Clare Clare Poems

Skies was so clear but felt missing
Calmness of the water sounding disguised
and into a path beautiful with oak leaves
Whispers of the willow filled
...

I am his muse
I love being a poet
He loves being a poet
But I love being his muse
...

He could only see light
Not clearly illuminated
But beautiful,
Beautifully bright
...

would I write of love if I was not in love
Would I speak with thoughts of him if I did not long for him

I would not talk about how it felt in the dark
...

He could only see light
Not clearly illuminated
But beautiful,
Beautifully bright
...

Nobody came to my funeral
But of course what did I expect
I knew only of paper
Only of words that I can't seem to stop writing even at my funeral
...

How are we poets
When we feel like broken pens pouring out ink
Read like tales
Often misunderstood and considered complicated by many
...

The morning was beautiful,
Rays of the sun rather kind
In need to make it's way through pieces
In need to disseminate itself to light
...

The sun set each day
But underneath it a silent cry
Hoping to get away
Away from a sadistic world
...

It was that silhouette
She always paused to see
No precise figure
No precise movement
...