Clare In Hate

Typecast the flaming redhead
Brimming in anger's stew
You believe the world's inbred
What's supposed to be plenty is only a few
Asked why to feel this emotion
You say you want to be alive
Sure as your sharpened devotion
To the ideals by which you strive
You call upon the Gods to exact revenge
To crush every soul whose done you wrong
On what account of their crimes it depends
You just want to be risen in song
Though this injustice will soon pass
It won't be long before you empty your glass.

Clare In the Job

How much you hate
Those competitive dicks
It grates and it grates
Incompentent pricks
You much rather be teaching
Educating a class
All the time you are reaching
Not sat on your arse
You know you devour every book you read
You talk of ideas that compell
What you do doesn't satisfy indeed
What's hurtful is that you know this as well

Having to work on this cruel old earth

Still as passionate as when you were given birth.

Clare On the Go

For all her talents in loving
She really knows how to let go
She could give basic lessons covering
Emotional communication and also
Tips on enjecting fun
In the relationships slow dance
Where both partners merge seamlessly as one
Even the smallest spark has a chance
How I would love to dance with you
Playing and prancing free
How we would both step in and out of tune
A type of life I'd like to be
So don't rob me of my cage
Don't leave me alone, enraged.

Clare At Home

Expected fustrations with love and work,
You are deemed too passionate,
Think positive, don't go out with jerks,
Singe his pride with assonince,
You deserve better than what you're given,
Have me, I am better for you,
Then the whole zest of a lemon,
Have me for I am true,
Though it is better to bleed your heart,
Than have it frozen,
Let me play the romantic poet,
In this moment I have chosen,
Let you without a moment's pause,
Heart beat again, and know the cause.

An Unwelcomed Sun

Dilapitated in my eyes

The vulgar retch of the skies

Warmth of wit within the coal

Unsuitable standing utop a pole

Keeper of night with rejoicing bride

That has let in a sun as oncoming tide

Drowning in sight that unerves sense

It is only the duty of common law

That time uncovers the hidden sore

Same love of care divides our heart

In seeing the bodies and pulling the cart

A taste of death that comes with sight

That has the unease of knowing plight

Still the sickness dwells and resides

Kingdom of crystal changes and dies

Damn such knowledge uncommon

That jostles the reasonable worm

Into facing it's own turn

Glimpse of facade and petty floors

Untied of burdern and cause

Rope rises from the rock

Pulls the neck, takes stock.

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A Cross

The cross was broken.  This made the man upset.  It wasn't broken before and now somehow mysteriously it was.  But how could this be?  Thought the man: I always keep my things looked after.  He would have to get it fixed but for now he was transfixed by the broken parts.  It was a wooden cross, a very simple design.  It meant a lot to the man- it was given to him when he was baptised.  The baptism was his life given back to  him.  He was blessed by it, by those healing waters, a re-birth of some certain fire.
  By this he himself felt broken.  Looking in the mirror didn't help.  All he could see were those still hurting cuts that came from last week.  The unhealed scars made him feel dejected.  He put the bits of the broken cross into a bag and cycled across town into the green and brown woods.  As he was cycling he thought how fortunate he has been and how that fortune wasn't that inexhaustible resource he could always rely on.
  Seasons come and go just as luck, so it seemed.
  He wanted to bury the pieces of the cross as another symbolic act to end a symbol.  He was hoping that a great tree may grow from it a great cross tree to overshadow all other trees with it's big plate leaves and strong bark.
  His brother gave him the cross and the man imagined him being a little sad at this burial.
  The man dug up a hole with his hands and placed the cross inside.  Then he cried.
  The man went home lost and sad inside, he wondered out loud as to the purpose of his loss, his direction.
"No-more, no-more..."
  Collapsed into bed.
  That night he dreamt that he was dancing an infinite dance cascading through rooms long and endless.  Flames were at his heels but smoke didn't clog up his nose and throat.
  He woke up at a loss to his dream.  He couldn't make it out and promptly forgot about it.  The sun was rearing it's head and the man put on his clothes- all fingers and thumbs.  As he made his way outside he noticed something that should not be there- a package on the wall.  He couldn't explain it- it was a thing that should not be a thing, not on that ordinary wall it shouldn't have.
  He picked it up and to even further unreason he opened it.  His heaviness lifted when he opened it- it was a cross.
  He was baptised all again.

Jo Nash

Marbled microscopic
Worlds are placed here
The splats of paint
The burn of black
It is growing
In its dynamic
Flow while being
As static as a statue.