Dark of the Moon



Daughter of Icarus flew too close to the moon and her wings froze

She didn’t plummet to earth, though

She drifts through space in a delicate race with timelessness.


Once searching secret passageways woven with the light of moonbeams

Labyrinth obstructing all hope

No silver door will open anymore to ease her pain.


New moon begins, waxing in strength, powerful full moon ends waning

She flew in the dark of the moon

That dark flight had its cost, she’s entombed in frost, forever


Daughter of Icarus, silent and cold

Dead in her orbit, yet still growing old.


© 2014 Clarissa Simmens TBP Maiden, Mother and Mage: A Day of Poetry


Just Another Thought About Time


Time became a cyclone after thirty

Blurring my eyes as I hurtled through space

Clogging my pores, making me feel dirty

Forcing me to become part of its race.


Since we met, time mimics the recent past

I kick and scream but time is obstinate

In a becalmed sea, no sail for my mast

Being apart, time drags on, since we met.


Time has slowed down, but I’m still growing old

Suspended animation: day and night

There is no reality, life is cold

Time is a vacuum, sucking joy and light.


Cyclones occur but time creeps when alone.

Perhaps love creates another time zone.


(Written October 1991 as a practice sonnet

Spell It Out!


I’m not very good at interpreting

Inferences, conjectures, hints, speculations, surmises

My imagination careens out of control

When I try to guess

What people secretly mean

When they speak in code

You can write something

You can say something

But it’s like an elaborate labyrinth of words

Unless you spell it out!

So write, sing, say your words

Wrapped in the finest metaphors, similes or poetic pontifications

But it’s lost on me

Come on, spell it out!

Unless it’s not meant for me

In that case

Never mind…

My Birthday Sonnet (The Sixties)

 I am a smooth-skinned, slender sylph of youth

I am only seventeen, you must know

Someone cursed the mirror (I speak the truth)

With a horrid image of an old crow!


Someone said my mind must be mildly cursed

If I cannot discern reality

But as an Aries I meet life head first

So numbers are a triviality.


The mind holds the past, a young effigy

Sixties is not an age, it’s a decade

Where I choose the date when aesthetically,

I roamed through those mists as a lovely maid…


Rock out with Jimi and Janis today!

The self-bestowed present for my birthday!




Not for Arachnophobes


What is the message of the spider?

Pesticide-free home,

Spaces in floorboards,

Open invitation to the residents

Of our neighboring swamp.


Despite the equalizer AKA feather duster

The spiders come in the night

They always nip me equally

One on each arm

Unless it’s a Recluse

She gets me in one circle of eight.


The secret antidote is plantain

Or even aloe for the minor stings.

I’ve been injected with venom so many times

That one day I expect to point my wrists at a wall

While cobwebs shoot out

Enabling me to scale the side of the tallest building in Florida!


But I know there is a message

I used to fancy that I was Spiderwoman of folklore

Weaving my tales

My fantasies

My fantasies came true for others, not for me

What was the message there?

Observer and recorder of life

But never a recipient of those richly imagined dreams.


We Romani are always looking at portents

The Sinti word for the spider storyteller is

“Shpina Paramichari”

She is telling me that the one nip on each arm

Represents balance

Be consistent in life

Be moderate while living.


No important revelation

Just weave your life symmetrically

In order to function in harmony…


© 2014 Clarissa Simmens, TBP Maiden, Mother and Mage: A Day of Poetry


Inside the Rainbow


Finally found myself inside the local pottery shop

All my fears came true:

Beautiful work, impossible prices

But I was buying a gift so stayed.


The colors! The potter’s true artistry shone in hue, not shape

My words cannot repaint without dilution

Blues, pinks and greens like frosting

But from a gourmet bakery, not mother’s kitchen.


Growing up in psychedelia

Then conservatively dressing in primaries and secondaries

Presently starkly sticking to black

The potter’s blends soothed my jangled visionary view.


Weekly color baths of the seven chakras is a yogic practice

The conjuring up of colors refreshes my energy sources

To stand in that store without spending money

Would be as beneficial as Bath was to the Victorians.


Is there any way to retain that spectrum

Not only in my mind’s eye but also as a personal aura?

It would never do to move through Nirvana on a daily basis

But it surely could not hurt to bask in its fallout on special occasions…



Faking Out the Future


Wouldn’t want to go back in time because

Of what I’d find on the continuum

What if I hit that night in ’66

That night I broke down, screaming in despair?

Is that scream echoing in space and time?

Desolation imprinted forever?

For that reason, I refuse to scream now

I fear what might be imprinted in time.


Would time archaeologists exhibit

Screams of pain, cries of fear, in museums?

Scraping the continuum with chisels

Displaying the emotions of the past

Enabling descendants to conjecture

What set great-great grandma off that hot night?


Therefore, I will not scream today

Will not imprint despair in time and space

And all will think life’s been great since that night

That night in ’66 when last I screamed.


© 2014 Clarissa Simmens

(TBP Maiden, Mother and Mage: A Day of Poetry)