Best Clearing Poems
It's summer, and sunlight's syrup pours sweet into afternoon.
We've come to the bungalow's cemetery
to pick over bones of bygone days;
touch time's tender skin, lay flowers on childhood's grave.
The lodge is razed to the ground. We raise
our eyes to sky and take each big breath of blue.
Sharp lemon-light cuts through
the detritus of our days; the oaks once cloaked in dark.
The knotweed nooses and dreamlike domes of fly agaric
have all been cleared; the forest sentinels' leafless limbs
discarded - an abattoir of strangeness, sawdust-strewn.
But all dismemberment is a clearing of sorts.
The echoes of emptiness eavesdrop
on each reminiscence, as we forage for a few last remnants:
blue paisley swirls of 70s tiles,
red bricks from an 80s fireplace.
A yearning rises suddenly, slick sick-sour in my throat...
and yet, it feels cathartic, this purging of the past;
this merging of our then and now,
this blending of bitter and sweet.
23 February 2023
two boys racing
dash, dart, tear
airburst in a clearing punched open
arms of piston pumping disperse white funnels
dandelion fluff curling
scattering flowered stems
as water streaked, streams down joyful faces
clearing,
a clawed out seclusion
child claimed freedom unspooling in summer heat
pulling back its gauzy veil
pushed to disarray
in this seething space, holding promise
two boys, breath weary, tumble into the tall grass
laugh and roll,
confessions shared like wanting to drift somewhere
- imaginary to real
claiming turf needing no repair
stories whispered before they're pushed off the page
in a green clearing, its window-heavy future
till tall tales take a different slant
to rest like beaded sweat
upon lined brows
Poem composed February 21, 2023
Springtime on the ranch is just round the bend
You’ll get your nose cleared, we have cows and pigs
The thaw brings forth chores, that smell and offend
Rubber boots and gloves are now our new digs
As the snow melts, we are left with a moat
Springtime is here with its bag full of tricks
It’s sour and slick, so just clear your throat
The thistles now grow so watch out for pricks
The air never smells like sugar and spice
Out in the birch, there grows fly agaric
It deters the skunk, encrusted with lice
This mushroom will make, all feel lethargic
A blend of toadstool and garlic I’m told
Will stop puffy butt from reaching our fold
An old blue uniform
that hadn't fit in fifty years,
beneath which:
Letters I don't recall sending,
a daub in oils,
slashed, repaired, and saved.
A note, detention, smoking,
tucked inside
a dictionary, first prize in spelling.
The invitation to the wedding;
unanswered, unattended.
The will.
Exhausting my skills
To the tempered, fiber soul
Timeless harmony
I follow my heartstrings on
Beyond glow of temptation
Path in the forest
Leads to grand open clearing
Obscure light deepens
Birds sing beyond the circle
And flowers praise nature’s heights
Simple minded eyes
Dynamic pleasure moves on
Leans over inside
Heartfelt ties won’t gasp and leave
Not to bring loss, frosty drought
Russell Sivey
There is temporary unrest inside my mind
I am neither up nor down. I am snug waiting the clearing.
My room holds great view, and I'm free
Looking out at sky, and bare trees, hoping for the clearing.
The morning invites calm, and the minutes fade fast
And though my heart feels sore, I'm looking for the clearing.
The bulk of energies I share, should allot me good
Only a fool follows a heart, wavering and wandering from the clearing.
It doesn't take me long to recognize true passion
But take away my pen, books, glasses, and still, I'm addressing the clearing.
*
(Written for: Debbie Guzzi Ghazal poem contest)
This day has come I'm glad to say
The 40 years I've tried to play
At last my name does appear
As the WINNER for this year
Now I'll wait to get my pay!
Attack the clutter
In the attic pieces of life
And bits of me
So much clutter, sorting through
Old letters flutter
Unwanted, unread
Daring me to show I care
To reach through time
So dust-dimmed ink
Can speak again.
“Into the sack with you.
I have a job to do”
There’s all this papier maché
A flaming crown with snake entwined
I was the wicked queen
One Halloween
Daniel was a devil
Here are his horns
And a tail in a paper bag
Too good to throw
But this other stuff can go.
Made from the Financial Times
Significantly pink, a gun
So many things begun
I mutter “So long, adieu
This day of clearing clutter
Is so long overdue”
Now that could be a poem
And, right on cue
From a stack of boxes
A sheaf of paper slithers down
Littering the floor
I gather up the poems
Like a gleaner in the field
Picking out choice phrases
And, sitting among the boxes
I read them all
then put them back
Old photographs reproach me
Unsorted, stuffed in envelopes
Waiting for something
Or someone
Who never came
Adieu adieu
Wait, here’s a name
“To Mary
With love from Freddy.
I am in the back row
Second from left”
A group of smiling boys
Dressed as soldiers
Captured
By the camera’s shutter
A sixtieth of a second, in 1942
All dead now
adieu adieu
So much clutter
There’s so much time
Spent sorting through
And in the plan-chest
So many plans
Pause to reminisce
Remember this?
Posters made for Art School films
Drawings, prints and paintings
They call to me
But I am determined
I put them in the sack
Pieces of life and bits of me
So much clutter,
And when I’m through
I’ll have some space
To move
Adieu
I lay so very still,
captive within the vowels
of your sigh,
passion coursing
through veins like a raging river
as you lay there,
bare and forgiving...
a response to words I could hardly whisper.
Words that had eyes,
and fingers,
words that crawled up your pale, beautiful skin
in search of a place to live,
in search of the unknown depths of heart.
If I could step outside of this dream
I could walk the path,
in blindness,
and still find you,
light becoming warmth
and close to touch,
your fevered pitch of voice calling me...
"come, my love,
find me in the clearing at moon-tide...
and passion,
as love,
will be home here"
(Feb. 24, 2016)
Stumbling through midnight blackness,
with every step and thought,
trepidation is my only companion
on a streambed's bank - unsteady
where pain and serpents wait,
an unwelcome visitation.
They fear as we, this intrusion
of peace.
Do hopes dissolve here where
loneliness feasts on sanity!
I wish not to disturb these
denizens of my dreams.
Rather, I will glimpse
the Southern Cross in
one brief moment of clarity
and...find my way home.
Clearing The Path
Thoughts keep running across the mind
In search of answers hard to find
On a journey down here below
Just don’t know which way I should go
At the crossroads now marking time
A brand new mountain I must climb
Flexing my muscles can’t you see
Step by step I will walk with thee
Day by day you will be my guide
Holding tight so my feet won’t slide
By your grace I will run this race
Praises I’ll give in each new place
Thanking you for victories won
You are the one I can count on
Thank you God for being my source
Please heal the heart leave no remorse
I look around me; wow, this is unexpected!
Myriad strangers are milling about (thousands at least)
on the expanse of a plain that feels endless
even though I can see far out
to a horizon of verdant shining trees encircling us all.
The atmosphere here feels incredible
(and I don’t mean just the quality of the air.)
It’s as if wisdom has permeated all those here assembled,
such that a feeling of overwhelming peace abides here.
Within moments, I notice several figures approaching me.
Their eyes, softly radiant and seeking me out,
fall upon me with inexpressible joy.
I see my father, a few of my dearest friends, my grandparents,
my favorite aunt, Joan, and my beloved brother Dale,
who was taken from our family while still in his prime.
He reaches out to embrace me,
and among this sea of souls,
everything becomes
clear.
Feb. 19, 2023
for The Clearing Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Through the woods I carefully tread
Darkness surrounds and fills with dread
Silent clouds obscure the moon
Briefly break and lift the gloom
A clearing darkness once concealed
Parting clouds have now revealed
As I draw ever slowly near
The scene, obscured, becomes more clear
In the meadow two giant oak
Loom over trees of shorter folk
Dead leaves rattle on gnarled branches
And on the ground, hide where the path is
A darkened pool beneath the trees
Ripples in the Autumn breeze
Cattail gather at the shore
Insects buzz and chirp and roar
As I step into the clearing
Sudden quiet greets my hearing
There beyond the pond, a shack
Light shines out from every crack
Branches woven into walls
Over which some ivy crawls
An old woman, a crone, a hag
Dressed in clothes of tattered rag
Stands beside her ramshackle home
In her hands a mysterious tome
She beckons to me, calls me near
Moving feet I can't stop or steer
Greenish skin and bedraggled hair
Pointy hat and an evil stare
Hands like claws open the battered book
From which she reads without a look
What she said I shan't repeat
But my heart did skip a beat
What happened next I can't recall
It was a dream, that's all!
So I climbed out of my bed
And from my foot, a leaf was shed.
I stopped by a clearing in darkened woods
to watch the sun come through the opening
the forest made, a shining light of good
in this a glade, so quiet, wakening
a question, why a small and silent way
no different than others, earns its pay.
There is a meadow that seems to spring
from beyond trees
in a bordering forest
To many, it is known as "The Clearing."
To me, it's a beautiful place.
full of tall grasses of lavender and gold,
depending on the season.
Its bounty includes colorful wildflowers--
red, pink, lilac, gold, large and tiny
and bird songs to wake the new day.
I wonder: has it always worn blossoms and grass?
Or did long ago, trees, mighty and tall, grow
until they fell to fires and drought
and Time reclaimed their seasonal pass.
It stands alone now, unknown the reason
A many-hued break between the pines
Beautiful and strong
And no one seems to mind
that it has no trees.
February 13, 2023
for "The Clearing Poetry Contest"
by Craig Cornish