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Poetry by Shigé Clark

"Let the battered heart rejoice"

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sad

Husk

Hey guys.
I hope you have been doing better than I have. I apologize for not having posted in so long. I wanted to write something positive and uplifting for you all, something to encourage you and give you hope. And I have faith I’ll get back to that place. But that’s not where I’ve been, and I don’t want to be insincere with you.
So thank you for your patience, and while we wait for that spark to return, here is something for you now. Because maybe some of you out there are here with me now, and maybe we can work our way back together.
 
Always yours,
Shigé

Husk

Ashen

Her heart has become hollow,
Punctured, and all the love that filled it
Drained. The spear that pierced her killed it,
The rest of her to follow.
She wants to share compassion,
But she is a dried-up vineyard,
Dust. She keeps on digging inward,
But finds her soul is ashen.

– s. Clark

I Can’t Hold You

I can’t hold you.
The days come, and they go.
Storms build amidst the winter snow.
I shiver as the sharp winds blow.
And I can’t hold you.
The moments swell and fall.
The sun shines down, the robins call.
I fill pages with pointless scrawl.
And I can’t hold you.
And there are other arms
That try to heal me of the harm,
That I can hold to keep me warm.
But I can’t hold you.
The world goes on and on.
The sun may rise, but brings no dawn,
Just vacant rage. For you are gone.
And I can’t hold you.

– s. Clark

My Ghost

By now, I think
there will always be the ghost
of who I was
before I lost you,
standing on the path behind me,
where I left her,
staring down in confusion
at the bloodstained footprints
trailing the part of me
that moved on,
fixed forever to that spot,
horrified by the nightmare,
waiting,
waiting to wake up.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Contradictions – 1

Living Dead

My mind is dead
Just as my heart is gone
It’s strange that I, so spectral,
Carry on.
A jagged cage of ribs
Curved over hollow shade
Lurching bones making as though
I am of flesh still made
It should be numb,
To wander dead of brain,
Yet still I feel the cracking bones
And pain
Of all the splintered space
Where once there dwelt a heart
I can still feel the weeping wound
Where I was torn apart

– s. Clark

Songs I Hate

Certain songs I hate.
The kind that send you reeling
Into feeling, unabating,
That remind you
So acutely of the loss
Of all that love has cost you.
Songs about the poetry
Of dying young. So deep. So sad.
And such a heap of crap.
They drive me mad.

– s. Clark

Single

I won’t spread all my scars
Across your soul,
Like a catchy tune
I’m hoping you will dance to.
I thought I was a catch
When I was whole,
Now I am only caught,
And will not trap you too
Inside this mess of mud
That was my mind,
Once fertile fields,
Now memories have flooded
And drown out the careful seeds
That made me kind.
And in their wake,
I fear I’m left cold-blooded.
It’s not your cup to drink,
Your cross to bear.
You have no ties to me,
So I refuse to bind you.
I will tie no one to my side
To keep them there.
I’ll drown alone.
I don’t expect to find you.

– s. Clark

No Air

We all take our breath for granted
Until one day it’s not there,
And it’s hard to notice sunlight
When there isn’t any air.

– s. Clark

Theme Week: Fairy Tales Retold – 2

The Sleeping Death

She didn’t know what allergies were,
she only wanted
to see the tree
stepmother had planted,
that grew in the meadow
somewhere on their farm
passed the brook on the east side,
but before the fence.

She left stepmother
staring into the bedroom mirror,
babbling to it
as she did every day
since the day father died,
and took the path she knew so well,
down passed the brook,
and on to the meadow.

She met the huntsman on her way,
coming back out of the wood
with his latest kill.
He said she should not wander,
that supper would be coming soon,
as would the dark,
but the apple tree was so grand
against the sunset,
all clumsy spilling out,
dropping its fruit on the grassy floor.

Just a bite,
not even enough to spoil supper,
and then off skipping home.
But as she walked,
her feet grew so tired,
her lips itched, her throat swelled.

She couldn’t breathe,
and as she laid down amidst the meadow,
with the trees
so suddenly dark and menacing
with branches like reaching fingers,
her soft skin faded white as snow
stained by rose-red lips,
and she fell asleep.

– s. Clark

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