The gales of November sit still on my mind
while I stand to remember the Maritime blues
Twenty-nine souls cradled by the sea
perished as the gales of November blew free

"We're holding our own just like an old shoe "
transmissions and messages lost in debris !
Superior storms blew hard and unfettered
as the gales of November amok, ran the sea

Twenty-nine souls gone astray with the wind  
and the mountains and lakes still echo for thee    
Its a "Lightfoot" connection that sings of your plea    
as the winds of November blow wild and blow free !

By day, I followed her around and watched her every move, for she was bigger than life itself. But when the sun went down, she would change into her uniform and go out into the summer evening. Busing it she'd go to the local factory and work on an assembly line. They made confectionery sweets there, and when the boss discarded them for being broken or imperfect, he allowed the staff to take them home to their families. I'd sit at home doing my homework, waiting for her shift to end. Quite often I would be too tired to stay up until midnight and since I had school the next day, I'd go to bed by nine. In the morning I would find a box of pastries called Palmiers in french palmyè, sitting on the kitchen table waiting to be enjoyed.
When the sun came up we would both sit at the kitchen with a tea in hand and talk before I had to go to school. When she hugged me she smelled of spun sugar with a touch of fixative from yesterday's hairspray. All around her was a peaceful presence, as I enjoyed the warmth of her capable strong hands. That was close to sixty years ago and still today if I stand by a bakery counter taking in the scent of cakes and sweets I can still recall my mother and the way she moonlighted just to make ends meet.
Another feather in my cap of feelgood memories from days of yonder. Tune in tomorrow for another story in my lifetime.

The End.

She was eighteen years of age and tattoos were the latest rage. Snapping her bubble gum she plunks herself on a chair then asks  " May I have a tattoo please" I see a young girl in a messy ponytail and an old beaten up jacket.  I worry that she'll pick something God awful and then I'll have to oblige.  
The boldness of youth
can appear so uncouth
yet reveal so much truth
"I want a tattoo of a winter vine.  One that will not go away nor fade with time" Touching the tip of the needle to the ink it ***** up into the cartilage reservoir.
As the machine begins to “buzz” the armature bar hits the coil and I begin to work. Stretched across her upper arm I notice a discoloration of the skin, a slow petering bruise.
Eyes color of snake
she is all heartache
I take a break...
"Why did you choose a vine?" I ask,  but all I get is silence and a slow breath intake.    
As the coil tattoo gun moves up and down continuously the clicking sound feels soothing
to her ear.  " The last memory I have of my mom is of the the winery.  She told me how the
leaves shimmer with color before falling off.  How the sap sinks into the roots and the vine
falls asleep, while waiting for the next summer to appear.
the tendrils climb
this is her time
not mine
In her handbag she carries a heavy load plus some green crumpled dollar bills.  " How much do I owe you?" she asks.  I tell her shes already paid her dues " No charge. " I say.  She smiles and then she leaves, as if on cue...

You left in a
search for truth
you left clean
without a trace
traveling further
into an endless
dream
your collection
of memories
exploding in a
sunburnt sky
with so many miles
between us now
I wonder how
you have changed
I hope you will
remember me when
you finally make it
to the coast
sincerely …
Clay.M

In the bite of blue mornings
before the swirl of the
buttery sun disturbs
the dreams of birds
I write I drink coffee
I write I drink coffee
I cross out words within
the belly of black clouds
I try to disappear
this kind of poetry
is never offended by
your distance it has no
need for company or
meaningless conversation
it waits for the sound to fall
it waits for the subtle sense
of true isolation
it waits for the ghostly
stare of memories
it waits for the cold sting
of lost love  
it waits for the tears
it waits ...
Clay.M

When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M

Of artists blocks
and charcoal pencils
lines drawn
blackened white
with hearts the stencil
gouache pastels
in dusted hues
smudged
whetted thumbs
by moistened lips
colours gently bruised
with fingertips
stroked by brushes
firm tipped certain
outside the frame
of loves drawn curtain
softly washed
in watercolour fade
the painter plays
loves serenade
emboldened strokes
in oils dramatic
his canvas laden
replete
climactic

© J.C.