CliffSongs

  Sounds of an Elder Dream   When the stars align in ancient design, When iron fails and the curtain between worlds rolls back, Will you trust to mages and runes writ for your protection, In hidden places before time was time, That still whisper in your psyche, Beneath the noise of this world?   Races of an elder time lay sleeping between your dreams. Called forth when galaxies collide, Releasing energies long forgotten and little used, Save for spites and petty gain. Will you recognize your lost brothers then? Or will you name them monster once more?   Let them teach you again the songs of the butterfly, Let them show you the colors known only in moonlight. Let them guide you to swim through the trees, And show you how to walk between raindrops. Let them serve you wine brewed in the tulips, Let them gird you in armor that will not yield to steel.   For in those days the sorcerer in pretty guise Will be among you seeking ruin. Then will

  The Live Ammo Boogie   Maybe that teacher is gay at the school, And turn your boy into some prissy fool, Who talks about ending fossil fuel, And how your 4-wheeler ain’t cool, And what are you gonna do about it?   And maybe the Mexicans are taking jobs, And maybe it’s illegal to fix that with a lynch mob, And maybe all the libs are elitist snobs, And think you’re just some worthless slob, And what are you gonna do about it?   And now all your talk is done, And you only have this option one, And the Democrat is coming for your gun, And I get all that, but tell me son: Why did you shoot all the children?   And maybe they think you’re some stupid chump, Who don’t know about that dirty hump, And how they will illegally arrest Trump, And now it’s time to give these bastards a thump, And what are you gonna do about it?   And now all your talk is done, And you only have this option one, And the Democrat is coming for your gun, And I

  Revelations 2.0   Hear now children, The legend never told, For the time is come To retrieve what we never held. See the secrets now unveiled, Showing what has never been, That we may take, What will not be given. Make now your commitment, To the Juggler Thief, That he may rise and rule, Forgetting and failing Every promise made. Take your stand, In the mudded ground You have been brought to And look there for the milk and honey, Given to those whose larders overflow. Gird yourself against dangers unseen But foretold by those well protected. For the days have wound down And the end is come, And will come again tomorrow. And should the learned man say other, Remember your faith is a shield, And to chamber a round just in case.   Cliff Lake 1/26/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake

  The Double Down   The lobbyist with somber views, Looks over the morning news. Saturday night, bullets take flight, Monterey finds itself in mourning. Baton Rouge checks in, 12 injured, and the spin, Needs its push to keep on turning. NRA senators, Neatly bought and paid for, Flip through Bibles And other SA2 documents of renown. Lobby Congress step up, You drank fully from this cup, Time for you to do the Double Down.   Double Down Ted, Just rearrange what you said, For Buffalo, Club Q, and Uvalde, Double Down Lauren, Marjorie, Paul, and all, And those lobby funds You will keep on scorin’.   The gun exec at home, Won’t face the travail alone, A call to Kevin won’t miss. Ever mindful of production, And a crisp bill’s seduction, And his stocks’ drop he can resist. The lobbyist needs assurance, That his built-in insurance Increases, not decreases, The revenue in new sales. So, his pocket politicians, Must now go al

  The Jack of Snakes   Oiled words were spake by the Jack of Snakes, It slithered on two legs into the contest. The courtiers there looked away without care, Eyes only on the conquest. The Jack of Snakes would cover past mistakes, With lies of a certain imprecision. The courtiers share the creeping snare, Their Jack is met with derision. Reminded of old crimes from earlier times The Jack of Snakes provides a new name. But the records of sin pierce the veil grown too thin, The Jack of Snakes cannot hide his true game. So, he struts the hall, thumbs his nose at all, Refuses to accept abdication. The Jack of Snakes will not relinquish his big break, Though he be far above his earned station. So, after all, we must watch his slow fall, The Jack of Snakes under focused inspection. Now courtiers must care for their own seat in chair, How long can they afford his protection? Now the Jack of Snakes has played the high stakes, With naught more than

  A Hush of Winter   The melancholy of the winterscape is told in quietude: The bird does not sing, But stands puffed on the branch, Head huddled in feather. Should he fly, His wingbeat is stark, Breaking a silence Underscored by the creak of the branch just left. A soft sigh may play, A breeze stirring nothing, Detritus weighed down by frozen snow. Such winds do not curtail the silence, But accentuate it: The carried voice of a dog left outside too long. Traffic is sparse for no better reason Than to remain inside, Shunning the stillness, That is somehow only partly dispelled By the carnival barkers shouting from TV. Now mothers hush their children, The gray quiescence Takes offense at the shrill merriment, Books and crayons are dispensed, Board games thrust into unwilling hands. The wait then is for the new snow, Then will lively gangs of youth Shout against the white empty. But today only the lone wingbeat sounds, A flutter

  2 Minutes to 9   It's 2 minutes to 9 and the bar downstairs just opened for the night. But I will not find my solace there. Too many desperate faces trying to shut out the night, Too many hollow laughs, hiding too little care.   Through the floor come the raucous conversations, And the laughs that sound like screams. Punctuation effected by pounding on tables, Remind me of my own extremes.   Alone in their bottles, They visit imposed fun until The door is locked behind them. Alone with each other, Or a borrowed lover, With blurry memory to remind them. Alone in the bottles. Alone. When they go home. So many alone.   It's 2 minutes to 9 and the bar downstairs just opened for the night. And I have no solace upstairs. Too many blank pages I’m working to get the words right, As the noise of at least some life seeps up to my lair.   Downstairs they plug dollars in to hear the same song again, So that they don’t have to pay

  Light and Sight   Winter’s drear brightened by sun on snow, Cold, and deadly, and beautiful. It can be hazarded for a brief time, But when too chill makes you drowse, The deepest sleep one will ever have.   Singing sands are there for the listening ear, Fresh water may not be close. A day’s journey for wondrous diversion. But watering the senses does not slake a thirst, Mind and body have their demands.   The second home standing alone at the lakeside, Cleaned and made use of perhaps twice the year. Paid for in hours that ignore more common relations, A status that chews at the heart in more than one way, A life lost between floors of an elevator shaft.   Smiles that coruscate at every instance, An indicator of promise unsaid. A shining lamp given to everyone, To take place of what cannot be spoken. Skulls grin permanently when stripped of the flesh.   I stand at a window wondering what it shows me, Am I fully aware of what my sig

  Proofs   I must now state that Given the research I have conducted On my own through use of Bing And given that my research supports Conclusions I came to Without prior knowledge of Data I have not read yet It seems very clear I cannot be wrong. Moreover, in my next podcast My theory will be proven With figures I gathered From the people next door. They are the only experts I have much faith in As they always tell me What I want to hear. In fact, their agreement with My hypothesis is generally based on A rumor that got popular At the end of last year. It was heard at a protest Outside of a library That had hired a person That dressed in a manner That some people found unsettling And also, they could not be From around here. This rumor was verified shortly thereafter By the mechanic’s wife At the bar later on. Two days later I read it On some liberal website That said not to believe it So, it must be true. Anoth

  Constancy   Missteps may only be counted once, But the distance they cover may be too great for retreat. A lie told in haste is still a lie, It catches up, no matter how quick the feet.   Distracted, attention fractured, chores numbly effected, Chasing thoughts that seem to have little to say. Opaqued contemplation mired by misgiving, What vague dissatisfaction haunts me through the day?   Inconstant heralds pledging new promise, In place of the covenant, they chose to forbear. Could this be the source of my misted disquiet, Are we to fall to some yet unseen snare?   Missteps may only be counted once, But the distance they cover may be too great for retreat. A lie told in haste is still a lie, It catches up, no matter how quick the feet.   Warnings dimly resound of betrayal, Turncoats and deceivers roam hallowed hall. Honest partners must now man the fortress, Together we must weather the squall.   Missteps may only be counted onc

The Transients   A farce writ out in madness and malice, A snake reduced to worm. The keys given over to thieves of the palace, The noxious fire still burns.   Long did we watch the backroom barter, Deals we would not countenance in home. A traitor at the wheel once the nonstarter, Product of repulsive syndrome.   Assurances spoke in midnight desperation, Caving to the fetid and soiled, Witness we are to a quisling’s castration, In hope comeuppance is foiled.   Will we at last see our republic corrupted, Oligarchs and their minions for the win? Are we to let rule of law be bankrupted, Has our resolve grown so thin?   Let them exult in their temporary achievement, Let them attempt their fiddling while they can, Rule of law suffers no cheap appeasement, We will hold, then overcome the straw man.   Cliff Lake 1/7/2023 Copyright © Clifford Lake 2023  

  A New Shadow   What darkness this now? A shade written by betrayers, Beholden to nothing save avarice, Bought with sly promise, Or poisons not yet served, But waiting still, Withheld only by words spoken, From both sides of the mouth. Crowding at the helm, Each would have their matters met, Overspeaking those of lesser cruelties, Or whom have yet to find a master, Or have crimes not so carefully hidden, But as yet undiscovered in full. Here they bite and scratch, Seeking footage in high places, Glory borrowed to be wielded incautiously, Loudly proclaimed in tarnished decree, Chores doled out for obscure gain, A sleight played out in public view. Petty grievance will be parceled here, Enemies imagined at will, Punished with slights and snubs, Or harassed by accusation of crimes, For which there are no laws. They will not trust each other, They will not trust anyone outside, They will not work toward anything productive, They

Image Where They Ate   Where They Ate And they sit in the shit pile they all took a crap in, And they wonder why it smells so bad. And they push each other in as they try to climb out, As they bet on the chances none of them ever had.   The losers congregate and plot divisively, Trying to explain plans the others won’t see. They haven’t the means so it never ends, The results of the loyalty they did so misspend.   Knives for the back are held in reserve. Really what these criminals do deserve. Jackals and snakes and rats to the floor, The parade of the miscreants in disordered corps.   And they sit in the shit pile they all took a crap in, And they wonder why it smells so bad. And they push each other in as they try to climb out, As they bet on the chances none of them ever had.   So they bray and they cackle and they shout each other down. Each of them trying their best to outclown The others they claim to have sworn brotherhood to, Ye

  The Reckoning   You want to punish them For wanting to punish you For not getting away with your crimes. But not everyone was involved And some are hanging onto Values you once represented Long ago voiced By champions who died in their defense. But now are tongues divided Unchorused and atonal A payment for choosing too many Of the worst set out for offer. Loyalties to clans Or to causes born of rottenness Stains of known offenses Marking a brood of infamy Desperate to remain uncalled To prosecutor’s review. These are the fruits Of an ugly seeding A harvest of callous regard Of norms and propriety. Now would you corral The hyenas you set loose Thinking you had a ringmaster With a ready whip hand. You bought this nightmare With what integrity you may have had You laid it down In favor of a fever and a fog You thought to perpetrate On a nation that is waking up Just in time. The fractures and the friction You are a

  Ode to a Failure   Kevin, O Kevin, not looking so smart. Kevin had lost before his race got its start. Kevin I mean this, it comes from the heart: We’re all laughing while you’re falling apart.   How much do you think your words really weigh? How did you ever hope to hold sway? How will you gain the gavel thisaway? How big is my smile at your disarray?   Now Bobo and Pedo-Gaetz and Scott Perry too, Have unresolved issues with allowing you through. It doesn’t seem as if you’re passing review, Perhaps that office move was a tiny miscue?   See, the GOP has a rep for throttling the throat, Of anyone not paddling the now swamping boat. Kevin, it’s just you, no more riding the coat, Of the disgraced conman who lost the vote.   So, Kevin all of the concessions you made, Aren’t paying off, looks like you got played, Off in the shadows you should have stayed, Cuz here comes ol’ karma throwing you shade.   Cliff Lake 1/3/2023    Copyright ©

A Confession of January 1, 2023   I cannot look at your eyes Without seeing. In them the stains of tears kept back Markers of hurts You didn’t try to avoid. I cannot tell you things Without hearing. Untold tales that say too much About everything Or nothing at all. I cannot walk with you Without staying. Too close to the places you will not visit Have never seen Or will not return to. I cannot look for you Without finding. You are hidden from all outside you While you walk in daylight And are not seen. I cannot listen to you Without telling. The things you will not know And have not asked And must never learn. I cannot be beside you Without leaving. The pieces of myself ungathered Unkempt and unkept And looking for somewhere to be. I cannot say anything to you Without meaning. To get at the bigger picture That we are in And are eating. I cannot stop seeing Without wishing for blindness. To a nightmare I canno

  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