CliffSongs

Testimonial   The tension, Ratchet up the tension. How else will you justify the thugs? The training, Don’t bother with much training. How else will they remain the thugs? What brutish tactics! What short sight…   Starvation, Inflation, Frustration, Predation. The tools of the tyrant, The clumsy hands that wield.   Constraint, Restraint, Complaint, Repaint. The pettiness of the bullying, The insubstantial yield.   Suppression, Oppression, Recession, Depression. The duress forced by insecurity, The results in the ledger concealed.   What use is history To those that refuse to read? Pressures applied Always require Eventual release. The fires you start today, Set the boil of tomorrow, That you think you can contain. This is a pot Larger than your ego.   You begin to burn your own, Thinking your lies Will outweigh their empty wallets, That your words Are more substant...

  The Wreck of the Old 47   The morning meeting convenes, The accolades are sung. Just another day Behind the wrecking ball. He’s being lied to, And accepts anyway. He looks run down, So he takes all the money, To convince himself he’s not drowning. He gazes at his good time buddies, As they look at what he’s done. Nothing seems to change, While the house stays shut down, And none of them will tell him, That he’s been such a fool. “SNAP!”, he cackles, “Let them eat crypto!”, he says, Guarding his own pile manically. “Let them eat ICE tear gas!” He gazes around the room, Waiting on the expected harumphs. “Harumph!”, they bark, “Harumph!” The assistant vampire steps forward, “The cozening will continue!”, it declares, Convincing no one further. They know what’s at stake, And none wish to be tied to the whipping post, Nor chained and bound. Yeah, Sometimes they feel like… It’s dying, The support they had feels like...

  Goin' Fission   The chest is sorely bruised: A constant, If erratic thumping, Renders soft flesh tenderized, While the stone beneath feels nothing, But the fear of consequence.   The mouth is open, The mouth is always open. It is the loudest in the room. It is always the loudest in the room. Hear it praise itself! Someone has to…   The hands are mismatched: One is blotchy purple, And when it isn’t, It is Covergirl pink. Both reach for the money, All the money.   The eyes are blinded by gaudy paint, They fail to see the damage it wreaks. They do not read figures they do not like. They see enemies in every corner. They do not see ramifications. They only see dollar signs.   The ears do not register. They hear no entreaties, They heed no advice. They are full of what the mouth has said, They listen that only, And are deaf to anyone without deep pockets.   The brain is sodden. It...

  October 25      Shadow   Lightning-struck, It yet lives, Once vibrant, Green and giving, Now shattered, Twisted, broken, Harmed. A misshapen remnant, Clinging to a life near end, Still sustained, Bolstered and buoyed by Something…   October arrives. The season marks changes: Thinning airs, Longer echoes, Lengthened shadows. One falls starkly black: A grasping image perhaps, Spindly and somehow substantive, A screaming imprint without sound, A sooted portraiture of agonized form, An effigy not quite lifeless, A likeness of pained being.   Hurrying passersby do not cross this mar, Unthinking, they step around, Taking to gutter or grass, Uneasy avoidance. Nor do they heed its appearance, To look is to fall, A known accounted in primal instinct, The mind will not acknowledge: Such aberrations lead only to reason unhinged, Then lost. Still, For some, There is a dim call...

The Future of the Past   Gold glaring vulgar, Petty opulence to surround. No show of strength this, Merely garish self-congratulation, Just a harking back to a bitter history, Long lost to infamy. Ah, what one wishes! What dreams fondled! Think you to recreate a past You were no part of? It has already been, It is dimly remembered. It was discarded as unwieldy, Unworthy, Unwanted… So have you become. You tie yourself to visons dispensed with, Dreams of glory tasted by the few. And what of that? You see yourself of their number, Land snatchers and self-titular that they were. They too saw themselves superior, They too thought themselves beyond reproof. What matters that you run roughshod? All have been beneath you, So you are informed By the lackeys you have bought. Those trampled underfoot have long paved your way. You look to your apologists, Craven and grasping at your leavings, How much longer Can they explain away ...

    A Broken House   A broken house Shows what rots inside.   Because he loves the hate.   Because they love to hate.   Because of their love of hate.   What wreckage are we to endure? More walls have come down, More destruction in this land. And too near – An empty House, Closed for disrepair. One wonders at the timing…   What wreckage we are to endure! Metaphor springs to life, Trades the red hat for the hard hat, Keeps the hard heart. Make complaint to your local congressman, He needs something to do. And what of the broken thing behind the rubble? He revels in the complaint! Why? Because he loves the hate.   What wreckage are we to endure? Institutions torn asunder, Or starved of their resources. Their needy have no recourse But to clamor outside closed door. Too late – The delegates are sent home, And no one gets anything. But at least they are satisfied in knowi...

October 12       Air   Daybreak dawns bedewed: Mists rise and curl, Briefly though, Then, Sink slowly into lawns gone brittle, Or settle on overnight laces spun, Twinkling gems that fade with the rising sun. The far cry of the passing trains linger longer, Forlorn cries distant, Heralds of harvest, Grain and coal, And lumber and travelers destined elsewhere. Morning’s dins play more insistent, Preparing for the long rest ahead.   Summer’s hazes have given way to crisp cerulean, Such clarity is required by the fleeing geese. Traffic hums louder, Rather, More distinct, Clanks and clatter separate, Rendered each to their own space. So too are children’s calls more lucid, The dogs bark more sharp, The wailing sirens more pierced to the ear.   In the night, The stars shimmer clearer, More rough-edged as newly plucked jewels. The bat calls come sharper, Fare farther, Unimpeded by sluggi...

  Rations   Steps to ease the existence:     (in no particular order)   You may steal when prices are high. You may denigrate all that you don’t understand. You may cheat if you can’t win. You may deny knowledge you did not already have. You may lie if that’s easier. You may avoid responsibility that causes you discomfort. You may violence when:     you think they think they’re better than you,     you had a bad day,     you have a better deity,     they’re in the way,     they won’t do the,     they won’t give you the,     they don’t listen,     they’re stupid,     the lies aren’t working,     they aren’t your tribe,     reasons. You may idolize whatever is mildly popular right now. You may extramarital if you are really in love this time. You may ego when everyone else is a loser. You may sloth if som...

  Sorry Christian   O sorry Christian, Worshipping your church, Abandoning Jesus, How far you stray.   Sorry Christian, How you love to hate, Preaching against those you know not, Their customs strange. Their clothing may fit different, Their food be peculiar, Their tongues may be a difficult hear. Do they seem garish? Do you find them unwanted? Sorry, Christian, Your brother may not always look like you.   You sorry Christian, What makes your cathedrals so great? They stand higher than your works. Your prayers speak louder than your deeds, Your purses impede your morals. You walk with Mammon, And he with you. You value value, How can you thread the needle’s eye? Sorry, Christian, Poor treasure you have stored.   Lo, sorry Christian, Will you follow Peter then, Blade too ready to hand? Would you send the unbeliever Christward early? How you celebrate blood! How fierce in your belief! But t...

  October 1 The Woods   There are old places. Older than what surrounds them, yes. Feral and willful places, Untamed and untouched, One does not attempt these woods under this moon. One does not tempt these woods under this moon. Here the veils are thinnest, Here the crossings are not so difficult. The entry opens rarely, Seasonally, And ever back through eons. An entry that opens now… It has come through.   It bides its time, For the season returns once more. A slow hunter, A creature of consummate patience, Inexorable. And for some, Inevitable. One does not tempt these woods. Not under this moon.   This is a mire. This is a maze. This is a mistake. There is a collector here. A gatherer, An unrelenting connoisseur. It can wait, It has cycled many times, And more times before that. It can wait.   Many traps it baits, It has learned much in its wheel, It has forgotten not a trifle. ...

  Loony Time   Crises pulled daily, Manufactured by the wily, Extracted and presented As if from the forever pocket Of the animated hare, Leaving us to ask: “What’s up, Don?” We see the signs: It’s rabid season.   Yearning to be the rootinest-tootinest, He comes off a bit too daffy, And in desperation declares: “This means war.” Still, dark secrets loom, And when asked where they are found We’re told, “They went that-a-way.” Watch him dip, dive, and dodge. It’s duck season.   Pontificate, obfuscate, complicate. Explanations reach their acme, Blowing up when handled, Requiring more answer than: “That’s all, folks!” Still, they rush headlong, Towards the tunnel, They painted themselves. Can’t they read the signs? It’s rabid season.   And it’s despicable.   Cliff Lake 9/28/2025 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2025

  In Those Days   In those days, Days of gloom, Nights of horror, Fear walked recognizable: Visages unmistakable, Forms familiar, Tongues too often heard. In those days, Heroes rose, Monsters fed, Until battle was long waged, Until foes were beaten, Buried, And tales were passed Down through ages, Until they were passed no longer, Made forgot by design.   In those days Creatures were fashioned, Informed of secret art, Given living sigil, And taught patience. For Man is ever eager, Rushing forth with each new skill, Heedless and too often unrepentant, Marking not his failures, And enamored of his own cleverness. Then will the beasts awaken, Then will they adopt the form of Man, And pass among him, And speak sly flattery, And make false voice, And false light, And falsify knowledge, They would lead Man back into woe, That these beasts may feed unabated.   In those days, Prophecy was made,...

  White Noise   Static. All the static. So much static. It fills the air, It scuttles discernment. What is it you can no longer hear? What have you missed? Voices dimmed. Voices obscured. Voices removed. There is so much static, That it discourages listening. White noise.   Noise. All that noise. So much noise. It fills the ear. It scrambles observation. What is it being shouted down? What are you made to hear? Loud pronouncements. Louder accusations. Louder lies. There is so much noise, That people stop listening. White noise.   Fog. All this fog. So much fog. It blurs the eyes. It denies perception. What is obscured from sight? What must you not see? Obscuring facts. Obscuring faces. Obscuring deeds. There is so much fog, That people stop looking. White noise.   So much static. You have only that now. So much noise. You hear only that now. So much fog. You see onl...

  The Real Fake News – Amended Edition   Donald Trump today filed a suit against fast food giant McDonald’s for 30 billion dollars over their naming of the Big Mac, his favorite sandwich from the franchise. Said the president, “Just because a burger has some height, that doesn’t make it big, or large, or oversized, and eating one or ten shouldn’t mean anyone doing that is large or dumpy, I call it dumpy, it’s dumpy, but I’m not, and that’s what the left would say, does say, they said dumpy and that’s not what we’re going to stand for. So, McDonald’s needs to stop being leftist.” McDonalds purportedly has offered to settle for a smaller sum and a large fry.   The President of the United States today asked Congress to “turn off any microphone with a Democrat sitting at it.” Claiming that Democrats “have nothing to say that patriotic Americans need to hear, want to hear, because it’s all against Trump”.   The president also has asked the Supreme Court to “sue Ho...

  Wanderer   The wanderer, set to a task unnamed, Given just enough to set him on his way, Prompted by riddling command, And too many paths to follow.   A stumbler in oversized gear, He grows in all the wrong places, Hears lessons from too many teachers, Culled from too near to him.   He swings a mighty cudgel, Hitting almost where he aims, Uncaring of the breakage in his wake, Until he looks behind, too far, and too late.   He harvests where and what he wants, Gathering beyond his means. He will bear no burden, The surplus rots where it is left.   His path has long got random, He spurns maps he has not charted. He circles his own track, His compass left behind.   He seeks answers from himself, His counsel is discovery in accident, His wisdom too often erased, Supplanted by the myth of himself.   He wanders all the void, Its features all too distant, And finds time to curse the fa...

  Cosmik Debrief   Blue rock races Through its assigned cosmos, Its perplexed passengers Scramble for scraps That they will not keep. Blooded engagements That slay many unpurposed, With planned betrayals Buried in the sands. Winners of contests Now lost in the ages, Where are they now? Under sorrowing stars.   Who are the final Arbiters of meaning For any of the realms On any of the planes? Lost, lost, Finally forgotten: Time reckons not Love, anger or greed. Where are the titans, The heroes, The blameless? Lost, lost, Under sorrowing stars.   Movers of mountains Now lie beneath rubble, Gravity bears them Down into the earth. Tribal lines drifting, Alliances shifting, It’s all so uplifting, So open to grifting, Maintained so by rifting, The wars that keep gifting, Through dry bones the sifting, Burning lives so swiftly, Under sorrowing stars.   Where are the final Arbiters ...

  This House   Cartoon colossus, Your puffery deflates When even the smallest hero staunchly stands. The shifting sands of your straying conviction betray you. Your doubletalk, Your double back, Your instant balk, You’re talking smack, You walk it back. Big ego, Big mouth, Small where it counts.   Myopic titan, Head so high above your boots crushing, You do not see your stumbling steps. Circle back and twist again. Whose toes have you trod today? Do they hold you in such awe, That they will forgive? That they will forget? Discount them singly, Their complete number swells. Ants eventually cart away entire carcasses…   Bumbling behemoth, Bruised in body, Drooping display, Reckless reactions, The costs are no longer marketable, The harvest goes hollow, The taken have no more to give. Hungry mouths will fill with blame, And you have put yourself in their eye At every opportunity. They will only se...

  Vitriol and the Foolish   I have had enough of vitriol. Pouring salt in the wounds of the chronically salty? Forgive me if I believe that will be of no benefit. Whether you agree or not with a person, Their death by violence remains just that: Death by violence. One does not qualify equality – What is injustice against you and yours, Is the same injustice against someone you dislike. Our First Amendment still holds, At least for today, And though that person may have said things that you did not care for, This day he was allowed to say those things. Now he cannot. Not by his choice, But by the hand of another. That is not equitable by any measure. Already I see celebration of this violence. A celebration of violence! What kind of lowlife does that? Displaying hatred of the murdered will only encourage more violence. Have any of you considered that may have been the entire point? Or perhaps that this wasn’t politically motivated...

  Artifact   He ranges on. Damp, dripping, sodden, He ranges on. The piece he carries disposes the weather not, Nor provides other comfort, Neither gift nor burden it is, But he suspects mayhap be both.   A relic it is, Ancient and appalling, Dire, dangerous, disturbing, And at times, Deadly. A token and tool of a time lost to history, This he is sure of, For it has made that much known to him.   When first he found it – Or the other way ‘round, He sought out those clerics known to him, And others more distant, Or removed, Whether by their own choice, Or driven elsewhere, And these most laughed when shown the worn bauble, Or recoiled in dismay, nay, even fear, Muttering incantations and hurrying his leave. One though called after him, Would not near approach, But cried out a name and a place to seek out, Then would say no more.   So, he ranges on, Toward some priest perhaps, Or better named ...

  A Summons   The dream comes to him more often now, “A rivalry between the spheres.”, she whispers, Then fades into the   And he wakes.   There is the feeling of loss always, And a sense of impending strife, More insistent daily. He wishes to know more. He needs to know more. He begs to know more. When next he dreams, She is more substantial, And smiling. “You have heard the call,” she says, Then, “Time is short.”   “We are beset.”, she says, “And yes,” to his unvoiced question, “That includes you, And yours, And the existence you presently sustain, For the threat has ascended all frames, And many are needed.”   “Threat?” he asks of the vision. Her eyes pierce him as she speaks: “You have seen its effects in your own firmament, Violences without cause save desire, Pursuit of vanities wielded against the common person, Acquisitions without purpose but kept from the needy, Suppressions and o...