3 Poems

It would be quite unfortunate if we were to allow an April to pass without featuring a few poems by one of our most prolific and consistent contributors of poetry, William LMH Clark. Last November William released his latest collection of poems, most of which had appeared in the pages of our publication over the years, and titled the collection Pulse.

While the author is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, the following selections of new work have not previously appeared in the Poet’s Calendar.

E-Bay
I’m going on E-Bay to see if I can
Find a poem, anything to fill this
Empty page which has been staring at
Me, now, for more than a week.

There must be something out there.
Never mind condition or age, any
Verse will do, brand new or antique,
Even one with a hair-line crack.

But, I’ll start the bidding low,
Just in case my muse comes back.

Kite Flying: A Ritual for March
Glue all of your ex-lover’s letters to a
Balsa frame. Should you so desire, over
Lay the juiciest bits with a yellow high
Lighter or underscore them with a Magic
Marker in the color of your choice.

Tie on a generous length of tail which
You have calibrated with commemorative
Postage stamps carefully steamed from the
Corresponding envelopes.

Wait for a gale-force wind to carry your
Kite higher than your wildest fantasies.
When its flight has taken it all but out
Of sight and the string is as taut as your
Heart’s hate, let it go.

The Note
In the room which he once had alone,
A roommate now – a cousin of his late
Wife’s first husband, both long gone.
But still, resentment rose like bile in
His dry throat. They would not get on.

And so, they counted the tiles on the
Floor until they found dead center and,
From there, each took up residence in
His own half, and waited for things to
Come to a head, which they did, a month

Or two along, when acrimony lead to
Confrontation over a nightlight he had
Switched off. The other, switched it on,
Then blows and one black eye which was
Shamefacedly garnered in the affray.

And then, the note, scibbled in the
Old man’s palsied hand – to tell them
If they found him, strangled, in his
Bed, who it was to blame, “that s.o.b.
Across the room” is what it said.