CliffSongs

  Capture   Crossing the field, The etched urn bounces softly at his back, The arcane symbols picked out by the sun. He watches the thicket to the left, Tree trunks shimmering, Vanishing, Reemerging, There his quarry rests, And with the inhabitants locked away, Hungry. Above him morning sun rises, and below it, The comet rides. The seers said the mists arrived with it, And in a year’s time, May leave when the sky-sign fades. Over his arm, his cloak: Thrice blessed, One invocation each from the Three Cults, Said to become stronger with each use. Drawing abreast of the infected grove, He slings the container from his back and assumes the crouch. Long practice and many encounters keep him loose, ready… From his periphery he watches the slow approach, One does not look direct to these things, The mind curdles… Too many brothers lost that way, He no longer finds friends among his peers, The heart and spirit can only take so ...

  Duty   “Ramshackle”, some said. “Crude”, they said. Yet here at the ancient crossroads, The waystation was yet. It had stood for untold years, Welcoming any, Open to all. Here the guardsman sat, Rumor had brought him. Near farms and homes, Their children kept close and Lately daytime shuttered, Not so approachable to a stranger, As scant months ago. A cloud or a mist it was said, A month past or so had appeared, Moving out from thick places, Or from shadow, Indistinct, And called deadly. Now the priest sits across the table, Offering comfort, And a talisman. The guardsman receives both gravely - Crossroads often harbor the strange. He is warned against a nighttime hunt, Though unnecessarily he thinks with a smile, Night fogs are always dangerous, Alive or no. From the nearby window he sees both horse and ass, The latter carrying the scripted urn – symbolled against escape, Empty now, But soon filled with imp...

  In Service of the State   Here he was, Facing the infinite night, That comes to all, Announced or not, But inevitable all the same. Many triumphs he could count Serving the state. Many deeds celebrated, And more unseen, And these perhaps, The more effective. No records were known of them, No photographs, But those seared in memory. Here at the end, They flicked by in stop-motion, Glaringly clear, With pleading faces in some, Or eyes hateful, The betrayals known in them. Black exploits and wrongful acts, The unseen crusade pursued. All to oblige an ideal long twisted, Misshapen policy, Perverted and distorted, Only to resolve in the same results, Had the ventures never been enacted. Now his sins haunt him, Recalling a life wasted in servitude, An existence bearing no fruit, Save the horrid rescreening He now endures. Outside this loathing he hears them:   “Coma like this can last years.”   I...

World on Fire   From the very first intended campfire, To the every funerary pyre. None ever thought to inquire: But what if we set the world on fire?   In our haste, we have set flame to bush and briar, Watching, we let the conflagrations grow higher. And our accomplishments we admire But haven’t we set the world on fire?   How do we get the temperature down? How much longer do we just fool around? Don’t you know, If we aren’t careful, We will burn it all to the ground.   Too late now, the deserts grow ever drier And the forests may be set to expire, Still, we strive for all we desire, But why did we set the world on fire?   How do we get the temperature down? How much longer do we just fool around? Don’t you know, If we aren’t careful, We will burn it all to the ground.   This earth was given to our trust. We must not leave it as some blackened crust. This earth does not belong just to us: We...

  Under the Stars   The engine rush and the oily smoke, And the industry screams as we choke, And the maddening rush for cash, And the filling the seas with trash,   What do we think we’re doing, friend? How much more can we the earth offend? Let the lights go out and then, We’ll find each other under the stars again.   Aren’t you tired of the bash and crash? Still trying to build an unreachable stash? Will we turn this place into ash? How much is left we haven’t trashed?   What do we think we’re doing, friend? How much more can we this earth offend? Let the lights go out and then, We will find ourselves under the stars again.   Will we always cut and chop and burn and slash? Why must we always act so damn rash? Will we succumb to some political whiplash? Wipe out the animals in one bright flash?   What do we think we’re doing, friend? How much more can we this earth offend? Let the lights go ou...

  A Barren   What dry thing is here? What dreary entrance now? Your musty being, Has blotted all cheer, That we may be as dour and morose As your own observances. What humorless existence is this? I hear the scowl on your face, In your every utterance, You pronounce dust and desiccation. You vacuum joy from laughter, You void goodwill, You erase smiles, Because you cannot find your own. How is it that misery sustains you? What sour mien puts a spring in your step, For you would march and stomp, Long before you would bounce. Discontent us no more! The sand in your smock is not ours! For here we seek contentment, And ease, And peace, And fellowship in care, And caring. Your crabbed speech, Your severity in tone and talk, Moves us at the first, But constant complaint Is an abuse of charity, And is at its worst, A cancer, And if needed, Will be removed. Cheer is not so hidden, That it cannot be found In th...

  A Profiteer   The profiteer was lazy. The profiteer was stingy. The profiteer was ruthless. Long had he hoarded, Little was his heart. Were it not for the law, His laborers might starve, If it were not required That they needed some strength. He exacted revenge in longer toil, Penalizing complaint, Yet maintaining the exacting standard. Would that he could employ none at all! Thus it was that he welcomed an arrival: An enchanter. This sage and sorcerer Promised riches unattainable with mere mortals, For he would bewitch the brambles and the vines, And these would require water only, And the profiteer could keep his gold. “But”, quoth the mage, “Give not all task over to these, For they are but helpers, And know not limit, Being unminded of the needs of men.” Then did the profiteer eagerly agree, But in his heart other plan did fester. So, did the enchanter make his spell, And satisfied with the animation of scrub an...

  The Whispering   The traitor sits whispering. Alone is his cell, A day from death, He whispers. The old tale: Conspirators, Clandestine meetings, Plots, Plans, Preparations. The arrangements made, The design enacted, The method performed. Trusted ministers betraying, The compact completed. A king lying in state, A cabal cementing control. And among them, The traitor. He who would inform. A loyalist to the court, Conscripted by the schemers, And found wanting. His death is assured. In his cell, He whispers. Names, He gives their names. The usurpers are named. The conspiracy as yet incomplete, The plot revealed, The unravelling told.     The traitor sits whispering. My term is done in days. His tale will be heard.   Cliff Lake 6/23/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Invisible   What cloak hides you? Have you blended in? Is invisibility more comfortable Than exposure with all those faults human? Is the appearance of the norm The face you wear? Have you found safety and succor in anonymity? Are you not someone? Or are you more content within the herd? Why not stand out? Why not be that unique yourself? What can you bring to bear Not possessed by any you know? Have you an identity inseparable from the crowd? Who are you then, If you are not like everyone else? Is being accepted what you seek? Or is it merely acceptable? What mark have you made, Or do you fade into the mass, Part and parcel to a whole That decides for you Whom you are to be? In that manner Is it easier to evade responsibility, And avoid consequence, Or do you simply find your ease knowing That you need not think for yourself. Have you fit in? Do you fit in? Are you yourself?   Cliff Lake 6/23/2024 Co...

  Slow Motion Disconnect   Stumble bumbles through the speeches. It’s only the braindead it reaches. Brain farts on the regular, Blame it on the temperature.   Ramble scrambles through his thoughts. Tying logic up in a knot. Keeps us all in suspense, If he’s going to wind up making sense.   It’s a slow motion disconnect, It’s far too late to redirect. No thought to resurrect, Watch the slow motion disconnect.   Hear the story he just made up Another decayed foul-up. Meandering and slandering, His handlers wish he would shut up.   Everything said another revision, Speaking with marvelous imprecision. Another bunch of words cut-rate, How’s he gonna make it through the debate?   It’s a slow motion disconnect, It’s far too late to redirect. No thought to resurrect, Watch the slow motion disconnect.   Stumble fumbles the campaign, Too late now to rebrain. A failing flailing candidate, ...

  Inside Estimation   Hello from your opinion, Can you support me with fact? I am entrenched in your emotions, I am your reactionary supplier. I only wish to express beliefs, What’s the harm in that? Oh, you have documentation? Ha hahahaha - I have faith. I have faith entirely in myself, The more I repeat, The stronger I get. Let me find a space that reinforces, A place of reassertion, Of reassurance… Ah, there’s that sweet, sweet dopamine! Of course I will need more, We both know that, And more still, Where are my assistive brothers? Who are the comforting sisters? Bring them to me prepackaged, And willing! Hello! I am your prejudgments, Your points of view, Your conceptions and speculations. I am not required to know, I am only required to exist, And given that I exist, I demand consideration, In spite of any evidence to my contrary, I must be allowed! I am here, I am presented, Therefore, I have meaning...

  Suffragette   Woman, you still have a vote, better take note, Of evil ideas they float, You they will demote, others are in that boat, But woman, you can be all she wrote.   Woman, with your choice in your hand, Woman, do you understand, All of your choices will be banned, Woman, do not let yourself be outmanned.   Here in 2024, will they take some more, Will you be losing rights? What are you waiting for, show them the door, Woman, stand up and fight!   Woman, with your choice in your hand, Woman, do you understand, All of your choices will be banned, Woman, do not let yourself be outmanned.   Hear them sling their jive, patriarchy revive, So many they want to deprive. With their Bible connive, backtrack overdrive, Woman, they will Project 2025.   Woman, the future in your hand, Woman, do you understand, Time for them to be outplanned, Woman, time for them to be outmanned.   Cliff ...

  The Walk Away   I tried to take certain steps, But we’ve gone too far. Once you had my respect, Your hand stuck in the cookie jar.   Said your boots are made for walkin’ They can walk right out that door. Tired of your side-mouth talkin’, So useless anymore.   I’d like you to hear me but hey, You stopped listening long ago anyway, You can only hear what you say, Put yourself in my shoes, And walk away.   We’ve gone down this road once or twice, Always end up in the same place. I will not again roll the dice, Time I saw the back of your face.   I’d like you to hear me but hey, You stopped listening long ago anyway, You can only hear what you say, Put yourself in my shoes, And walk away.   Not doing this another time, Will not wallow in your grime, Will not see another two-time, You’re only good enough for this rhyme.   I’d like you to hear me but hey, You stopped listening long...

  An Insidious   Ersatz engagement, Easy ear. Economical, Extracted, Everywhere, Edgy and eager. False features, Fake, Faulty, Feigned. Firing false. Synthetic, Sham, Screened, Sampled spark, Scoured scholars. Perpetrated package, Performative, Penetrating, Poisoning, Plastic proliferation pronounced. Creativity calculated, Curated, Captive and crushed. Complicit corporate, Callous campaign clouding. Machined merit, Managed, Mindless, Marketed, Madness, Misrepresented and mistaken. Garbage in, Garbage out, Gambled gain, Greed, Gall, Gloss, Governed goal groomed. Thoughtless theater, Throttled thinking, Thankless, Thwart, Threat.   AI.   Cliff Lake 6/19/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Electric Grapevine   What rumor rides the wind? What innuendo was spoken? What gossip grows? The vultures scan for scandal. Noses poised for the faintest whiff, Prurience and lechery ignite them, The salacious detail energizes. Drama-shy at home, They collect low stories. Or provide detail unmentioned, That they may seem more knowing. Hunched over their dim screens, Which fails first, Their eyesight? Or their goodwill? Which is easiest to live without? Too hungry for the next carnage, They long for the misstep, A feast in real time, Dregs consumed in electronic impulse, And not written for TV. Shock upon shock, Delivering the endorphins they’re hooked on, All for the cost of some electric, And the all-purpose wi-fi. A clean addiction this. Streaming something close to real life, But removed enough to keep their hands clean, And their consumption soiled. The next hearsay is tomorrow, They’ll be watching.  ...

  Preparation   An old poison prepared, The conjurer makes her way to court, In nobody’s pay she, But havoc is required.   The thing she requires to enter Must have disarray If it is to abide here long enough. Just long enough.   Who holds thrall here, Is a question she dares not ask, But studies the means of containment, And the ritual of banishment.   Dark dreams, dark dreams of late, Too often she wakens paralyzed and sightless, Save for the eyes and an unseen smile. She knows there are teeth…   Now the sorceress will begin a chaos, A release of blood and mayhem, That a thing may come, And grant her power undeserved.   Too long has she served, Now she will be served, Feared and tendered with all she could wish, And none will gainsay.   Now has she gained entry, Seeress and confidante. The preparation pours for all, Its praises sung by her in advance.   Now are goblet...

  Iris On My Terrace   Iris on my terrace, Warm petals sunned. Red brilliance and frail petal greet me, A reminder of life’s splendor And impermanence.   Iris on my terrace, Captive in your container, Would that I could set you free, Only to be firmly rooted elsewhere, And no longer in my view.   Iris on my terrace, Do you long for open sky? Or is this display your gratitude For the tender care of my hands? I know which I choose as my truth.   Iris on my terrace, Do you know joy? For your array Brings me more than solace, And turns the grayest day bright.   Iris on my terrace, A life silent, Yet your blaze speaks loud, And I hear you, And cry of your beauty.   Cliff Lake 6/16/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Brattler   Six years gone and you rattle on, You created your own mess. Six years on and you prattle ‘til dawn, We all need a hobby, I guess.   How you must suffer through complaint, Your curated obsession. Repeating it all without restraint, Such a solitary profession.   So, what’s the angle, fam? Are you nuts or is it a scam? You’ve bitched so long and so hard, There’s no room left to give a damn.   How long ‘til you’re over it, friend, Maybe you need a holiday. A minor matter to transcend, So many problems go away.   Continue in this possession, You will never get ahead. Stuck in your endless depression, You’ve gotta get out of your own head.   So, what’s the angle, fam? Are you nuts or is it a scam? You’ve bitched so long and so hard, There’s no room left to give a damn.   Cliff Lake 6/16/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

and Repeat   A singularity is on you – An aggression of objective. A return, And then a return. What solitary drive! A fascination of a particular, Compelled, You may not turn aside! Tunneled by intention, You envision vindication, Justification, And of course, The earned reward. Your pure purpose is beyond question, Your conviction assures you. You may not be dissuaded, For you have found illumination In sealed corridors reflecting the opinion You are already certain of. You need no acquittal, Your virtue is sure. Exalted, You may pity those not so lofty, You will bring them to understanding, As much of it as they are capable to comprehend, Though true perception, Is yours alone to possess. Therefore, your mission may never be deterred, Detoured, deflected, denounced, Denied. For enlightenment must be forced, If it is not accepted, Or heard, Or wanted. What do they know, These ignorant masses, That ignore ...

  Killing Machines   Who deals in death apparatus? Who suffocates reason? Who massacres progress? What are the killing machines?   Who can answer? We begin:   Who deals in death apparatus? Who buys the apparatus of law? Who has paid senators, Representatives, Justices? Media? Who is this killing machine? The NRA. The NRA is a killing machine.   Who suffocates reason? Who fears fact? Who hides from logic, Evidence, Critical thinking, Sanity? Who suffocates reason? MAGA MAGA suffocates reason.   Who massacres progress? Who thwarts the will of the people? Who hungers for power, Dominance, Control? Privilege? Who massacres progress? The Republicans. The Republicans massacre progress.   What are the killing machines? Who deals in death apparatus? The NRA. Who suffocates reason? MAGA. Who massacres progress? The Republicans. These are the killing machines. They don’t ...

  Corruption in Black   My sweet Justice, How thy bank account calls, Hungering for the reddened, dripping payoff, Required to silence the conscience.   Your fumbling opinion, A retreat into cowardice and mania, Protects thee from the wrath of fiends, Insulates thee from loss of revenue from the same.   What thick skin thee hath grown, What calluses hath thee applied to thy scruples, For thy march to the drumbeats That sound only of death.   Thee hath allowed thy black robes To try to cover thy sins, And thy service to corruption. Thee art stained and putrid beneath thy wrappers!   Now art thee exposed! Thy robes cover not! Thee art seen by all: Thee art nefarious, rotted, defiled, foul!   A stench rises from thy chambers: Death intermingled with shame, Gore fused with guilt, Thee art befouled and unclean.   Thee hath numbered thy days, fools! Thee hath abandoned this nation, Thee...

Newborn Hope   19 generations come and gone, Once we were young, once we were strong. To the land we belong, White Buffalo greets the dawn.   White Buffalo shows The Way, To a people gone astray. So many troubles on us weigh, White Buffalo here today.   White Buffalo came to me, To show me what I do not see, To teach me what can still be, White Buffalo stands by me.   Once we freely roamed the land, Through the grass, across the sand. Once our freedom so largely spanned, So much less now, by other hand -   White Buffalo came to me, To show me what I do not see, To teach me what can still be, White Buffalo stands by me.   White buffalo came to me. White buffalo stands by me.   Cliff Lake 6/13/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Some Shit (As suggested by a mod)   Shit. Why are we putting up with this Shit? It’s bad enough for those at the bottom being Shit on, But do we have to hear felons shoveling Shit? If you listen, you can tell he’s Batshit, But he’s also a felon so why listen to his Shit? He’s already been caught and convicted for his Shit, And if we get some honest courts he’ll go through more Shit, But some judges in high places are worth Shit. Are we really going to allow her to get away with that Shit? Between that one and certain Justices this country is going to Shit. I don’t know about you, but I still give a Shit, And I am voting as hard as I can and put them through some Shit. Vote along with me and we can put an end to this Shit. Before they infiltrate everything and everywhere and Shit, Let’s overwhelm them in blue and then The shit will hit fan!   Cliff Lake 6/12/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

Vacuum   Ah, the games you play… The feigning ignorance, The insincerity of the excuses, The plasticity exposed. How weak. How needless. Dancing just that side of the rules, Flaunting a touch of prohibited, How clever. How many times until The hand-slap? How long before A door closes to you? Will you be inside Or out? Which will cut deeper? Being ignored – That’s the one. Left out, Left alone, Left to entertain… Yourself. But that’s not how it works, Is it? A starving ego cannot feed itself, Thus, it eats at you, Until there’s nothing left But the hungry ego – Last vestige of a person That barely resembles Who you once were If in fact You ever were. Such a waste of oxygen. Should you read this, It won’t bother you a bit. You haven’t that capacity, So, I will waste no more time on you. I advise my readers to do the same.   Cliff Lake 6/12/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake

  Feeding the Empty   Why is it so difficult not to hate? What chemical breakdown, Has so poisoned you, That you have gone blind?   Once, you had neighbors, Friends and Family. What made it so easy To cast them away? Was it the red-eyed screaming mania? Was it the cool junk you can buy? Was it the promise of retribution For slights not done to you Or anyone you know? Was it the promise of blood? Each of us has the black hole within, The hungering void. Each of us has the empty That will not be filled. To feed it Requires all our energy And only returns frustration Anger Resentment and eventually Hate. Is this where you are now? Lost in your empty? Blood will not satisfy. It will only grow into a lust for more, Until there is so much, That you will drown. And you will still be empty. And you will still hate. And you will still have lost friends, Neighbors, Family. And you will wonder why. But t...

  Balmy   Do you remember that one time, It’s happening again! It almost seemed sublime, Will it ever end? A whirling dervish dancer, A barking dog or two, It seemed to be the answer, It thrilled me through and through. Where did all that time go? What methods did we choose? You asked me how did I know, I asked to be excused. The fancy ballroom dresses, Worn laughing in the rain, The fun and the excesses, I had to catch the train. The captain kept on calling, Though we were never there, It was always so enthralling, Hidden beneath the stair. We went back to school then, Dressed in our Tuesday clothes, Yes, it’s happening again, So, wear your nicest hose.   Cliff Lake 6/9/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  The River-Troll   Away from the village, The wooded lane goes. How deep in the wood, No one quite knows. In certain parts of the forest, The wind never blows, Where it is said, The river-troll rows.   Listen now lass, How this lesson arose, What one girl did learn, And what I may disclose. Just you sit back, Take your repose, And maybe you’ll learn, How the river-troll rows.   Out of the village, In her ribbons and bows, One girl did follow, Where the wooded lane goes. And the wise woman saw, And told what she knows: This girl would soon learn What the river-troll rows.   Deep in the forest, Where the wooded lane goes, The girl made her way In her ribbons and bows. She had heard many tales, That little exposed, What could be learned of, How the river-troll rows.   Three days she was gone Where the wooded lane goes. Then she returned, Minus ribbons and bows. And now a learn...

  Breath   Cold breath. That cannot be, Can it? Cold breath? Yet it is. There is no doubt. But breath is warm. This is not. This is cold breath. How can one know it is not the breeze? The smell. No freshened wind this, no. The smell. The smell of old, dead breath. The smell of cold, dead breath. Too close it is. Too regular it is. Cold breath. Cold breathing. Old breathing. There is a lust in it. A desire. Deep, slow, And cold. Unfeeling, so – Cold. If it gets closer, You will hear it. It will say What is unspeakable. And you will hear it. Your last coherent thought will be: “Yes.”   Cliff Lake 6/5/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Horses   And now it’s the laptop again. Somehow that’s the impeachable offense. Somehow that explains everything. Somehow that argument keeps falling down. It’s a dead horse you’re beating. “But immigration!” Lindsey just deflated that. Lindsey pointed the finger, Right back yourselves. And the President just … It’s a dead horse you’ve saddled. “But the lockdowns!” State by state, City by city – “It’ll be gone by April.” And you want to blame Fauci? That’s a dead horse you’re feeding. Performative legislation is… Performative. A show. An act. And you aren’t acting like adults. And you aren’t acting like you care. And you aren’t acting like you’re innocent. You’re just acting. And we’re sick of your act. The lights have come up, And we see behind the curtain. And you have nowhere to go, And you can’t get away, Because that’s a dead horse you’re riding. And we caught up to you already. November comes early, And ...

  Rules of Law   Who rules the law? One man, lawless and corrupt? One body, bereft of rules? One movement, desiring to be ruled? Who seeks this rule? Who would put the law in one hand? For the ruler speaks the law, And thee must obey. That is not rule of law, That is the law of rule, And it is not the law. We are not ruled, Though we have law. There are those who hate the rules, And so, they break the law. Many of these same wish to be ruled, And under such rule, Lawlessness thrives. Now they speak of the rule of law, While flouting what the law has ruled. They would have it both ways, That they may evade the rules of law. What has the law ruled? That no one is above the law, And that all must obey the rules. The law has ruled, And we will have the rule of law. Who rules the law? We the people make the rules, That is the law.   Cliff Lake 6/4/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Mr. Greene   Mr. Greene, that MAGA machine, Came to committee with a dream, And to express her frothing frustration. Mr. Greene with a scream, released all her steam Demanding redress of a situation. You see this doctor cared about international welfare, He wasn’t looking at no bottom line. But Mr. Greene, she feels this is obscene, She has the corporate interests to mind. So Mr. Greene caused another scene, Refusing to acknowledge degree. Then Mr. Greene, so off her bean, Made demands of her entire committee. Poor Mr. Greene, I think you need a health screen, Your brain seems somewhat overripe. Mr. Marjorie Greene, is it too much caffeine, Maybe you banged your head on that pipe. I think Mr. Greene, you never grew past fifteen, Acting like a spoiled child. Maybe Mr. Greene, this is just a smokescreen, So you aren’t busted for going hog wild. Mr. Marjorie Greene, has no mind left it seems, MAGA mismanaged ‘til the end. O Mr. ...