A tribute to M Teresa Clayton

Known for her evocative poetry, imaginative fiction, and insightful reviews, Teresa Clayton was long an inspirational member of the literary community. In addition to her contributions to Asphyxium Zine since 2015, Clayton penned a collection of hauntingly beautiful written works including Judith, Mystic Verses, The Umbral Garden, Storyteller, and My Name Is Metaphor. Tragically, she recently lost her battle with brain cancer, leaving behind a legacy of creativity and passion. In honor of her memory, a selection of Clayton's poignant poems from her Facebook groups have been posted at the webzine, shared with permission a few months ago. These verses, others at the webzine and those in her Facebook communities invite you to explore her unique perspective on life, love, and loss. For those who wish to offer condolences, Clayton's profile remains a place of remembrance and reflection. Clayton’s 2015 and 2016 interviews for Asphyxium provide more insight into her artistic journey and literary influences. As you take a moment to immerse yourself, explore the intricate, vivid imagery woven through her poetry, and connect with a truly remarkable writer.

M Teresa Clayton: https://www.facebook.com/The.Mystress.Clayton

M Teresa Clayton Official: https://www.facebook.com/groups/M.Teresa.Clayton.Official
M Teresa Clayton Official: https://www.facebook.com/groups/749177879163371
M. Teresa Clayton's Collaboration Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/159584241176098
Mystic Verses: https://www.facebook.com/mysticverses.thebook
A Mindful Death: https://www.facebook.com/M.Teresa.Clayton

Interview from 2015: https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/2015/10/poet-interview-m-teresa-clayton.html
Interview from 2016: https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/2016/02/author-interview-m-teresa-clayton.html
Poems written by Clayton: https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/search/label/POEMS
Fiction written by Clayton https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/search/label/FICTION

Poem: "The World is a Vampire" by Ted Axe

The World is a Vampire

Ted Axe

The world is a Vampire

It sucks and bleeds us dry.

It digs in deep with its fangs

And hears not our cries.

This place is cruel

It laughs at us

As as we try.

Sad beautiful world

We must all leave you

By and by

Poem: "Golden Apple (Same Seed)" by James Kenneth Blaylock

Golden Apple (Same Seed)

James Kenneth Blaylock

a golden apple

for the taking,

a sweet fruit

of character

it can be

baked into

aromatic pies

or thoroughly

dried out, to

grow another

tree of the

same seed

james kenneth blaylock 1-2-24

Poem: "Black Moon Promise" by Judge Santiago Burdon

Black Moon Promise

Judge Santiago Burdon

Bathroom confessions

backdoor redemption

Black moon promise

made to a leather winged Angel

Afterglow addict disciple of dawn

woman standing at the edge of love

listening for the silence in between the words

whispered by an ambidextrous tongue.

Loiterer in dim luminescence

under bloodshot skies.

beautiful visions reminding her of horrible things

knowing the best part of truth is the lies

Casualty of kindness

twilight apostle

feeling what is not her favorite color

A song of flawed perfection

a bitter taste on her lips

Its melody fading

along with the last smile of summer

Judge Santiago Burdon

Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc .

Poem: "The Balance" by M Teresa Clayton

The Balance

M Teresa Clayton

I listen to the waves rushing ashore; the ebb and flow…

the rhythmic beating of lives measured cadence

keeping pace with what must come and what must go -

alluvial grounds preparing for a blessed nascence.

I watch as the sun arrives; lifting its light from the east…

we know nothing of our treasured reliance.

Reaping her nourishment, each day a new feast -

yet, taken for granted 'neath this unspoken alliance.

The wind blowing in from the north; a harsh and stinging cold…

the solstice has lost its once grand appearance.

Long past its due, the season has now grown old

bidding the equinox to come without interference.

Strongest are the many blessings now spoken from its mouth…

hymns sung aloft now rain down its affluence.

Spring's warm soft breezes arrive from the south;

gives praise to the passing season at its confluence.

The seasons have never forgotten their appointed course…

each pushes past all unforeseen resistance.

We endure the change without any remorse,

knowing it still remains true to its flawless consistence.

The new moon prepares to wax full and then begins to wane…

pulls the tides high in glorious resplendence.

She assures that she will return once again,

It is the symmetry of her splendor in transcendence.

Opposites push and pull to gain their own definition…

yet, held fast within this divine ordinance.

Redundancy - the bane of man's supposition.

All grace lies within predestined accordance.

The courses, cyclic in nature, rearrange; recomposed…

remains the same when bartering allowance.

Abundance is equality; juxtaposed

On the head of a pin, a delicate balance.

written and read at the Dreams and Divinities Art show in San Cristobal Mexico in 2014.

Poem: "The Greatest Film Ever Made" by Jerry Langdon

The Greatest Film Ever Made

© Jerry Langdon 2023

Passing the threshold of the cinema door

Spelunking deep into the darkness,

Scrying for the perfect seat for what's in store.

No, back row; no front row

Too far away; too close.

One would think the center to be perfect

But there is the strange feeling of being lost.

For this feature there is no required ticket;

I am alone and without extra cost.

I sink into my conquered paradise chair

I feel the static rising in the air,

Adrenalin wafting out like sweet perfume.

I am a bat on a cavern ceiling

In that sanctuary where I'm hanging and chilling.

I hug my bucket of popcorn and bag of jelly beans.

Jelly beans!; that is what this adventure will be like.

Not knowing what surprise will unfold in the scenes.

The cover is cracked and the story begins to spike

Drifting into a fantastic world spilled on the pages

And the camera rolls.......a movie just for me.

Tonight's matinee a gruesome horror; my blood rages.

My mind races and the pages break the sound barrier.

The room I'm in becomes the stories carrier.

Welcome to the greatest film ever created.

For me books will never be out-dated.

Poem: "Houdini Outwits Mussolini" by Alan Lisanti

Houdini Outwits Mussolini

Alan Lisanti

I'm too smart to be the worm on your hook

But I lack hands to free myself

And so I wriggle and writhe

But adverse effects set the steel deeper

Embedded evermore firmly at its disposal

I can almost kiss the nylon now

As I wither in the Sun

Like a pig roast impaled and engulfed in the smoke

Rotating rotisserie

A plump feast for vulturous sadists

A celebration of some untold victory

And what's the angle...depravity?

Some stealth attempt at feeding the insatiable?

A pleasure in voyeuristic suffering?

The kind that conjures forth

Satisfactory smiles you'll try to conceal

Beneath this well composed exterior?

It isn't lost on me

Paint on your poker face

Stay in character

But I see the apparent transparency

So satisfied you don't know you show it

So sure the wool is impervious

To the subtle tells of opacity

Spit it out and free fall

Into the perilous deep

The abyssal mystery

It's awfully appealing to me

Just to take my chances

Among the food chain

Where fate is a lottery

Not a guarantee

I paralysed my convulsions

I played dead for a moment

I slid away from the nylon

Relaxed and didn't fight it

Fresh blood now

Where the knot and metal meet

And admired the new colours

How silver almost faded completely

Like a paint brush stuck with only crimson

I revel in my artistry

And so it seems if not alive

I must be useless

Even for bait

Or just joy to be the puppeteer to my suffering

Just when that hand reached in realization

That the fun was over

I caught a glimpse of my blood upon your callous skin

As I was tossed away like refuse

Into waters riddled with starving predators

And the blue became vibrantly red

It was mesmerizing to all of the hunters

Comfortable in their domain

They froze mid stride and mid-thought

Marveled at the new hues

That poured out of me

And blind now to the prey they were seeking

A glare disrupts this metamorphosis

Fresh food falls into their fortress

And the hook heaves them from seclusion

Into the realm of indecency

And this will have to suffice

For the game that you're playing

Intention is the same

But it's better them not me

Poem: "A Good Stiff Morning" by Robert McDermott

A Good Stiff Morning

Robert McDermott

I woke up and noticed my morning glories were wilted

My penis was not

I peed on them

They awakened, too

My flagpole did the job

Then it slowly wilted

Transference does work

My morning rituals began

Diet soda and cigarettes

Work like car jumper cables

The transmission sputters a bit

Then, I'm ready to face the world

Start a new day

In my personal way

A half mast flag is not enough

For Mourning

Poem: "I Think of This:" by Devin J. Meaney

I Think of This:

Devin J. Meaney

Late at night when demons hiss,

I reach for peace—swing and a miss,

When all else fails I think of this,

You’re all as bad as me.

When blackness falls, a dark abyss,

When I need an angel’s kiss,

When all else fails I think of this,

You’re all as bad as me.

Purgatory, stolen bliss,

Drowning in the fiery pits,

When all else fails I think of this,

You’re all as bad as me.

Neuro-pain—the conscience spits,

A heartache burst like black-head zits,

When all else fails I think of this,

You’re all as bad as me.

But filled with good are we…

Yes filled with good are we…

Poem: "Anxiously Awaiting!" by Rich Orth

 Anxiously Awaiting!

©Rich Orth 7/12/2023 6:28pm 

These recurring dreams

Impressed upon me

Fears once sequestered 

Eulogies allegorically ...played

....repeated..... displayed

Unchained... emancipated one roams

Alone.....I falter...

Fearful of unknown...

Fearful... of dead of night

Fearful.... of whispers

Fearful of this dreadful plight

I believe our madness

emanates from within

begins with

a foundation of trepidation

topped by an unstructured mind

and in time we find

we have constructed

our own asylum

where there is

no sanctuary...no sanity

calamity your bricks

agony your mortar...

apathy your key

to your new home

which is misplaced

and if displaced

shall free you

as anxiously awaiting

are all those emotions

you have been forsaking

anxiously awaiting

for you to escape your mind

anxiously awaiting

If you are so inclined

Poem: "Mirage." by Tamara Picardo

Mirage.

Tamara Picardo

I pushed my way to a gloomy tumult of abstract sensations,

so similar to despair, while assaulting images

of new things to come paraded before my eyes.

And I saw the world as a dark fire,

barely latent in the shadows of time.

So painful to me are the ancient ways of progress!

Step by step, unstoppable, the dancing twilight

of fairs on the avenue fell on to me.

Multicolored flashes that seemed to blend in sight.

Sad melancholy washed over me,

upon seeing so many people crowded together,

embracing the immense sigh of freedom given by ignorance

of not to know what or who,

pulls the strings embedded in their minds.

Poem: "The Forest Whispers" by Tanner Reiss

The Forest Whispers

Tanner Reiss

Walk in silence through the forest of darkness

Pay no mind to the footsteps that creep behind

The voices you hear in your ear are the

Whispers of the thoughts you hold so dear

Come on over my dear

Do you see that glimmer of light over there?

See how it shimmers without any fear?

That is the power you have not got,

And I am the knowledge you were not taught.

Aww my friend, do not be afraid of the forest,

For it is a forest you yourself hath made.

Surely you should feel at home,

Yet, you are still timid to roam.

Yes, the trees stand as firm as your hate

The wind howling with comments you shared.

It is not we who provoked your venomous breath

But it is we who have been culled to death.

Our walk through the forest just a brief glimpse

Merely a gander at the power of your pander.

Does it make you wonder about being pulled under?

Does it make you want to surrender?

Has it turned you into a coward?

Sit now down on a fallen log

Aside a bubbling bog

Take in the sight of your

Entertainment for the night

I promise there will be sex and violence.

Fall into a trance at the beat of branches

Loosen your pants for this dance

I am not sorry for this show being whorey

Nor displaying child rape upon a tape.

Uncomfortable though you feel

Know the story is real.

Do you still stand upon your racist hill?

Do you still believe Indigenous an eye sore?

Are you disgusted your skin the colour of whore?

Need I continue to show you more?

Well, here is Act Two:

Pots and Pans, not a garage band,

But weapons in Settler hands

Cast to defenseless bodies

"To kill the Indian" without worries.

Is your solution to homeless Indigenous

Still ruthless as a 2021 60s Scoop?

Walk in silence through the forest of darkness

Pay no mind to the footsteps that creep behind

The voices you hear in your ear are the

Ghosts lost in Indigenous genocide.

Their whispers whimper telling truths

Too horrific to depict atop building roofs.

But yet you claim no shame while spewing

Wicked vial upon their name careless of pain.

While we take this walk through nature

Take care to hear Karma's talk of torture.

I promise you will not be touched,

No mark shall befall your skin

But be aware, your thoughts of superiority

Will crumble in a fraction of our adversity.

No, no, no, keep your eyes looking forward

For you were not the one culled to death,

Why do you now shudder your breath?

Surely you are not scared to share this dance

If you refuse to diffuse your wicked stance?

Stumble and crumble trip and fall

Now you do not stand so tall

Take care my fair friend,

For there is but in fact

Still one more act you must learn.

Let us stop, about face, and turn

To face the blackness as forest consumes us.

Do you hear the deathly silence?

Or perhaps the silence of death?

No? What is it you hear being whispered in your ear?

Oh, crippling children chorus cries?

Allow me to strike again with reality

Presently the totality is

Seven thousand, two hundred, sixty-two

Finally found from two countries.

Do you still hold virtuous the solution

To Indigenous homelessness is

Enforced adherence to life

Within Reservations without resources?

Whilst yet you protest gang violence and

Addiction - are they not outcomes of your restrictions?

Come on over my dear, do not fear

Walk in silence through this forest of darkness

Remember this, what you have seen is

Merely a glimpse of our everyday horror!

Poem: "Psithurism" by Sky Claudette Soto

Psithurism

Sky Claudette Soto

Psithurism, the sounds of rustling leaves and the wind in my ravened hair, and in the autumn leaves and in the autumn trees dawning upon a solemn night ,slowly uplifting my body of light as the wind rushes through my chakras soul... eclipsing through the moon 🌙 on Samhain eve on all Hallows eve....... prancing about large cavernous caves lighting the way with flames in each hand and in the whispering of graven woods..

An exquisite 🌳 tree, creates a gentle path firmly fixed against a thick underbrush........

Stepping silently 🤫 the rustling of leaves creates a sound that echoes vehemently against the wind as chrysoprase and peridot sits betwixt the same underbrush I just stepped over, passionately with intense and glorifying.. of regal manners....

First American Publishing rights only, Copyright and written by Sky Claudette Soto

Poem: "Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Ugly Duckling" by Alison Stone

Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Ugly Duckling

Alison Stone

1. Hans Christian Anderson was an “ugly” boy – tall with a big nose and big feet. He grew up to have a beautiful singing voice.

2. It’s speculated that Anderson was the illegitimate son of King Christian VIII of Denmark and discovered this shortly before writing The Ugly Duckling.

3. In the Disney version, the young bird’s struggles last a few minutes, not a few months.

4. The creatures who abused the cygnet don’t come to see his beauty. Rather, he widens his social circle and finds others like himself.

5. Some middle and high school students lack access to a wider social circle.

6. For bullied teens, the seven years of middle school and high school can feel like an eternity.

7. Though seen as a happy story because of its ending, The Ugly Duckling reinforces, rather than presents solutions to, the problem of tribalism.

8. In philosophical logic, the Ugly Duckling theorem argues that classification is impossible without bias and that a duckling is as similar to a swan as two swans are to each other.

9. Is a pimply, coarse-featured girl as similar to a prom queen as two prom queens are to each other?

10. What about a fat kid? A trans kid? A refugee?

11. The cygnet’s suicide attempt is forgotten once he joins the swans.

12. Suicide is the second-leading cause of death for Americans aged 15-24. Nearly 20% of high school students report serious thoughts of suicide, and 9% have made an attempt.

13. The leading cause of death for children and teens in the United States is firearms. In this way, American youth resemble the wild geese the cygnet found refuge until they were shot.

Poem: "Young & Naïve" by Jeremy Void

Young & Naïve

Jeremy Void

I miss being

so young & naïve

when the world was just

so innocent and beautiful

I was just a kid

way back when

so young & stupid

I knew nothing of

the world

or of human nature

and if you let go

how quickly

darkness sets in

Poem: Untitled by Jeremy Void

Untitled
Jeremy Void

Events pass us
so fast
and soon become
just another memory
to add to the collection

So don’t take
things for granted
the good
or the bad
because before you know it
it’ll be gone
lost in history’s void

Poem: "Breaking Glass" by Jeremy Void

Breaking Glass

Jeremy Void

I threw the bottle in the air and swirling and spiraling it came straight down crashing on the train tracks and this guy at the scene scolded me for it, saying I can’t do that, and I said: But who? me? He threatened to call the police and me and DP took off to his house, to store the butterfly knife I had just gone and bought him since he was too young to buy one himself. I wore a black hoody with the hood pulled over my head and as we came back out and hit the street I saw Harry over there standing by the corner next to some other kid a foot taller and I picked up my pace, straight running to meet him but in front of him was a parked cruiser. I stopped just short like a hockey stop if I were on skates and saw him talking to the black cop who I remembered hearing had opened-fire on some young kid’s car, for reasons I don’t know/—or can’t remember———or have forced myself to forget. I stayed in hearing range and ducked off to the side and listened as the cop said: “And Harry, keep your friend out of trouble, will you?” The cruiser pulled away from the corner and I emerged from the shadows and dropped my hood and for once I knew I could do it again.

Poem: "Why Don’t We" by Alison Stone

Why Don’t We
Alison Stone

The animals want us to go --
parrots, pumas, long-lashed giraffes.
Our greed limitless as stars.
Jewel-winged bugs buzz off into extinction.

Parrots, pumas, long-lashed giraffes.
What’s lost won’t be returned.
Jewel-winged bugs buzz off into extinction.
We couldn’t keep our ruin to ourselves.

What’s lost won’t be returned,
like the true beat of our own hearts. Grabbing,
poisoning, we couldn’t keep our ruin to ourselves,
though we’re made from stardust, yearn for light.

Our poisoned hearts beat, Grab more,
greed limitless as the stars
we’re made from. Too late for light.
The animals need us to go.

Poem: "Picket Fence" by Alison Stone

Picket Fence
Alison Stone

The mother drinks in secret.
The father punches his shame into a wall.
So many ways to pretend.
The daughter hides beneath blankets.

The father punches his shame into a wall.
How did love end up like this?
The daughter hides beneath blankets
as the TV blares fake laughter.

How did love end up like this,
dinner finishing in tears
as the TV blares fake laughter?
In pictures, they all smile.

Dinners finish in tears,
though everything’s wiped clean.
In pictures, they all smile
on beaches or the front lawn.

Everything’s wiped clean.
The neighbors will never know.
On beaches or the front lawn,
they’re a typical family.

The neighbors must never know.
So many ways to pretend
they’re a typical family.
The mother drinks in secrets.

Poem: "Ghost Pipes" by Sky Claudette Soto

Ghost Pipes

Sky Claudette Soto

Ghost Pipes these colorless ghost pipes, Indian pipes that gather their nutrients from rich soils ceases, to amaze me ever so much, springing up from the grounds deep within the shadowed woods, from its forest floor ,with not a need for sunlight to make them sprout edible, and medicinal...

I shall make a tea from these ghostly pale and lovely 💐 wild flowers.... monotropa uniflora, on a most beauteous... haunted night beneath the Crescents moonlight,....a nemophilist,I am with a great fox cradled in my arms shining bright ....bright as the moonlights silvery light......

First American Publishing rights only! Copyright and written by Sky Claudette Soto.