New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

New Poet, Marcy Clarke

I am new to writing- less then a year of poetry under this novice belt-It has become my mentor, where I write my whispers-a wise grief therapist sent me into this new land and I thrive…







Wages Of War


the tree outside my window

creaks in the breeze,

one skeletal branch stretches


tracing a message on glass…

the drought has left it withered,

too young


its roots scramble along the surface

trusting nature quench its thirst…

I watch the weather,


hear nothing whispered from the


my tears, I know, will not stay its death,


I spare the laundry another day,

drench my tree,

watching it drink I pray for rain…



Four Quarters For The Dollar Beneath Your Bed


the house is dusty,

window and door locks

ignore smiles playing in

summer breezes,


sunbeams scatter dimpled blinds

searching entry to your quiet

bedroom tethered in

dim memories…


I sit rocking in the corner,

a duster rests on my lap, its

feathers twitching



I need only strip the linens

shake the hand-stitched quilt

wash the curtains,

dust lamp bulbs, polish the bureau


scrub your footsteps from the floor…

throw open those reluctant windows

invite lemon and lavender replace

your scent of honeyed loss


and light autumn tallow to bless my tears…





on an ordinary day

end of summer

a box came special delivery,


ink strokes whispered her name

against a pedestrian brown wrapper

held tight with promise…


it leaned against her front door

free of any ornaments,

an ordinary box on an ordinary day


sighing to an ordinary girl,

her dog breathed a sniff, its wag inviting the box



beneath its drab exterior rested another

box, pale as moonlight with silent

ribbons glinting stars,


an extraordinary box on such an

ordinary day for this ordinary girl

and her dog…


she and the dog pondered its beauty

this splendid box bathed in soft magic,

basked in the wonder of its



shy tremble she reached out

tugged fragile ribbon feeling it drift


free to wander, a gentle breath lifting

the cover and she and the dog

peeked inside,


on that ordinary day, that ordinary girl

smiled ’til she wept and her dog

threw back its head and howled…



The Private Color Of Quiet


my fingers trace a spine of


feel dappled light ‘thru piney boughs


breathe the stillness of our souls…

birch and maple’s whispered proffer

leafy bungalow


clouds damping the forest bosom

weeping dreams buried deep in decayed



a thousand seasons shadow our silhouettes,

mist’s verdant canopy

the flush of heartache’s dew,


forest’s secrets cradling our loss

soft silence

in limb’s tender forgiveness…



Twilight Serenade


twilight’s wither he sits in his rocker

on the front stoop

enjoying his earl grey and the first of two


cigarettes he smokes each day…

veiled behind two billowy hydrangeas

he awaits the soft tread


his ghost out to mend her garden…

it never varies, a sigh past dawn she

appears in worn denim and a cotton tee,


garden gloves and broad brimmed straw,

bending in first light to snuggle weeds

from her flower beds…


there is a reverence to her labor, her lips

whispering prayers and blessings

each stippled floater caressed gently from


its rich domain, placed in a blue bucket

the color of his hydrangea blooms…

he smokes and sips while she plucks


and whispers,

’til the sun begins to climb…

a ritual never missed by either, she stands


cheeks smudged teardrop earth, and

nods a broken heart to his tender wave,

then disappears until tomorrow’s daybreak…






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