CliffSongs

  Path   Moments in time in frozen dream, Of petty mind, or broken scheme. Or complex plan beyond our stretch, Each a memory to etch.   What fail recalled, reminded pains? What can overshadow your gains? Memory is not tied to fate, Regret harbored is simply weight.   The many paths we might have tread, The many words we left unsaid. Down the path of time we’re sped, Fleeing the tears we once had shed.   What could have been is now the past, That was then, the die has been cast. New days have now come and are gone, Pick yourself up – time to move on.   The many paths we might have tread, The many words we left unsaid. Down the path of time we’re sped, Fleeing the tears we once had shed.   You are not the only one, Regretting what has or not been done. The future is never disclosed – You’re on the path that you chose.   The many paths we might have tread, The many words we left unsaid. Down the path of time we’re sped,

  Darklings   Sheltering in lengthening shadow, A slither and crawl and slink is made to arrive, The darklings linger, And wait for their appointed turn. Moments they have only, Time snatched from the spans, A trouble they bring to the unwary, To the unguarded, To the unaware. Frights they have in abundance: Whispers from far places, Or the corner of a room, Or the pillow beneath the head. They may twist shadows reaching, Lengthened claws in the dark, While cackles circle the mind, Or bone-scrapes sing discordant. Vagrant mists may arise, Animate and translucent, Seeking entry with cold tendril damp, Or gyrating in mad seduction. Unmelodies may strain in dissonance, Deranged themes to unwind the wit, Laying bare dreads thought forgotten. All these the darklings hold to wield, Horrors concocted in planes unthinkable, Reaches out of sync with time or reason. They have but a little while, Therefore their dires are potent, Brewe

  Too Easy   The tell: The slavish fealty reveals. Our nation’s principles mean nothing To the unprincipled. The complaint: “Why may I not lie?” Outlandish claims on attempted repeat – Some things simply may not fly. The undercurrent: “We are being replaced.” Every bad thing is laid upon the border, The corporate sponsor can do no wrongs. The image: Polished and groomed, Slick as goose grease, And as untrustworthy As the thinning ice he occupies. The mistake: Challenging an honest man. When talking from both sides of the mouth, At least one side Must speak at least some truth. The claims: Assigning merit and blame On the candidate, And forgetting she Is not yet in charge. The implication: She soon will be. The failure: To represent oneself worthy, By simply upholding the key doctrine Of the nation you would lead. A clear choice defined by a moment. Thank you, J.D. You’ve made it easy…   Cliff Lake 10/2/2024 C

  10 th Moon   When the shadows grow long, When the air cools swift, When green goes red, And the goose cries overhead, You feel the change, And your senses heighten.   The clatter of baring branches, The flash of yellowing leaves falling, The low whistles of wind in the eaves, These herald the change, Keeping you watchful, And waiting.   What do you wait upon, Or is it whom? No matter how often you have lived this, These swift shifts promise unsurety, Variances in sight and sound and feel, And the nights darken more deeply.   Moonlight comes clearer, Sharpening edges and outlines, Night sight precision Induces more uncertainty than clarity, Accuracy is not associated with night vision, A certitude that must not be trusted.   So too are night noises more evident, Palpable in their sharpness, Seeming both too near, And not far off at once. A deception in distinctness, Unmeaningfull when heard.   The changing weat

  Empties   The night becomes Dislighted. Shades enter – Patches of not dark, Nor graylight, But nonlight. They are here, Nonexisting and real, The Empties: Nothingness disclosed, Segments of unbeing. They are impossible. This is not how things are. This is how things are now. You have drifted to the Unplaces, Where things are not, And you must be not also, If you are to remain. The Empties have come, They coruscate with unreality, Unsparkling, Displaying the madness of misconsciousness, An invitation to unself. A congregation of envoidments beckoning, A persuasion of not insanity, But to unsanity. An unravelling of being to be Other. This will not be how things are. This is how things are now. The air here is now too thick, Your every breath takes on weight, Swallows of existence, Gulps of reality, Before you unbecome. The Empties have come, And are not here, And will take you anyway. This is the October H