CLINT BOWMAN - POEMS

Clint Bowman is a writer based out of Black Mountain, North Carolina. When he’s not wandering around the endless miles of trails in the region, he is co-facilitating the Dark City Poets Society- a free poetry group offered through the local library. 

​From Anonymous 

​Thoughts swimming
in a gelatin pool,
I believe
one will break loose
and make a change

or get stuck

and result in nothing
except my drunk ass
sitting on the couch
another night

like my father
and every one of his binge episodes
that ended with nothing
expect a grilled cheese at midnight.

I’m praying
I’ll break free.

Make a name
for myself
before death
makes me
anonymous.

​Haiku for Lunch
Walking around Black Mountain

​Cold mountain vista--
a scrappy squirrel
climbs up the gutter.

Sirens scream--
a manger scene
lights up the front yard.

18-wheelers hum--
wind chimes
add a melody.

My heart--
a cracked sidewalk
on trash day.

​Valley

​The wealthy
          live up the mountain--
                              retired doctors,
                    researchers,
          business men, and
successful writers.

“If I move here,
I can’t live
in the valley.”

Nobody wants
to be the backdrop
of a sex scene.

So we found a condo
                    on a small hill
facing a houseless mountain--
it was good enough.

Except, rent.

So we settled
into a mortgage
                        
          across town,
          on a different hill.

Except, visible.

So I learned some tricks--
          flickering lights at night,
                    marrying mirrors with the sun,
                    and day drinking in the front yard
                    while staring out at the wild range
          just beyond the mansions,
that claim to have a better view.

​Trial/Trail

​Awaiting trial,
everything is “one last time.”
          waking up next to your wife,
          grinding up coffee beans,
          opening the newspaper,
          sitting down with the cat--
                    who is completely unaware
                    someone else’s hand
                    will give him his next treat.
          Driving down the street for groceries,
          climbing up a mountain--
                    walking around a tree,
                    stepping over a root,
                    stem, stone, and leaf,
                    making it to the top,
                    looking straight up--
                              spreading your arms wide,
                              feeling tears on your cheeks,
                              screaming at the sky,
                              begging for an answer.