The alarm clock rings
and once again
the rooster sings
the morning new.
Slumbering flowers
lift their petals to drink
the drops of dew.
  Reliable Sun
vanquishes the darkness
as he lightens the sky.
  I see an honored guest
is in the garden,
his tiny nametag reads... butterfly.

       But on the other side of town
       someone struggles with
       addiction.

 Habits grab hard,
break will powers  in two.
The will becomes won't
and the power is all through.
Satiated,
temporaneously satisfied.
only till the next time the habit has to be gratified.
The victim moves on trying to reassemble his day
Avoid
a crooked roaded relapse,
along the way.

Oh ghost of the host why must repitition repeat the most
and feel so good in its continuation?
Why must familiarity breed the need
for more familiar feelings?
To the point of killing control, sealing a fate,
dealing defeat,
stifle healing.

     If your out there guardian soul, spirit helper, what's your roll, your goal? 
 Guiding with helping hand or let stand the habitualized
habit man.

Isn't there  a self preservation station within?
A gland or impulse control button to switch from sin to win?

Even Edgar Allan Poe stubbed his toe on a ten step program trying to get in the door.
Ill-begotten and craven, drunken and unshaven cried the raven...never more.

Guiding spirit it ends here!         

No more slave to the crave
or impulse picking from the addiction tree.
The need to repeat and repeat
the pattern becomes a self fulfilling prophesy.

Back to normalacy, complacency,
it's a moderation that one seeks.
To enjoy the ****** of bells, hallalulah wails,
a babies dimpled cheeks.

Can you do that Spirit helper, please.
Let sing the bodies vibration.
 No more internal damnation.
No more self flagellation.
Allow to draw power from these words.
Think of this all as an intervention!

Once you drew me naked,
And I did not recognize the man,
A stranger in my skin,
I couldn’t trace where I began.

If you return,
do not knock,
the door has memorized your hands.

If you leave,
do not turn back,
the wind carries only forward.

I was on a train from
Paris to Amsterdam
and with an empty page
a sad smile and a pen
she was looking out
the window across
the apple green fields and
into the valleys of cobbled
villages and ****** churches
and as the dead air of Paris
was leaving my mind
I began to read the reflection
of questions in her eyes
I wanted to tell her what
she already knew
that the answers are in
the rhythm of the rails
and to only underline
the words that matter ...
Clay.M

Through the olive groves
to the village that sleeps
beneath the mountain
the collapse of human
kindness is far from me
the language of nature
is universal
the wild birds only know
songs of wisdom
the Cypress tree leans
upon its intelligence
it only speaks of peace
it has witnessed the
tragedy of war
there is happiness in the
falling of leaves
there is acceptance
in the whisper of the
restless wind ...
Clay.M

I happened to find
myself longing for
some kind of change
you were telling
me this in that little
cafe on the corner
your words fell softly
through the hum of
café conversations
your eyes were left
searching in a
maze of emotions
you wore a poets frown
that I could not ignore
there’s no easy way to say
there’s no easy way to grieve
somethings that you love
sometimes leave
the thread between us
now is broken …
Clay.M