of a son
Poetry Partners #10 'I am a poem', by Chris Reilley of 'Christopher Reilley Poems' I am a poem. I am more than a collection of random words. I am much more than meter and rhyme. I was wrestled from magic, fixed into place, and spun like candy floss into being. If I can live one… Continue reading I am a poem, or: A poet
A Cleave poem looking out for a place to go these words find their audience hall to perform in… you, such as you are and you aren’t… and whoever else will harken, such as your poetry community members of many clever, nuanced allusions that draw subtle connections to desperate, yearning loneliness, understanding much of our… Continue reading Not to be, or: To be
A Cleave poem In the form of two Tankas tall, frosted windows reflecting dawn’s rays as the horizon lights up deep purple morning glories under cotton clouds opening to rain marking the autumn season harbinger of winter chill look upon a dull, brown world spelling tender petals' ends How to read a Cleave poem? Simply:… Continue reading Dawn, or: Twilight
A Cleave poem I fell in love with the city of my birth, but my deep commitment to family could not provide support enough to get me through that period of those difficult days that most required it because I was alone. so, I sucked it up, as was my father’s way, which he would… Continue reading Like father, or: Son
A Cleave poem you should always attempt to see in looking at the canvases the frames hanging on the walls around you what they are providing and contextualizing rather than true reality for what you’d like your careful perception to amount to could very well fail you tomorrow or some day later How to read… Continue reading Perception, or: Reality
A Cleave poem I dissolve like instant coffee and artificial sweetener in boiling water tasting almost natural but not really because it becomes me, infuses my neurons even as I recline backwards with greater force than caffeine upon my spinal cord ever did pensively, even more so than when I drink Black Label Brewed Coffee… Continue reading Sugar, or: Cream
My 2nd Cleave poem she loves his gruff voice, his calling card that he leaves his hot temper by his shoes neatly by the door, now ajar, open to a world well known to her that could offer support whenever his arm rises up into the air should she need to make his tyranny known… Continue reading Barefoot, or: Naked Truth
My 1st Cleave poem there’s no rhyme to what poets write and what poets experience how they are understood when they are read by critics picking their fantasies apart / from from stacks of books delivered by publishers, not knowing the rhythms of their hearts them and their little birds fluttering so vulnerably yearning hoping… Continue reading Sign, or: Delivery
The skeptic's kaddish 
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