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Best Poems Written by Mindy Clay

Below are the all-time best Mindy Clay poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Purpose

Everyone's purpose is as light as a floating feather. 
Unfortunately, the focus on it is like stirring mud
in weather that currently coats fog on past tense
verbs and a current that doesn't flow in any particular 
direction within current words. 
It deprives everything involved; it is misunderstood. 
In a field of dandelions that have turned into
the tooth of the lion, blow the seeds that have become 
transparently lovely, the flowers we consider weeds,
with a harmonica full of soul that makes snowfall and 
sunshine toast a drink and dance together in a 
direction that makes adjectives jealous. 
Maybe a seed will land in the sea and it will be buried
in the sand when the riptide buries the root,
and your song will become as bluesy and intense as the tides. 
There is a chance that an eagle will grace your presence and
a stranded quill will land under the part of the wing you lost
to lift you up. Even with an intense mist and heavy covering,
you're willing to ruin a good stirring spoon. 
Be grateful for however you get your feather floating.

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Sample of Simplicity

How ironic it was, today you see
sitting here sipping my tea.
I didn't know what to think or do 
then that song came on that reminds me of you.
It gave me an energy, reminding me
we breathe the same air under the same sky
and don't ask me why, but it was just enough
to lift me above this confused feeling.  
There is no need to worry
or be in such a hurry
because I know that when you're good and ready
I'll still be here, sipping my tea,
waiting for you to join me.

Details | Mindy Clay Poem

Plastic Society

Tattle cries are just as loud as battle cries, 
but the difference is 
tears from mannequins dry on untouchable skin. 
You may have a purpose, but your attempt at a movement 
is motionless because your passion 
is a carefully constructed image
replicated in a false ideology 
that manifests into something specific 
obtaining a manual manipulation. 
A self servant visibility is indicative 
of an egocentric personality and everything insinuated
to be perceptually believed as sacred 
usually doesn't leave further than the tapping of your fingers. 
You proselytize by regurgitating the ways 
of a preferred deity and establish yourself
by turning your mirror to reflect the angle 
of how you want to be seen and adjust your thoughts
for a higher seat in your vanity 
in order to possess everything in your hypocrisy. 
The feedback you get initiates a sedimentary mask
you proudly wear and give a name to because 
as a statuesque representative in an upscale consumption 
of physical and mindful gluttony,
it is the exemplary rock to inscribe your identity.
You disguise it as spirituality, enlightenment, or awareness
labeling it as politics, religion, parenting, racism, 
abortion, extortion, activism, or sexism.
It does not, in anyway, alleviate 
the struggling strong minded from with holding their weeps 
on garments bled by friends in unsung tongues and private sin, 
in time well spent where the secrets
of the heart are kept for keeps rather than exposed and disposed of 
in a widespread generic documentary
for the world to see the effects of their warfare. 
Where words of vulnerability and exposed nerves
are perceived as nothing but memes and black sheep
trying to be shepherds making lists of things
to better humanity in articles utilized by a machine.
As if the top ten life hacks will take neglcted children
out of the slums of a poor shack 
and stop the hateful attacks on those who need welfare. 
The bandaging by labeling and over medicating
will not eradicate the urgent need for eye to eye, 
flesh to flesh, heart to heart
laughing, kind, grateful, melting of this 
plastic society.

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Aware of Goodbye

Defeated, hopeless, helpless. 
A slow sinking of the heart.
Overwhelmed. Drowning. 
The brain has reflexes. 
Plugging. Toning. 
Must find a balance. 
Right, wrong, whatever.
Masquerade, parade,
celebrate illusions. 
Conspiracy, hypocrites 
sewn into innate intelligence. 
Regrets, cigarettes, beer
save a life by giving a dollar. 
Useless, nonsense, crazy. 
Inspiration meets shadow. 
Smile, cry, frown
get on medication. 
Numb, hollow, void
welcome to normalcy. 
Smell, touch, see
perceive unconditional love.
Rejection, imperfection
nail it to your mind. 
Not your fault. 
Not your fault. 
Not your fault.
Crooked face, sweet smile
blank mind, dishonorable.  
Apostrophe not needed. 
Mission accomplished.

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My Youngest Teacher

In the morning I was impatient as you dawdled
and I told you to stop being so slow. 
You just smiled sheepishly and said,
"Bye Mommy, I have to go!"
In the afternoon I spent most of my day on the phone
while you sang aloud and put your toys in a jovial row.
I motioned irritably for you to be quiet,
"Get your homework done right now!"
I rattled off like a sergeant. 
"Okay Mom", you said seeming to understand 
and sat straight at your desk with pencil in hand. 
After that it was quiet in your room. 
In the evening you approached me hesitantly and asked,
"Will you read me a story tonight?"
"Not tonight. Your room is still a mess,
how many times must I remind you?" I said in a muffle.
With your head down you wandered away from me,
but kept your dance-like shuffle. 
Before long you were back and peered around the wall of stone.
"Now what do you want?" I asked in an agitated tone.
Without a word you threw your arms around my neck,
kissed my cheek, then "goodnight Mommy, I love you"
was all you said and hurried off to bed. 
I felt a wave of remorse come over me. 
At what point did I lose the rhythm of the day
and at what cost? I couldn't say. 
You had done nothing to provoke my mood.
You were just being a child, busy
with the tasks of growing and learning.
I got lost in an adult world with responsibilities, 
burning demands, and flip flopped priorities with 
no energy left to give.
You became my teacher even after an arduous day
of tip toeing around my moods. 
We have one life to live and I yearn to start the day again. 
Tomorrow, I will treat myself with as much understanding 
as you have shown me today. I will remind myself that you
are my baby and I will enjoy being your Mom in every way. 
Your resilient spirit has touched me so I come to you,
to thank you my child, my teacher, my dearest friend,
for the gift of your love that will never end.

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Building Human Nature

The diversity of beliefs have collectively demoralized 
the sanctity of attaining wisdom and respectfully sharing
the exchange of knowledgeability by compartmentalizing creativity. 
This makes us..............................
willingly grasp onto the idea of fighting and murdering to
expressively uphold what is fundamentally a moralizing of humanity. 
Instead of communicating uncertainty to keep things simply
as beautiful as they were to start with. 
When you do your own research and hold no preference, 
think freely and critically, that's enough for the world. 
The ones who want to work hard, provide, and allow others
to decide how to live their lives. The ones that do not judge and
are only inspired by the weaving of individuality that creates this
painting of adversity within a natural environment will succeed. 
We are smart enough to know that these men in ties telling lies
making us believe the TV has the answers or you need to earn
and spend monies that are impractically fabricated and blind us
from working like slaves for their manipulated, corrupt economy 
that concedes in an illusory connectedness called consumerism. 
Or, social issues that brainwash you into thinking that their fear
mongering gives you a sense of identity. Without identifying 
their symbols of devilry they saturate in every necessity they 
presumably provide for you that came free from the earth. 
If everyone would live like they knew they were going to die,
the one and only certainty in life, then the intangibles in life become 
clear, it's sitting right upon your nose, the rose colored lens' are
cleansed and the colors, the beauty, the smells, the smiles, 
the kindness and caring, the recognition of a resolution to suffering, 
and our purpose to help ourselves is through helping others,
THAT is enough to make a change.

Details | Mindy Clay Poem

Heartache Makes Headlines

Periodically writing random thoughts on a piece of paper is my secret escape. 
Left for healing and mending. Right for healing and mending. 
Painful, nonetheless. Don't be ashamed. 
I am the scrawler of my racing thoughts and cannot seem to scribble out
a delimited shape to catch where I would like my fate to fall. 
Sometimes my passion is a brush stroke in the wrong direction. 
I wish for everyone to get a tiny piece, but they don't even make it 
on the pie chart of priority before the bullies lick their fork 
and start hunting for something else.
-Predators 
Prey-
Two children rise and smile to greet the sunshine after the rain. 
Sweat drips from their pores just the same, but one is from 
forced labor of gathering recycled water from the night before
and the other from the luxury of school and play. 
Two men leave their wives for the day, but one is 
an obsessive business man, wealthy in possessions, 
and the other a beggar, wealthy in instincts, surviving on the streets. 
I wonder if it would be better if we couldn't see.
Bushes don't weep at the death of fallen leaves at their feet.
Water doesn't change course because of obstacles unforeseen. 
Birds never stop singing and migration never ceases
due to overthinking. 
When I am alone, I have the freedom to hone the embodiment 
of imperfections in my expressions in that I have become both
a stimuli on the inside and the outside. 
In those moments I have no influence. 
I am everybody and everything I have ever wanted to be. 
I do not pretend that I belong anywhere else 
except the small space that I am. 
All anyone can do is chose the pace and vibrancy.
Being human, it can seem like a long journey. 
We make mistakes, we create chaos, things come our way
that we don't understand and we tend to look for a lending hand
to pull us up, but sometimes it isn't enough
and you're left in a white knuckled grip tempted to let go,
hold on tight; it'll be all right. 
You see, we are all given the same thing except the ability
of perfect timing to have the life everyone wants to lead. 
Love comes in the aftermath of tragedy
and heartache makes headlines after love. 
Each cannot be something without the other
because unity is found in progress through suffering. 
Human life in it's simplest form 
is to simply appreciate human life. 
If there ever is an opportunity that arrises
within the small space that you are
It is only you that can choose,
if you wish, to assist a helping hand
in the link to our oneness.

Details | Mindy Clay Poem

20-20 Hearing

The skeletons in my closet are trying on my clothes
Posing a fashion show of history 
Using bony toes to throw memento mori

"watch your head!"-puts hand over grin

My diary redacted, an exploding think tank
Plastered on pages, so pretty to think so
Making a pact with the top hat that
marinades my mind into overflow

"a poet's guts are a beautiful splatter!"

The black boots I used to reinvent
A thousand miles that were walked and spent
Stepping over trial and error
Crying over unpaid rent and electricity terror

"light a candle and revel in the silence!"

The gloves that scoured the couch
for a dollar in change to feed the mouths
of my heart and soul sitting in front of me
begging for a bowl of spaghettios

"innocence resides behind smiling blue eyes!"

Slightly tattered from the cold weather
an old, black sweater with a sewn in locket
carries the charm of car and job 
problems in it's pocket. 

"I've got thumb holes in my hand hats!"

The little ties that put a knot in my throat
from all the lies that once were spoke
so properly placed on a plastic hanger
to easily be broken by words from a stranger.

"No wire hangers, ever!"

Sipping on sunshine through a dixie cup
My skeletons and I are playing dress up
It reminds me that I'm alive and my past is dead.
I'll buy better clothes in the days ahead. 

"life is beautiful!"

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Breathe- Collaboration With Mystic Rose For Contest

Breathe life into her soul through lonely whispers
echoing off the walls as cold as incoming winters
clasp her hips and warm her in a dance of unison
to the dampened depths of a final conclusion 

An allocation of stars designed for destiny
flicker respectfully in the mystery of her eternity
a shining musical entry to the depths of who she is
swinging dark hair only to the rhythm of your quiz

When night claims you like a wayward leaf of old
and you are privileged enough to enter her cave of gold
answers that you requested will be beguiled
by the white lights in your head that lead you to denial.

Or, find your way to ride the tide along the summer solstice
protect her from the unknown world with just a single kiss
brave enchantment to the equinox rather than just seethe
Map away from the abyss, with a firm grip, but don't forget
to breathe. 

Yes, breathe.

Details | Mindy Clay Poem

Gallery of Memories

They say the eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul.
That thought often makes me shutter 
because they can become blinded by small, flip folding
white lies created by a stranger and it allows yourself 
to be opened by the pull of a string. 
That wasn't good enough for me 
so I took the drifting thoughts of my pain body and built a door
cast by a chain made of irony and a horrible metaphor.
It was only crazed, maniacal laughter that shattered 
the peep hole I used to peer through a battered pith,
often confused with the heart,
because nowhere does it say in the myth 
it is also enclosed in the soul of your window. 
It is so much easier to agree it is meant to wither when cold. 
Through the years my heart has been blackened, 
overly seasoned on a griddle between the equinox 
and the solstice, marked only by the condition 
that I sealed my door without permission. 
Now, it ages like a gut rot fairytale, bolted and locked in a keep safe box.
Three inches tall and four inches wide,
an unknown name on top with red velvet inside. 
I always thought loving should be a piece of cake. 
My center, stowed away and imprisoned under a word
unable to release or enter the gap 
between perception and reality. 
I am left trapped behind a gallery of memories.
Still, I collect them and distribute them irrelevantly
on a piece of paper entitled 'Today' and at the end of every Today, 
I consider it a rough draft, crumple it up, and toss it away 
because I will make tomorrow's Today a more pleasant essay. 
Solitude has become an illusory sense of identity
guarding the door like a hungry fiend, craving and feeding 
with a bleeding tongue of tension and staggering beliefs. 
Fighting off whims and attacking precious moments 
when primordial error could be wiped clean. 
I can feel the vibration of waves on what they say,
but the depth of basic sounds do not reduce it to embody my deepest truth.
I rely on energy that entangles itself accidentally in the shield of my adversity. 
A backwards time travel thought process, self wilding
on a reverse assembly line in the natural evolution of relations. 
But, resistance somehow makes the world feel more real.
In actuality, what is being kept safe in my box, is a yearning
for the name on top to come along, place a bullet in the monster's head, 
catch the door before I slam it shut, actually try to open the blinds and help me
replace my gallery with something a little more beautiful.