CliffSongs

  The Wood   His feet carry him into the wood, As they had yesterday, As they had so often and again. He did not know what had been lost, He did not know if it would be found again. Fairie glamour, or dream, or both, That guide his steps, To carry him Into the wood. Here he may catch a passing scent, Or a glimmer just past the eye, And faint laughter mischievous, Though something less than petty. Here he had found… Something… Someone… For a day perhaps, Or many nights, So unclear why he drifts Into the wood.   Daily she watches, He wanders these days, Lost to her, Or to himself. Once she caught his eye, And still he catches hers, Most days at least, When she sees him, When he remains in town, And has not yet stumbled Into the wood. She knows not what he seeks, As he does not know, But her heart is certain He will find more than he needs, In her eyes, In her arms, In a life that is theirs, Where she is now

  The Reading   The solemn company rides, The distance between villages, Grows greater with every passing year, Though none can say why. They carry the records, The great tome, Though only one among them, Has the skill to discern its meaning, For though highly esteemed, What use have hunters and herdsmen, For that arcane art? Still, some with the aptitude are found, Fostered, For some writings are survived, And new ones made, If slowly, and only by a few. The scribe among them, Is closely guarded, His letters young yet, And his sword but newly held. Tomorrow marks his first Reading, And he practices from his slate, Scratching the marks over and again, The low murmur of his art their only sound, For their beasts feet are muffled. They dare not announce their presence, As the Sheriffs are busy elsewhere, And bandits have been reported near to here. But they will dare this passage, Though dark has descended on the world, And

  Secret Dance   Garishly plumed and conveniently bulging, They advance upon the wallets in attendance, The promise of fleshy delights unspoken, Served up in three-minute intervals. This is a street corner named “Politics”, Where the pimps have names like “Senator” and “CEO”. The venue is cleaner, But the rules are the same. Outside, alligators prowl the golf course, With names like “Bob from Sales” and “VP”, Intent on sloppy seconds, Or maybe a video from a bathroom stall. In the main room, A prince wanders through, Or perhaps he’s a sheik, It matters not, Tonight the choices are his to make, Honored guest, And bankroll. His ears are on high alert, Listening for insult, That he may pluck the fruit, And pay nothing. But the wallets smile graciously, And the dresses writhe invitingly, And he may need To make agreement after all, But the rewards could be great, If the pigs can deliver. It is an old game, And he has won man

  Likes and the Like   Where is your validation? Do you find yourself warmed, By the accolades earned From your performance on the stage, Or that of your social media account? Is that flashy automobile, Reflective of your inner being, Your bank account, Your parents doting, Or their dotage? Is the sum of your investments, The sum of your investment In the pursuit of achievement, Or simply numbers on a page, Shared with yourself. What is your validation? A certificate hung behind glass, Or digitally reproduced. A mortgaged home that supports both jobs, Containing the children, Your mother asked for. Is your pride then held, By having been productive, Or is it found in a gap-toothed smile, Lit by your entry into a room? Where is your validation? Is it found in what you have collected That is inert and inanimate? Is it in the reply you wait for, Good or bad, Found on the device consuming you? Or is it in the wagging tail,

  Pichers of You   And have you answered me with a meme? Your misability exposed. Your tacit admission. You must not think on your own. You must not think. Let another, And retreat into the stupor. Let another, Four words at a time.   Whose words, Do you have on repeat? Whose words, Are indelible now? Whose words, Are your mindless mantra? Will you let another, Speak your mind, Or are you speaking theirs? Do you know any longer? Let another, Four words at a time.   Thinking is hard, Moreso when you refuse, And the catchphrase is both hilarious, And hurtful. Why decide between what is right, And what is instant? Mindlessness is comfortable, And pichers are easy. Easy is fun, And fun is better than thinking. Let another, Four words at a time.   Do you find facts, Impossible to refute? Logic is too hard, And critical thinking, Involves thinking. Someone else can do that, And make the picher funny, too.

  Advisements for the Guiltless   Hey there, Grumpy Gus, Got your best same suit on? Got your frown on your face? Well then, you’re ready…   Make a statement on the courthouse steps, Be sure to sneer When mispronouncing the judges’ name. Defame the jury anonymously, That way the charges can’t stick. Do you have any pictures Of the prosecutors relatives? Hand those out freely As proof of your goodwill. Make certain to deride the proceedings, No more viable demonstration of virtue Is there than insult, Everyone knows that. Your fervid proclamations of innocence, Will surely be bolstered, By threats and intimidation, So, you must bluster angrily, And scowl fiercely. And let us not forget the efficacy Of endless complaint, Grousing, grumbling, and griping, Are most welcome in the courts, Making you appear strong, invincible. Remember, it’s the dog that whines, That gets fed best. So, whine like a dog, dawg. Finally, one must

  Tears for They That Hold   Putin-defiant they stand, Though genocide looks on them bold. A bulwark they are, The stop against the ravage. Yet in that, Are they ravaged themselves, Yet they toil on! Distant sisters and brothers, They would be forsaken by orators, Who lose nothing, Save the errant mouse-click or two, By the least read among us, Who tell they would withhold succor, In Jesus name. What shame is this! Daily my thoughts turn eastward, But mindfulness and bullets, Are often estranged. How do I coerce the already-bought, That they may do their duty, And throw off their cowardice, And become human once more? Why do they choose craven negation? Why do they deny empathy? What sort of creatures must they be, That they allow an entire nation to be bled, While the entire world watches? Slava Ukraini! You are not forgotten, Though for this time denied. We see you, Ukraine! We hear you Ukraine! We weep for you Ukraine

  The Door   A sullen crew, Hot and worn from long labor, Now rested in the hole, Scraped in the side of the mountain, The hole with the impossible door at the end, The door that was right where he said it should be. The captain of these ruffians was erranding. None could speak on the hour of his return, Not even the cook’s son, A madman, and captain’s ward.   The door. Disturbing symbols were carved on that stone, Disturbing not because they could not be read, But because it seemed they could be understood, Almost, But the mind would not accept their meaning. Thus these rowdies would not lounge near on it, For fear of lingered spell, Made on it in some forgotten when, Save that cook’s son, captain’s ward, And madman.   That one stood before the entry closed, Tracing the writing with a finger, Which was unnerving, And whispered to himself guessed meaning, Which was maddening, And sometimes giggled and turned pointing, And wo

  Call of the Drudge   In homes throughout the land, Bells ring, Buzzers buzz, And beepers beep, Dragging a population out of sleep, To face the gray morose of Monday.   In kitchens nearly everywhere, Begins the ubiquitous ritual of brew, While in some that is accompanied By the crack of egg, The surprise thwack of the toaster, Or the innocent rattle Of preformed grain hitting the bowl, Soon to be glazed by too much sugar, Then shoveled into bodies too small To contain the coming energy slam.   Many homes harbor anxious pets, Now purposely underfoot, Hoping to delay a routine They both do not understand, Nor can appreciate. Their upright companions will be gone, Long empty hours, And will be in need of much comfort, Upon their return. It is a puzzle unsolved over and again.   Now doors slam, And locks snick, And engines cough, Their poisoning essence behind them, And the drudge unsatisfied, Regains its hold. Anot

  The Paladin’s Day   The wide-brimmed hat was a convenience, Offering both shade,   And anonymity. He had no need of concealment, Not much leastwise, But he had less need of publicity. He was not as known to these hills, As he might be, but the Barrens, Were no place for the fool’s errand. For his kind were not welcome in these parts, And the trail he followed, Was not called Rogue’s Road for naught. Here one kept one’s wits sharp, And the blade sharper. Here there be monsters, Though they wore the guise of men, And he had been called to do a dispatch, A duty and an aid he did not much mind. The crone had given precise description, 5 years’ service now, with two remaining, Yet the reward promised, Was more than he had sought. His quarry was downwind, Unwashed for weeks spoke his nose, And the nag he’d borrowed, Was more offended still, Balking at the approach. He would dismount soon, His was a stealthier advance than any beas

  Nickel Man   Have you met the nickel man? Shiny and hard, and sharply presented at first, But dull and scratched and indistinct with use.   Have you seen the nickel men? Brittle when thin, easily bent from true form, Coarse when fat and often in the way.   Low-valued they are, But widely in use, Added in when needed for the full measure.   Wearers of the cheap suit, Shoes just that side of burnished, The buzz word finds their mouth easily.   Do you know a nickel man? Third cousin, beer near to hand, Working on the next divorce.   The favor he asks, Character witness, Sour butter would be a preferred flavor.   Are you too close to a nickel man? The required distance is avoidance, It only gets greasy when you shake hands.   Where do you find the nickel men? Writing law that will not affect them, Or producing the reality TV.   They may be under your car, Installing the used oil filter, Or interwebbed, selling “vinta

  Maiden West Wind   She first saw him long ago, Graceful, regal, Clothed in the finest shimmering black, It was not then that she lost her heart, For she gave it freely.   She spoke to him softly in that springtime, A whisper and a beckoning, A warm caress she became, Calling in the morning, or at sunset, Though he appeared not to hear.   But maiden West Wind was steadfast, For she would have him lift his wing, And take her under lofting gently, Sailing the skies, As he sailed the waters below.   The days grew warmer as they must, And summer approached all eager, And to him came another, And she was as graceful as he, And of his like.   Then did maiden West Wind grow wrathful, For she had warmed the grasses for him, And had borne warm rains to him, And carried away smokes and dusts, And he noticed her not.   Now his affections were given to that white swan, So like to him and unlike, So that maiden West Wind could not

  Sunset   What thought do you give to a setting sun, Life’s fire fading, To allow the creep of darkness, And unsure vision once more. What promise have you of morning, Save the mechanics of the unrelenting universe, A stately march irrevocable, Unguided by the hand of man. Are you so trusting then, In things that have always been, That there is no monstrous will, Capricious and unknowable, That will not stay this range, This hurtling progress, That reaches nowhere, That is everywhere? Too often have we stumbled upon the unknown, Surprised of our ignorance, Finding ourselves more lost than ever In the growing expanse. Yet ever do we forge forth, With prejudiced purpose, Confident in knowledge mistaken, Unproven and disassembled in discovery, And having fallen, Get up once more, Certain of our capacity. Still, the sun sets on our puny toys, So destructive, yet the source of our pride, As we careen through a vastness, We lon

  A Foul Passing   It stands before them mouthing dire prophecy, It would enact should it come to that. Thus it feeds on the adulation of the unclean, Made soiled by their own hand. For its soul is empty, Or gone altogether, Sacrifices have been made. More are to come. And they stand before it, Willing and desperate, Needful of meaning.   They sacrifice compassion for ideals of cruelty, Reveling in drama they create for themselves. Hollow lives drawn in neon and tinfoil, Too aware they are ingenuine. For their souls are empty, Or are sold outright. Sacrifices have been made, And they will give more yet, Desperate for meaning.   So they follow their silicon savior, More plastic than themselves. For it represents what they cannot be, As it too cannot be, As it too is false, As it too has nothing, Is nothing, Just a voice made of smoke and foul wind, Dissipating and seen through at last. Loudly it cries against the reveal

  Seven Year Storm   A turmoil too long, That we have outlasted. Losses we’ve taken, We now are this few. Some working to save us, Some lost in themselves. Gains have been meager, Gaining members, Losing resources, Lost in the featureless squall, Blown to this place by the Seven Year Storm.   A tempest unending, A wind blown from Hell. Searching for high ground, Mudslides ridden back low. A hint of the sun, That we barely remember. Clear daylight a dream, Long weeks in between. Yet it’s six weeks now I think, That the gale hasn’t screamed, Rebuilding this place after the Seven Year Storm.   A global gale opened, By thoughtless meddling. Careless consumption, The driving fury. An engine shaped, By ignorant refusal That any should be mindful, Or accepting of blame. So many benighted, And all unprepared. They found themselves menaced, And were swept away by the Seven Year Storm.   How far have we traveled? The

  Our Stand   And how do we sit idly by, Waiting for the system, To readjust to actual equality? How do we watch the law fail fully, And always on the side Of the corporate entity? We don’t want to. We don’t have to. It’s time to stand up, brother. It’s time to get up, sister. Because we don’t have to stand for it.   The ivory towers Are full of the decay Of the dream enshrined, Then bought and sold, By the least thoughtful among us. Jackals they are, Feeding on spoils, We make for them, Leaving bare bone, We quarrel over among ourselves, While they grow fat, Never knowing they are the disease, Spoiling the garden We are all dying in.   AWAKE! See them as the crime, And the criminals they are! The canker on the side of the billions, Crying of their hunger, Their desire of peace and plenty, Withheld by those who will not share, What they have too much of, And do not appreciate. We are the billions. What will t

  The Paid For Press   What unjust word slips past, A seeming misjudgment? What canard allowed with a wink? Who platforms the vile? Are there two sides in reality, When one is the people, And the other is Mammon? What service is performed, When one serves corporate greed? Is equality met at one percent? Is the free press so paid for, That it has abandoned principle, And the masses it must inform? Now that the cheat sits at the table, Are we to eat the wormed offering it serves? What value can be had thus? A lie is not an opposing view. A liar does not propose argument. A lie is a lie, No matter how loudly proclaimed, Or how long or how often, It is presented. Raising the deceiver’s seat To the elevated position, Does not elevate the lie, It merely gives it the appearance of reality, But the actuality remains, And always will be, That the lie remains a lie, And liar is still lying, No matter the position granted to her. A

  Decision   The time had come. The decision before him. There could be no more delay. Action had to be taken. He had awakened with this hunger, It must be fed. He had planned well, He had come to this place, To satisfy the need: Not just a hunger, But a thirst also, Concurrent and insistent. It was all laid before him: A brew specific to his tastes, A circle as complete as he had foreseen. His options not many, But options there were, How to satisfy the need? He could be selective, Singular choices savored. He could fuse all in one mad rush! Yes, YES! The choice is made! The moment has arrived, Resolution forces his hand! His arm darts forward, And taking up the donut, He plunges it into his coffee! He can barely wait to see how it turns out… His day has begun.   Cliff Lake 3/24/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

  Victory   They ride back from the field, These victors. The battle costly, Yet won and over. The war ended, The foe vanquished, The price paid, Their people freed. They ride to their homes, Warriors and victors, Heroes perhaps to some, Weary soldiers in heart. Peace is before them, And hard work, The restoration of their land, And the healing of their spirit. They will rest now, They will be paraded, They will be toasted, They will be medaled, They will be sung, They will count the scars they have won, They will dream of the screams of the slain. Still, the war is done, The war is won, They have survived, And they may rest, These victorious, The remainder of the fielded force, They may rest. Both of them have earned their rest. Glory to the victors.   Cliff Lake 3/22/2024 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024

Justice   To the executioners block he walks, There is no hesitation. The deed done by his hand, He would not lie to escape this fate. He would do the thing again, He walks without remorse. Was this justice? Or had that been served To they that he had taken. He sees her, Those eyes pierce him, Maddened now, A mind broken, A life spoiled, She will live this way, Low reviled these days, By those she must live among, Though she be the true victim. What joy in life she may have had, Forever taken. But not so broken she, That she does not understand his deed, She smiles and it is too sad, Too twisted, By what now raves within her, She is forever torn. Her arm shoots up, And a single bloom clears the barrier, Angling for him, The last gift he will receive. He manages a nod, And what passes for a smile, The last gift he will give. It is little enough between them. Is there justice here? His last thought is   Cliff L