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Mark Leeper Poem
My Clone Got No Soul
My clone, it seems, came out with no soul,
I guess it got lost, in the petri dish bowl.
In the mirror, a face like me would come through,
But that’s where it ended,
He was more like Deep Blue.
He never did find that “happy” place,
He never belonged, to the whole human race.
I wanted to console my clone with no soul,
But which part was actually there to console?
His head, his heart, his hand or his foot,
That’s a soulless sole, with no spiritual root.
He tried yoga, and diet, and Zen meditation,
But the chakras weren’t there for his elevation,
And soon he came down with “no motivation.”
I gave him the novel, that old Frankenstein,
He was all Shelly and shell shocked,
And out of his mind.
He took to drink, his gourd to console,
He even packed up, a nice little bowl.
I guess any change of mind will do,
When you’re trapped in your ego,
All cornered and blue.
So I bought him a TV,
With a satellite dish,
But it didn’t satisfy, not one single wish.
“Too many reruns,” he said with a stare,
“Heather’s cheating on Alex, but what do I care.”
I’ve got more problems that are troubling me,
All existential and twisted, to the nth degree,
My guanine, and cytosine, none of them blessed,
My adenine, thymine, just like the rest,
All of them sequenced, in neat little clips,
Here comes the four horsemen,
Of my apocalypse.
I felt sorry for him, so sorry you see,
It was not his decision, to be all you can be,
Or not to be, that is a question, posed
with Shakespearan glee,
He couldn’t read the fine print, you see
With no eye’s you see. Oh say can you see?
My clone passed a man with a pamphlet to read,
Jesus saves my dear boy, that’s all that you need,
this contract you sign, will grant you God speed.
“I’m soulless and homeless,” said my clone with a smirk,
I haven’t had time, to be a real jerk,
I’ve been in a fog, an unfortunate haze,
I’ve been only alive for a couple of days.”
.My clone moved around on the physical earth,
With no hope of redemption, release, or rebirth,
“If love won’t release me, it’s hate I will breed,”
I‘m a terrible spawn, from a terrible seed.
In a losing game, I have to concede.”
(Now I never thought a twitch, to put him on a shelf,
But when we sat together, he was beside himself.)
My clone on his birthday sighed a terrible sigh,
That he wanted to, “just lay me down and die,”
His desire for this, was so total and blind,
His own DNA began to unwind,
I called up the Church, the Lab, and the State,
That my clone was dying at a terrible rate.
“Your call is extremely important to us”,
As long as you don’t raise, or kick up a fuss.
He died on a cold night on old Halloween,
Alone and frightened at the terrible scene.
And there, I laid my clone to rest,
But alas, he had no soul to bless.
I took a walk, to kick my heart rate,
And was grateful,
that I had a different fate.
And if your neighbor greets you,
with a blank full of stare,
I hope he’s just tired,
and someone’s in there.
But don’t call the Church the Lab or the State,
They usually arrive just a little too late.
Copyright © Mark Leeper | Year Posted 2013
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Mark Leeper Poem
My Grandmothers Hands
Grandmother Pearl,
the Ozark mountain girl,
picking flowers and
singing down the valley,
in the sun and the rain.
Her hands, older than her age, they were,
already a woman’s touch.
You were such a little girl, when your hands
took on the cares of this world, the mountains
ringing with the silent sound of your toil.
The clap of prayerful thunder it was, hands that never stopped,
and never asked why, why me?
The rough hands,
full of so much tender love,
folded in devotion,
and then after, always in motion,
sweeping a wooden floor, or knocking at heaven’s door,
stretched out hands of service through all infinity,
beckons me onward to all eternity.
Copyright © Mark Leeper | Year Posted 2012
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Mark Leeper Poem
I wanted to love you,
Really it’s true,
But you didn’t love,
The you that was you,
All the money and candy,
And flowers I sent,
didn’t make a big difference,
Not money well spent.
You needed more,
than a confection or two,
or a flower that said more,
than, “how do you do?”
I hope you look through,
That looking glass,
And you can love yourself at last.
As for me, it’s time,
For my sacred space,
I’ll pray for you dear,
And hope you find grace.
It’s true, so true, clearly it’s true,
You are the creator, the preserver,
And the destroyer of the love,
In you.
Copyright © Mark Leeper | Year Posted 2013
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