Our Story

Our Story

July 9, 2012

I read a story
whose ending I couldn’t control.

I tempted myself
to read the ending early,
but couldn’t get myself to do it.

Then I realized
that I already tried
to do the same to you.

Page by page,
is day by day,
and endings make themselves,
with the best ones never coming.

So why would I look for the one thing
I never want?

There is no cover
that binds us inside,
and I would rather
not try and be one either.

I don’t want to push,
to bind,
to end you…

And I don’t want to put you
in a story that I know,
for what I know has sometimes hurt.

I just want to let you run.

And breathe.

Like a thought
in the center
of my mind, my heart, my soul.

Happy Birthday, My Wife

Our first child.
I remember his birth.
How I felt inside...
like a million pieces of new gum all put into my mouth
at once.
So many flavors of emotion and so full,
that I couldn't say much worth understanding.
But you.
you knew.
Our second child.
I remember her birth.
How I felt inside...
like taste testing 15 different chilies
within minutes.
So hard to choose my favorite taste of emotion,
and wishing I had a full bowl of each.
But you,
you knew.
Our third child.
I remember her birth.
How I felt inside...
Like a thousand new brilliant business ideas inside my head,
at once.
So amazingly exciting and overwhelming,
and not sure what to do with it all.
But you,
you knew.
Our fourth child.
On the way.
How I feel inside...
like all my deepest dreams,
coming true.
So full of meaning and promise
and yet not sure of their meaning
but you,
you know.

The Atheist

The Atheist

He’s an atheist
And she’s working on it.
Only he uses God’s name more often than she.
For him, it’s God damn this,
And, Oh God, and God that!
If she wanted to be an atheist,
She should start using his name more often.
Maybe it helps remind the atheist of his “powerlessness.”

The Poet and the Fool

The Poet and the Fool

Who is the poet most of all?
He who speaks eloquence of words?
He who speaks eloquence of heart?
He who speaks eloquence of both?
Or the fool who knows nothing at all?

I am the fool,
Who knows little of words,
Who knows little of the heart,
And much less of how they go together,
And yet I feel neither a fool nor a poet

So where I am left?
Where am I right?
Or am I just wrong
And still a fool and not a poet?

Some applaud simple words
With complex meanings.
Others applaud complex words
With simple meanings.
Still others applaud just the words themselves
And how they might sound
Or look on paper.

Some proclaim greatness in meaning
While some proclaim greatness lies in feeling.
But even some proclaim greatness in the
Smile they bring
Laugh they cause
Tear they invoke
Motivation they raise
Conviction they stir
Beliefs they shake
Faith they strengthen
Realities they speak.

But I?
Not I.
I consider only truth.
For a fool knows little, but truth
For he at least knows he is just a fool
While others still believe they are poets.

Words.
So powerful.
So weak.
They try to say so much,
But say so little of the truth.
Words bind themselves by things they cannot tell.
The truth.

That which conceals itself so shallow
We think it only some thin veneer
to be penetrated
by seeking minds who know
not the end nor the beginning
because there is none.

So do they give it up?
No.
They fight still to say
That which has already been said.
Like taking the sands of the shore
And rearranging them
Time after time
Thinking the shore will suddenly reveal itself
Differently.

They do not see
The sea.
It alone repeats
And rearranges the shore.
While we search the sands
The sea speaks what has been said before.
Truth cannot be defined by what is said
About the shore today
For it will yet be changing tomorrow.
But, the sea will be here ever repeating
The same rhythm
Over and over again.

Truth is not a moment in time defined
By the picture taken now,
But by all the pictures taken
Over all time.

While the sea remains the same.
Repeating, ever repeating,
The truth.

The poet?
A photographer only
Taking pictures of our arrangements
Of the sand.

Will he always turn his back to the great author
Of truth?
Or will the fool
who dares enjoy the crashing waves
Above his head
Attempt to feel the truth
And scare away
To the security of the shore
And the work of our own hands?

Thus the poet and the fool?
They are the same.
Each failing to have the words
That can bind truth
In time.

Stars

The stars are so small.
They are so far away from me.
I reach out to them.
They seem to move even farther away.
The moon is cold.
It shines bright on the snow.
It lights up the night,
But darkens the soul.

Let it Out

I’m overcome by the river flowing over me,
This white water pushing me down
Till I can’t breathe.

Please let it out
But how?
I can’t put breathe to the words I feel
And can’t put water to the tears I cry
So please just let it go
Don’t push it back inside
It only wells up like a damn to break
And flood the valley of sorrow
Drowning me.

I stand with my back to the stream down
And my face to the stream up
While still hanging down inside
My head looks to the air above
Without feeling any air inside my lungs.

Gasping inside but tied up on the outside
By my grasping hands and open arms.
My hair stays in my skin
And even my skin tightens
And chokes my ability to tear it.

Oh please turn me inside out
So that I might be free of this prison,
The depths of loneliness.

The Way that You Move

The Way That you Move

When the morning opens wide
and the sun is falling
into the sky…
When the blackness turns to blue
and the windows warm my bed,
I remember you

and the stars in your eyes
begin to shine through.

When the day in blowing by
and the sands that watch us try
to catch it all…
When the clouds begin to lose
the shadows that they pull
because they want it all,
I remember you.

When the time is settling in
at the bottom of the earth,
I close my eyes…
When the world outside is slow
my heart is racing on,
cause I remember you.

When the morning slips away
and the wind has gone to sleep,
I can feel you near…
When the darkness takes me in
and holds me in a dream,
that brings you near…

And the way that you move
and the way that you look
to me,
makes me feel so alive
and it stays deep inside
of me,
cause I remember you.
I remember you.

Thoughts on the Modern Poet

Thoughts on the Modern Poet

What words are these
You slip out from under your tongue
As if they were the moisture in your
Breath?

They wet my face,
Insulting my pride
And drowning my intelligence.

Attempts to glean
The smallest meaning
And joy are wiped away
With them in my sleeve.

There they stay unseen, gone,
And skin dries,
But I find you no more
To my liking.

What is it you have so much to say
That can’t be said to me?
That can’t be fed me like a calf
Alone without mother?

I am not a blade of grass
That holds in its cut its green,
withstands the wind
And thunder and rain poured down
Without mercy, and still flourish.

Why in your attempt to clarify
Do you leave a cleft?
Yes, one between what you say
And what you mean.

Why am I angry ar You?

Why am I Angry at You?

Why am I angry at you?
Because of words
That never broke a bone,
But that fashion freedom
And all the while
imprison the mind.

Why am I angry at you?
Because you speak foreign
To me with the words
Of your eyes.

Why am I angry at you?
Because you see
What you say
And say what you see
To yourself.

Why am I angry at you?
Because though I listen
And ponder you,
I cannot understand
What you are saying.

Why am I angry at you?
Because even with my eyes
And ears attentive
And heart open to my mind,
I am blind.

Why am I angry at you?
Because I am blind
And yet you insist I should see
And speak as such until
I do not want to listen.

Wind

Wind

If I could choose
Would I stand in the wind
With my face into its breath
And my heart against its voice?

What does the wind have
To make me seek it out?

Does it speak some peace
Or secret comfort
I cannot find in calm?

Does it bring an air
Of remembrance
Where I can hold to what once was?

Does it fill me
With hope and promise
That I do not reach without?

Does it hold me up
Against the stumbling
As I step forward once again?

Does it blow away
The sweat and pain
Of trial and error?

Does it strengthen me
As I go against
The current that it holds?

I rise to heights
And find the level plain.
I can’t hold it, shape it, control it
In any way.
I can’t stop it, slow it, break it,
Or escape it.

Yet I seek it out.

Writing

Writing

Who knows of my life?
Who cares of my life?
Who will ever hear my heart?
Who will ever want to hear my words?
Do I write in vain?
With so many voices,
What do I have to contribute
That is anything
More than what anyone else has?
Why would my words be any more
Important?
Why would anyone spend the time to read them.
Words are so many
Acts so few.
Am I left only to babble on
Without purpose?
Does writing it all only add to the pain of hunger?
Or does it feed a desire foolishly?
I have so little time already.
Is this how I then spend it?
It seems as if it is.

Used To

Used To

That song I used to play

over and over,

almost a broken record,

is now only a broken heart,

played over and over.

That place on the lake

where we used to sit and dance

to music that we played

and smiled like it were the first

time we had heard it,

and that it was written just for us,

now feels like it was.

That smell I got used to,

some of your own,

that comes from who you are,

and some that I gave you,

for your birthday just so I could have,

one more way to remember you,

now reminds me of you still.

That inside joke we used to have,

that bound us in laughter,

and helped us be alone

even when we weren’t,

now remains silent,

and me,…alone.

My Hope

My Hope

There is no way
to rid myself of hope.
I hold on to it like there were none,
like there were no chance for tomorrow.
This grip I have on hope
chokes the very source of its life
and lets me fear
the very thing I trust most
failingly.
The claims I make
of being hopeful
are as real as the end of my hope
that never comes about
because I can’t let go of hope
replace it with real.

One Moment Away

One Moment Away

It was always just onemoment away.
One day, one week, just one,
was all that kept
squeezing in between us
like a wooden wedge
determined to stop
the closing of the door
and lodging in our heart
sits small, but searing slivers.

My Front Porch

My Front Porch

My refuge is my front porch.
There I can sit alone.
I can sit in the dark or in the light, however I choose.
There I can watch everything and nothing all at once.
No one stops to ask me for anything.
No one stops to drown me in their news or complaints of life.
My guitar sits in my lap and lets me play it as I wish, or at least as I can.
I sing and know that no one cares what I’m singing, so neither do I.
On the porch, I can think about whatever I want without interruption.
There I can daydream and know it’s ok.
Most of all, on the porch, I can find refuge from my loneliness.
I can feel like I am a part of the world as I sit and watch it pass me by.
I can feel like I am not alone.
Although all the while, I drown in irony, for I am alone and wish I weren’t.

Today Was You

Today Was You

Today the world was full of you
and there was no escape.
When even the wind and the rain speak of you
like everything happened today,
I find myself living a dream that always ends
halfway through and leaves me wanting more.

Today I saw your name on someone else’s last name
and felt like someone erased half of who you are.
When I heard that song you always love
I turned it up and sang along
just so I could pretend it was your voice
I could hear above the sounds of the world,
like the voice of angels singing softly behind the wrongs of us all.

Today I felt you near
in the soft pillow on my face when I awoke
and meant to stay there all day long.
When you moved to the picture on the wall
and then to sound of my phoneI followed and felt disappointed
when your voice didn’t connect
at the other end.

Today I saw your face,
but when she turned her head
you had already disappeared.
When I tried to find you again
among the crowds I got lost
and didn’t want to find my way again.

Today I heard your voice
but I’m still waiting for it to say
what I wanted to hear.
When you found my ear
my mouth got in the way
and found its way into your heart
where it only seemed to curse my own.

So now I remain full of you
like the clouds that want to rain
and the desert that wants it to fall.
But the storm in my heart
only seems to block out the sun
and hide my view of the world I know,
so beautiful because it is so full of you.

Still I find ways to feel so empty
in a world so full of you.
When I give my best try
and find it one try too many,
or that it remains that,
just a try.

Last of all I am left with nothing
left to give that you will take.
Yet…when my day is filled with you
it becomes a day lived
and loved.

Cry the Rain Out

Cry the Rain Out

Cry the rain out
Like summer storms
Upon the plains of our broken
Hearts.

Cry the rain out
Like volcano tears
Upon the safety of our broken
Homes.

Cry the rain out
Like weeping rocks
Upon the strength of our broken
Bones.

Cry the rain out
Like lightening, thunder
Upon the sleep of our broken
Dreams.

Cry the rain out
Like smoke from wood
Upon the certainty of our broken
Promises.

Cry the rain out
Like a falling river
Upon the dryness of our broken
Lives.

Cry the rain out
Like ripened fruit
Upon the confidence of our broken
Pride

Cry the rain out…
Cry the rain out…
Cry the rain out….

The Quiet Hand

To those of you who write, read, and generally appreciate good poetry, you probably understand the quiet hand that I speak of. There is always something unseen that pulls me towards some destiny I can't see. My poetry is a way that I record the past, expresses the present, feel for the future, and understand how they all work together towards some madness I call my life.

Some of my poetry are also lyrics to songs I have written. A few of you purists may not like that, but I won't tell you which ones, so you won't know to judge them differently. I invite you to try and guess which ones they are.

I hope you enjoy what I write. The aspect of poetry I love is not necesarily self-expression, although that is a great part of it. In fact, the part I love most is the communication that poetry becomes. Hopefully my poety will not just be for me to understand. It is my greatest hope that something I say will make you smile, inspire you, stir you, and/or bind you to another human being in some way that makes us all feel more like one, than many. Although poetry is a very individual thing, it's greatest power lies in its ability to make us all more one.

You might just find something you like as much as I do. Let me know what you think. Enjoy.

Adam H. Clark