CliffSongs

  Ambition   Ambition. What is it but another path That ends where all roads must? Can you be more than what you are? Have you fulfilled the potential You are told to have? Do you control your fate? Have you escaped the box you were assigned? Or did you just find a bigger box, And painted it so that you cannot see the walls? Who has told you what to be? Or are you the influencer Speaking pretty promise Holding in your hands no substance, Just the allure of cash ungained. Ambition. It too ages, Becomes defined by experience, Failure or success, Promises skewed by circumstance, And at last, The mirror on your wall. Stasis comes to all things, Even the tides will slow. So, we head into a new year by the calendar, But the seasons do not know that. Fish will spawn in their proper time, The bear will leave its den by the moon, Or simple hunger. They will not ask of your midnight promises, They will not care to hear your plans.

  Dear Gregory   Dear Gregory Wayne Abbott, Greetings to you this Christmas Day! Truly thee hast celebrated the Lamb of God, By thy disposal of thine indigent elsewhere! Thou art wondrous in thy protection of thine own! Verily doth thee cast aside those that Christ despises! They that wouldst hunger before thee, Repugnant are they that wouldst cause thee discomfort! Drive them before you as swine! For they have dared to ask succor of thee, Believing themselves to be equal to thee in the eyes of God. Lay them down unto the godless Democrat, That they may show kindness to the wanderer, That they may feed the poor, That they may house the dispossessed who so offend, They that must be ungodly, For they have no gold to offer thee. O Gregory Wayne Abbott, Thy divinity abounds! Thou art indeed true to the blood of Christ, Or rather will be, When thy sins are totted up, Then will thee remember, Then will thee recognize, The eye of the needle

  The People That Don’t Exist   Do you know about The People That Don’t Exist? No, you don’t. There’s one living down the street. Did you know that? No. There’s one working at the office. And one that works at the grocery store. Did you know? Maybe you waved at him yesterday. Maybe you said hello to her. Then they disappeared. Because they don’t exist. They don’t have birthdays. They don’t have birthdays because you never asked. They don’t have Christmas. Or Hannukah or Kwanzaa. They don’t have holidays because they don’t. And somehow you knew that. And knew enough not to ask. Some of them are homeless, yes. Some of them have houses. Do they have homes? You don’t know. It’s better that way. Because they don’t exist, not really. Not for you. They know they don’t exist. Did you know that? No.   No, you didn’t. I mean, how could you? Some of them are okay with that. Some of them like it that way. Some of them don’t. B

  The Tides   The tide came in today.   But I was running out of dish soap which was going to be a pain in the ass because I’m expecting guests and there isn’t time to go to the store because holiday traffic and there’s weather on the way and my sister was SUPPOSED to stop at the store on her way over but didn’t because she forgot or had some minor emergency with work or just didn’t goddam feel like it that’s what I think and maybe I can make it stretch but JESUS was it really that much of a hardship when she knows I already have my hands full and she knows what it’s like which is why she asked me to do it thi…   The nine years from 2013 through 2021 rank among the 10 warmest years on record.   Those goddam Republicans are going to waste everyone’s time for two fucking years investigating shit no one actually cares about or can do anything about and for Christ’s sake Matt Pedo Gaetz made a big deal about adding the laptop info int

  The Leader   From the front lines he comes, He hasn’t the time for finery, Or excuses. He has a mission, Lives are at stake, And not just his peoples’. The enemy he faces dies too. The nations dependent on blood oil, They face a cruel winter, Made crueler by a despot, A maniac. A recidivist so intent on proving the horse is not dead, That he casts the unproven into the maw. He does this willingly, Unreservedly, Flagrantly. He does these things from a bunker. Coward. Meanwhile… His counterpart walks with his people, And in front of ours. He does so openly, Defiantly, Proudly. No coward. He stands with his people, He exhorts his people. He exhorts the world. He asks, But does not beg. He stands before us all. He is dressed as he should be: Ready.   Cliff Lake 12/22/2022 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2022

  A Different Sky   Under a different sky I could have…   I am here Being this person Walking this road Maybe it isn’t an answer It isn’t even a question.   Maybe plays in my head.   Under a different sky I would have…   This is now The future is yet fog When is a question Today needs answer What use is another when?   The past sometimes whispers in my head.   Under a different sky I should have…   Then is closed Here is the only possible Roads will diverge I can only walk on one Sometimes I stumble.   Under a different sky I would still be me. Perhaps the road does not diverge so much…   Cliff Lake 12/20/2022 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2022  

  A Cut   There is a cut that is too deep, Healing is but a laughing matter. Affecting appetite, affecting sleep, You cannot break what is already shattered.   The workday is hours as long as life, Nights are cold and long and emptied. Dreams are reminders of the wielded knife, Memories of me soiled and tempted.   Rotted, torn, and full of promises gone dead, I am less than I was and thus incomplete. I am reduced to a past life in my head, As my heart does little more than merely beat.   Get up, go to work, sleep and in between, eat. Produce nothing, inspire no one, And not knowing why I keep on my feet. I can’t get away from myself no matter how fast I run.   Where is the end? What of the bright promises of youth? What am I doing here? Where do I go? Why have I learned nothing? Why is there no truth? Why will I get up in the morning? I just don’t know.   But I will. I swear to God I will.   Cliff Lake 4/26/2015 Copy

  Dark Soldiers Have No Pulpit A poem requested by my friend Ozzy   Waiting, watching, adding up the miscues, Coldly waiting for the moment when I'll collect your dues. There will not be a warning, You should have already known. But the time will come, with nowhere to run, And you will be painfully shown.   Dark soldiers have no pulpit.   Dark soldiers have no pulpit. We have only the night.   Have you hurt anyone lately? Hell, I already know. What goes around, comes around – You had better come around, Or you had better go. 'Cause I am standing back here watching, And if I don't like what I see, You will first answer to all others, Then you will answer to me.   Dark soldiers have no pulpit.   Dark soldiers need no pulpit. We need only the night.   You need to stop that fucking up,   ‘Cause innocents are being hurt. You need to stop that fucking off, Or you'll be sleeping in the dirt. Like the cat I'll st

  The Chicago Price   It’s mid-December, not quite years end, Here we are forced to tell this tale again: Chicago this time, and just before Yule, Just another shooting of children at their school.   Benito Juarez High School, classes letting out, One teen pronounced, another in grave doubt. Two others with injuries, they will probably live, But a single life taken, is one too much to give.   So now the rallying cry will be taken up again: “Give everyone a gun, or two, or five, or ten!” Why is it that proliferation is the cure? How much more of this illogic will helpless children endure?   The more the guns, the more the shots, the more that people die, It’s that simple a chain of rationale, you don’t even have to try. But good ol’ Ted, and Marjorie, and simple Bobo too, Will take their pay from the NRA so they can sell the lie to you.   That arming teachers and locking doors and teaching children fear, Is the only way forward that we can t

  Stumbling Ugly   Gasping, grasping, Drunk on power it no longer has, It flails and curses those it reviled, Loyal only to its own lurid appetites.   Failures, flounders, Tactics fall, What ghostly laughter follows it now? Petty mirth from inside the camp.   Screams, squeals, Accusations of treachery, Taught too well, too long, Now actioned in counterplay.   Plotting, planning, Projecting parts it played, It rails against the justice seeking, Unwilling to fathom the price that must be paid.   Defend, destroy, These only it accepts, No recompense made, No apology it proffers.   Slinking, sulking, Still, it claims victory, Even through dwindling asset, Even from failed quest.   Cohorts, companions, Compelled to admit conspiracy, One by one they quit him, Forced to abandon the illegitimate sovereign.   Canvass, crusade, It profits less, A cash cow milked too hard, Bitterest dregs remaining.   Remaindered,

  The Lost Song   Can you hear the trees sing? The creaking bough, the rustling leaves, A trunk’s comment when swaying in the breeze? Accented by the percussion of the clambering squirrel, And the piping of the nested bird, Can you hear the trees sing?   Are their voices choked by belching smokestack? Stony pipes pouring filth into the skies, A celebration of industry drowning nature’s chorus, Smothering voices too soft for undiscerning ears? Why don’t you hear the trees sing? Or do you hear the earth cry?   Have you been deafened by roaring engines, Screaming overhead, rattling in the street, groaning on the rails? Are you more attuned to the vendor in your pocket? Or have you merely stopped listening? Have you heard the earth cry? Can you let the trees sing?   Must you drown them out in the winds of climate wronged? Battered nature pushed to a limit we don’t truly know, A force we cannot understand yet, Thus far not seeing her full

  Where in this World   Where do you find your hope under the wintering skies? When the steeled clouds lower, And the north winds harsh you, Frigid and too damp to bear their load?   Where can you find promise of truth held forth? Not in the words of evil men, Twisting the rigor of law to their liking, Coercing the weak-thinking, the unknowledged , The lunatic and the bloodthirsty all, Eager lackies and toadies hoping for crumbs from the table, Though they be soaked in the blood of their brothers. No light will be found among these, Those days have passed.   Where do you seek for endurance in faith? Among a clergy stained with greed, With lust for power and the avarice of the cheaply bought? They no longer aspire to a higher calling; Gold has tweaked them and they have fallen beneath its weight. They too now have the scent of violence in their nostrils, Wielding heavenly promise as a bludgeon. They fail you with borrowed testament, Now

  The Extra Step   Those almost winter afternoons, The air a bit too crisp. The traffic swallowed by silence. Everything echoes. Nothing muffled by leaves long fallen, Long collected, Long blown into gullies and hedges uninhabited. Only your footsteps sound, A staccato amplified and repeated among darkened houses, Not yet lit against the night. The cold sharpens the edges of racket, Too loudly do you hear your breath, Your footsteps. The sun seems to speed to the horizon now. Things may begin to bend.   It is the twilight time. The not-dark. The not-light. It is the indistinct time. It is the slip-shadow time. It is the maybe time. It is not your time.   There! The extra step. It falls out of sequence. Your half-turn does not reveal, Only causes you to step out of sequence, It is imperative to regain the rhythm.   A little faster now? Yes? Is that wise? Is that necessary? You know these paths, these streets, What i

  Mind Echo   The difference between what I want and what I am. The place between what I know, and I haven’t read. The sound of the things I allow to be heard, And those I don’t. The smell of the rot I will not see. The glare of the things known I close my eyes to.   These guide my steps, my stumble. Do not see me fall – I have not fallen.   The bruises of mistakes I will not remember. The cracks in the shield I do not admit. The tears I do not tell, And will not cry again. The feel of caresses unnatural, sought in earnest. The tales of the unheard and left behind.   These my unsteady foundation, my leaking hull. Do not see me fall – I have not fallen.   Where on this rock is my rest? Where is the void I cannot fill? Where is the screaming banshee I hear always? Where is the echo to my own?   The shatters of promises I did not keep. The failures of plans untried. The dreams I did not reach for, And dream still. The place

  The Mess in the Media   The petty thing that crawls through the kitten pictures, A bottom feeder, It looks for the tender spot, Sowing rancor and disgust, It revels in the discord.   A meme, An insult, An argumentation full borne of ignorance, These are its tools, its pricks, and prods, It’s here for the laughs.   Substance is anathema, proof its poison, It will suffer no substantiation, A document causes it to turn and bite. It will have no order, Chaos is the goal.   It reviles, Accusing those that refute it of its own sin, Becomes the victim at will. Dare you to confront it, it will hunt, Paying petty persecutions for your audacity.   Ignoring it leaves it free to roam, Making havoc on those less willed than you. Raise your shield if you must, It will find softer soil to muddy, Easier flesh to jab.   Kick it, have it kicked, Will it return in other guise? Will it seek you once more? Or will it become more wily,