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Best Poems Written by Clara Principe

Below are the all-time best Clara Principe poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Clara Principe Poem

Arkansas

Isn’t she beautiful?
When you top a steep slope and look down upon her hills, tumbling over each other for miles, covered in greenery of new spring, you realize that she, the land, is immaculate.
But she, the people, is often disappointing.
Do not blame the ground; she only holds them.
You shouldn’t blame her, everyone everywhere will never be perfect.
She is no special home for those who are intolerant and bigoted.
Yet I find myself blaming her anyway.
They are part of her after all.
It is not the land’s fault for the people, though she is soaked with unjust blood.
But so is the rest of this nation!
There is no exception in the entirety of this harrowed country.
Let’s love her canyons and glittering caves for what they are, exquisite facets of the land.
Her people are another matter, yet they should be carefully examined.
Let us not dwell on them for now.
We will critique them in good time.
We should appreciate her for what she is.
A honey sweet land, caught in the wisps of fresh spring.
Furiously flowering in the sweltering heat of the South.
Bare trees grasping the bright blue in the dead of December.
River run deep, like veins feeding the bayous and lakes of her body.
Her heart lies in the wide basin of the river valley, pumping the Ozarks away for the Ouachita Mountains.
Birds sing and soar in her sky; their songs her voice abroad.
Grasses sway in her breeze; her gorgeous flowing locks.
Fish dance in her waters; her dynamic ideas.
Trees dig into her earth; her ever maturing mind.
Rain pools in puddles that reflect the starlight; her mourning in twilight.
Cicadas and crickets roar in summer symphonies; her laughter in the evening.
Gloaming her sigh as she lays down her head and aurora her yawn as a new day begins.
Oh my love, mea dulcis amor, if only your politics weren’t so foul, you would be Eden.

Details | Clara Principe Poem

A Sorry Salutation

I know where I must go now that you’re gone
Though I won’t leave just yet
I need time
A moment to sit and be sad
I choose to mourn because there is no other option 
No solution but to cry
To celebrate what was and to weep for what I can no longer have

It’s nobody’s fault
Change is too natural to pin any blame 
We’ve felt it for a while 
Steadily growing 
Softly creeping like vines up a crepe myrtle

I hate this goodbye
It’s less than halfway
Don’t kid me, is it even goodbye?
No: we will still smile as we pass each other
A simple gesture now devoid of meaning
You don’t love me like you did
And maybe I don’t either
It’s change
A slow, crushing farewell in disguise 

I won’t keep you
I do understand 
Life is tumultuous and you’ve found your fit
I just wish I could’ve been molded in too
But it’s better to flow freely than shoved in a box that is not correct 

For now I can do nothing but sob 
Fat tears roll down my cheeks
Feeling forsaken, abandoned, alone
Finality seeps in our tone
Fragments of memories whirl past my perception 
Flashbacks to moments, gold and silver hued 
Forlorn, I hiccup as I try to catch my breath 
Yet everything is ok 
Sadness is the first stage of acceptance

Details | Clara Principe Poem

Rotted Residence

Beige is the itch inside my head 
The dreary, drab walls I stay locked in

I’m a townhouse with a freshly painted facade,
But moldy wallpaper and carpets that are soaked with the stench of cigarette smoke  

I’m trapped in this house
Blinds nailed to the sills
Doors latched by keys long lost
Milk spoiled
And the fridge smells stale

I sit in musty rooms on crumbling couches as oblivious pedestrians pass by and say “What a lovely house! A sunny porch to sit on and cheerful mint green accents.”

But inside my house paint peels like shagbark and dust collects like dew


You knock at my door and I can’t let you in

I rip out the knob and claw down the splintered wood

I throw myself against the frame and try to tear out the hinges

But the door doesn’t budge;
Not even an inch.

So I stay stuck inside my beige house
Left to wonder if there is an out

Details | Clara Principe Poem

Ambulo

My feet are raw from walking
My legs tremble with fatigue
My body is weary 
My hands hold the fading lantern that dimly glows in the tunnel
I fumble 
The lamp shatters and so do I 
I fall to my knees as tears dampen my sticky face 
“I am broken.
How can I go on if I cannot see?”
But I look up and see 
The end of the tunnel 
And my legs are moving again

Details | Clara Principe Poem

Manuus

You look at my hands and see cute, dainty things
Soft palms that shape sweet rolls
Nimble fingers that pluck cello strings
A tender touch that runs fingers through your hair and won’t let you go

I look at my hands and wonder if they’re ugly or bad 
My fingers too long
My nail beds shaped wrong
My palms too big
My pinkies crooked 
My fingertips coarse

I hate my hands because I was convinced they are unsightly
 
“Big, ugly, awful things”

I don’t understand why
I can’t let go of her cruel words
They were so long ago after all

Nevertheless, they stick like
stubborn dough under my fingernails 

“I hope my child will forgive me for the hate I’ve given her hands”

Details | Clara Principe Poem

A Red Brick Road

“Red brick road” squawked the crow as he lay rusty red bricks in columns and rows.
“Why hello Mr. Crow! My dear to where are you building this red brick road?” 
“North” he replied “where the wind is not so” 
“Well Mr. Crow, why not fly? It would be much faster than laying these tiles one by one. See there’s a breeze that could carry you to Narborough”
“No no!” Said the crow “Papa crow built a road and Mama crow built a road so I must build a road too. Good crows build roads and do not trouble themselves with fickle breezes that blow.”
“Well Mr. Crow, I think there are many things you could learn from opening your eyes and your wings. You were born with feathers to fly not hands to make roads.”
I pondered over my feathers 
Then opened my wings myself.
Shocked I was lifted on a sweet wind 
Over mountains and seas and countries themselves! 
I saw all that could be seen and soared around the world.
Finally I crested a hill to see a familiar sight:
“Red brick road” squawked the crow as he lay each tile
“Oh Mr. Crow, I hate to tell you so, but your road is not going North at all! My dear I fear you build East, but do have peace: see a wind now blows up from the south which will carry you up to Narborough.”
“Folly! Folly I tell you!” Cried the crow, “Sailing on winds! We sensible crows do not trouble with winds and gales! They bring too much trouble! We sensible crows build ruby red roads and never look up to bother the sky!”