating light.
The house
Was never thus
Its dingy windows
Mirrored rooms
Packed beyond reason
There was never
Such space
To move in.
In the dream
The lines
Illusive
I scratch them out
Erasing
Passages out of the past.
Passages needing
Obliteration.
The sleeper cannot read
The words
Only hear the brush of the pen
And inhale the toxic scent
Of its ink.
_____________________
LOWER CASE LOVE
—Kim Clyde
Big love
Writ in
Capital letters.
Dripping in
Lust
Never
Seems to last
The turmoil
Of emotions
Native to that
Country
Without two
Determined
Travelers
Willing
To do the work
To break the back
Of chance that
Confronts desire
With that
Next
New
Thing.
It is
Love
In lowercase
That has a better chance
Of standing
The test
Of time
And distance and
Flesh and blood and bone.
Lust
Cannot hold a candle
To a sometime lover
Who is a constant friend.
_____________________
IT BEGINS
—Kim Clyde
It begins
In infancy
Tiny ears
Pick up sounds
Heard
In the play-pen
Absorb
Everything
From a bug's
Perspective
On your back
A hapless
Helpless
Grub.
And
If
You grow
Into
A keen mind
With a long memory
The words
Return
With meaning attached.
“Stay in the yard” said the mother,
“Watch your sister!”
Looking down as
You look up.
“Let’s go” sister says, “Nobody would want her anyway.”
I have always known
The only person
I could ever count on
Always being there
Was me.
______________________
SOMNAMBULIST
—Kim Clyde
I'd like to
sleep with you sometime.
Curl up in the crescent
of your arm,
our ambient glow
a luminous, earth-bound moon.
I'd like to
wrap myself in the
blanket of your body
and listen—
your measured breath
a tide washing up at my nape.
I'd like to
wake up to you
in the dim hour before dawn
and lay you bare.
I'd take you in and watch
a smile illuminate
your drowsing face
as morning breaks.
I'd like to
but for now
I am content to sleep
alone.
_____________________
DOWN UNDER
—Kim Clyde
I remember a time
When sleep had me
Held me down
Deep
Held me captive
In its embrace
So heavy
Like swimming in cement
I felt I was
Clawing my way
To the surface
Tearing
My fingernails
On the curtain
Of night
Straining
To the surface
Of consciousness
Feeling I was being crushed
Under the weight
Of the world.
When I opened my eyes
It was only morning.
____________________
DELUGE
—Kim Clyde
He is nestled
In the dry sandy earth
Outside the bedroom window
The full and
Luminous moon
Reflected in his
Liquid black eyes
Chirrupping
To hurry the coming rains.
There is no song as sweet
As the frog prince
Anticipating
The sleeping spring.
_____________________
Thanks, Kim, for today's poems! Kim Clyde says she is "a newbie in the poetry realm, though she has always been better at writing than speaking. She kept journals for years, but burned them all when she discovered they had been read by a stranger. Encouraged by Dave Boles (and Bill Gainer) of Primal Urge Magazine, she began writing again last year and hasn’t looked back."
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
ASH WEDNESDAY
—Kim Clyde
The finger of god
Never tapped me on the head
Empty as it was.
_____________________
—Medusa
Butte Meadows Oaks
—Photo by Katy Brown