"Along the Path" is my first book of poetry and is a self-published volume that collects some of my work over the past forty years. Now that is a long time but, I am a very sporadic writer and years would pass without a single word being pressed onto paper. I am an experienced technocrat and sweat my weekdays out as a corporate slave. (I am now retired) - In one poem I wrote:

"If the truth be known,
I sell no talent,
only acquired skills.
Being greedy,
I horde my talent
for my own pleasure."

Here then, in this small volume, is some of that talent. I leave the reader to judge the quality of this work but if one poem or even one line causes you to resonate, then I will consider it a success.

As usual with homemade books, it is available for a mere $7.00 (includes shipping) Just send me the 7 bucks (cash, cheque or MO) and I will mail you a copy. Read

Send the money to:
Mark Clement
106-980 Burnham St.
Cobourg, ON
Canada K9A 4T7

email: markwpc@sympatico.ca

Chapbook has 28 pages with 32 poems

Click here to read a review of this book by Joan latchford

I have not been taught about death

We gather in clumps, like weeds
that grow from a common root.
Small laughs and everyday events
spill out of careful mouths. Tongues
wag in all directions but there is nothing
heard of winding sheets or face painting,
nothing about how the soil absorbs us.

On the fallow grass, we gather
in a protective huddle and listen
as the leaves rustle and resist.
Soon, the delicate fall drizzle
softens them and they become mute
in their struggle with the wind.

It is over. The rain has stopped
and we wander, like fallen leaves
blowing in the autumn chill, careful
not to rush or look at the sky.

I watch the last black car ease into the street,
place pebble on stone and read the facts
carved for strangers like me. A few leaves
lay still, nestled against the fresh soil.

Open Window

I can't see the crow, but I know
he's there. He's always there
on his wing or with his bony claw
wrapped around a branch.

Why do I think he calls for me?
He's just another bird whose voice
remains the same, always calling
"I am a crow and I know it."

I feel the mystery
of the brittle morning,
the black wing that tilts
the earth below, the clutching
fingers that scar a tender branch,
the call that says I am.

Press > twice to hear this poem

Love Perhaps

A friend asks, "what do you write about in poetry?"
"Anything I damn well please!" I say. "Love perhaps."

Mystics know, but they speak
with tongues that are tangled
like dark-forest undergrowth.

Philosophers know, but they speak
about animals in clouds
that change with every new breeze.

Explorers know, but they speak
of empty places on a map
where only they have ever been.

Writers know, but they speak
in an old language
that has been replaced by TV.

Children know and they speak
with animation until
practicality calms them down.

I listen, think, search and read.
Mostly though, I watch the children
and try to live a less practical life.

"what does that mean?" My friend says.
"That's poetry!" I say.