Clinton Van Inman was born in Walton-on-Thames, England in 1945, grew up in North Carolina, graduated from San Diego State University in 1977, and has been an educator most of his life. He currently teaches high school in Tampa Bay where he lives with his wife, Elba.
Some of these are new poems, some older ones. I like the brevity, and his vivid images.
From him: Recent publications include Sheephead Review, BelleReveJournal, the Metric, Deep South Magazine, Southern Writers Magazine, UK Poetry Library, Mouse Tales, Poetry, Foliate Oak Magazine, BlackCatPoems, BlazeVox, Wilderness House Review, Nature Writing, and Indiana University Spirits to name a few. Currently, I am trying to gather most of my poetry together to publish in a book called, “Northwoods Near.”
A COUNTRY MILE
Mixed with tobacco juice
And red summer clay
It came from the edge
Of the cornfield
The clout that soared
Past the unplowed field
Smashed into the red barn
Scattering the cawing crows.
ONE LAST LEAF
The way the last leaf
On a winter’s branch
Held by will alone
If not by chance
Reminded me of
The coming cold
Branches will break too
Before I grow old.
ESTATE SALE
Sunday’s best looked untouched
As if saved for a day that
Never did come
Those fine china dishes
Piled under some obscure
Painting of a farmhouse
And piles of old photos
All unrecognizable
Next to miscellaneous items
That must have once been treasured
But today only marked down
An additional twenty percent.
SWING SET
Year after year
Her backyard keeps
Under tall grass
The rusting swing set
And the little red wagon
As if waiting
To be used again.
REAL LOVE
Real love comes
Not with arrows
But with shovels
Picks and wheelbarrows.
DAISIES
Too real to touch
Those blue roses
Lying across
The divided line
Too perfect and
Always out of reach
For dirty hands
So I picked you
A bunch of wild
Daisies instead.
INVITED
It was no accident my coming here
For they must had known long before
I wandered to their farmhouse near
That soon I would knock upon their door
And wait until the storm would clear.
Call it more than a good neighbor’s sense
In snow to leave a porch lamp lighted
Or post the sign upon the picket fence
For those in need are all invited
Fate could find no better coincidence.
FIREFLIES
They glitter and glow like stars
But the ones we catch and place in jars
Will not shine as if to refuse
Until we open the lid and turn them loose
But just like us whether fly or kid
No light shines under glass or lid.