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Grace
Happenstance is but a way of words,
The stumbling path of fools;
Yet a trail met in the wooded night
Cares not for weathered rules.
Deaf and dumb goes the traveller
Toward the outward shape;
Glancing not beneath the rock and leaf,
A sketch of the human ape.
But in vapid searching one still learns
To scratch the inner vein.
Eyes roll and bangles burn in that light—
The answers seem insane...
For piercing the learning dark we see
New visions clear and clean,
Struggling with our ever cluttered minds
To grasp what they might mean:
A white-winged horse and a graceful moon
Seek form in mountain fire,
While I, the fool, not too simple yet
Of ornaments do tire.
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2008
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Headpins
at contiguous depths
send blue lightning
across clouded voids
and are caught
by red-laced fingers
to recreate
the perfect sound
of a drop of water
splashing on skin.
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2008
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A Hole In The Clouds
radiant beams
a hole in the clouds
gossamer strands
speak out loud
warmed heart
a child's eyes aglow
soul is livened
I drive slow
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009
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Loss
A crystal passage from here to there
But no light with which to see.
"So what?" He asks with bitterness,
That door is closed to me.
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009
************************
Remembrance
Her darkness beckons to me
From the distance of a winter night,
To walk upon ancient and unknown shores
Without the use of seeing eyes.
Her grace is cast on the moon,
Black hair glistens in the light,
And with the cold, harsh wind
A teardrop falls into my dream.
Ease by rock so wet and black,
Taste the salt upon her lips;
Keep those hard-found treasures:
The ice-cold stone becomes so thin.
Oh, I can see the beauty,
Or find warmth beneath the darkened land,
But will I ever know from what still pool
Came that pure water in her hand?
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009
************************
Found
Secret longings mind-burnt
Now loosed from my soul,
Sweet knives outward slicing
Host-bound on the wind;
Diamond ice time-picked clean
Will melt asunder,
Heart-met in morning hours,
Her dark eyes of joy.
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009
************************
The Town of Me
My days have been
The passing of dreams,
Not quite real clouds
Built of smoke and dust,
Marking each pained
But gritty footstep
With rasping laughter
To steal away
The life-blood of
This aging ghost town,
While colourless
thoughts raised without form
walk through my halls,
echos of silence.
Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009
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