Dumb-a** February 2o, 2o15

This was written I think for MLK Day. It may seem a bit strange kind of poem to commemorate MLK. . . but the experience that inspired this poem was . . . well, a life changing event for me. We all have them, don't we? That moment where something happens that kind of changes your direction as a human being, or at the least, forces you to think about things that you never considered before. And those moments that have the ability to "wake us up" are usually small, tiny. No one notices that they even happen . . . except for the one who's experiencing it.

Dumb-ass

 

It was hot, extremely hot. Vietnam fuckin’ hot.

Stepped off the airplane with about forty-eight
other unlucky motherfuckers at this airport . . .
There were squads of grunts, short timers,
on the blistering tarmac. Worn-out jungle utes,
un-bloused boots, raggedy-ass covers
on their not so stateside-regulation haircuts,
all of ‘em diddy-bopping towards that sweet,
jet airliner we just dog piled out of.
Them heading home, us headed in.

 

Fuckin’ Marine green cattle car!

Clouds of road dust even hotter
than the air outside swirling
through the metal slits
gagging us newbies . . .

 

“What the hell’s going on here?

Dead center of a war zone
and no fuckin’ weapons?
What the hell’s going on?”

 

Staging area, somewhere in Da Nang.

I step off the transport . . . first thing
I see, two black brother Marines
sprawled out in the red dirt next
to a 12X listening intently
to the broadcast crackling
out of a banged up portable radio:

 

* “I'm only going to talk to you just for a minute or so this evening, because
I have some -- some very sad news for all of you -- Could you lower those signs,
please? -- I have some very sad news for all of you, and, I think, sad news
for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world;
and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and was killed tonight
in Memphis, Tennessee. . .”

 

I’m looking for the convoy that’s gonna take me up North

to someplace called Camp Carroll. Camp the fuckin’ Carroll.
Dumb-ass name for a Marine Base!
Almost as dumb-ass as flying into Vietnam
on a commercial jet . . .

 

The head stewardess freaking out over the intercom,

 

“Please depart the plane

in a speedy and orderly fashion.”

 

Sure, we can do that!

Got no fuckin’ weapons,
got no fuckin’ flak  jacket,
got no fuckin’ helmet,
but we can fuckin’ do that!

 

What a dumb-ass stewardess.

What a dumb-ass war.
Woodie o1-19-15
                   * -Robert F. Kennedy, April 4, 1968

Mule February 19, 2o15

Been a bit of a while since I've posted poetry on this site. It seems like I start every post with that statement. This poem was written a few years back. David and I went to this OU reunion party. Lots of people I haven't seen in some time. A few people I didn't know at all. This poem came out of a provocative conversation (or maybe I should call it a diatribe) started by some drunk lawyer. It may be a bit . . . unsettling.

Mule

It's tempting, lying is.

The juiced-up lawyer, head leaning back,
far end of the comfortable bar couch.
Easy for him, life is. The guilty are guilty,
the accused always . . . guilty.
The few who feign innocence . . . definitely guilty.
He recites this philosophy like a well-rehearsed
closing statement. Important points punctuated
by sips of domestic beer and a sturdy shot of Jack.
It's easy for him. He knows it all, seen it all, all of it
as clear as the bottom of a well-drained glass.
The Army cop sitting next to him preaches ‘bout the
hooker with six kids muling  three hundred
hits of ecstasy in her (whispered), “vajayjay.”
I spend the time it takes for him to say the word
again, “vajayjay,” to investigate the mystery
of my untied shoe. “Vajayjay.” The third time
forces my eyes to roll upwards toward the ceiling fan
that whirls out of control right above my head.
The others in our small group agree with the MP,
“What a shame, what a shame, those poor, poor children.”
And I’ve heard it all, seen it all before too. The quiet,
sincere tones of the speaker, the appropriately shocked looks
on the faces of the older women listening intently.
The geezers, me and David, share a quick glance
transmitting to each other our telepathic consensus:
“What’a load of bullshit, this is.”
Woodie 1o-o1-13 (rewrites o2-o5-15)

Valentine's Day 2o15 POEMS

Yes, it has already come and gone, that you Jesus! I did "try" to write a poem for it . . . not sure it's all that good. A friend of mine who lives in Australia did remind me that I had a sonnet written back in 2o13 that "celebrated" VD. Anyway, hope you had a good time . . . here are the poems.

Be My Jason Voorhees

I know I'm not a looker

and I’m definitely a moody
mother-sucker.
At times I’m way too broody,
but that thing with my mother, you know?

 

I understand I’m too much the loner.

At parties I hide in the corner
and stare at the crowd that
in turn suddenly stops talking

and gawks at me.

I'm well aware that I’m scary to folks

and your closest friends like to poke
un at me because I can’t dance.

 

Your parents too think you could probably do

so much better than a quiet young man  who
would rather go to the lake on a late night date
though he never learned how to swim
and quite earnestly . . . I’m terrified of water.

 

I could say a lot more to show that you

surely deserve much cooler than me
as your parents and friends will agree.

However, if you’re so inclined

to cast tradition aside
and choose to be mine,
how happy I’d be, my dear
Valentine.
Woodie o2-14-15

My Hopeless Valentine

 

To thee I write these mournful thoughts of love,

These words that bend and break ungracefully
Upon a page of white. For you, my dove,
My feelings I do bear, respectfully.
A clever poet, yes, could move you more;
With words of heavenly inspired rhyme,
Would bleach your holy cheeks in tears galore
With love for he who wrote those words sublime.
But here, alas, no poem sweet I site,
No words can voice the tenderness my heart
Does hold for you my secret friend, my light.
No sounds I make will spark your smile to start.
But try I must within my clumsy way
Confess my awkward love for you this day.
rrw 2-13-11(rewrite 02-13-13)
   

Red-tail February o4, 2o15

Wednesday,
Hey, the first poem for my poetry book. Still needs some work, but I think it's working well so far. The title: Yes, I know the second word in a hyphenated title should be capitalized, but I chose to do it this way. Maybe I'll change it later. Interesting thing about this poem. I went to this place called the Brewhouse on Main St. to get something to eat before a meeting with some young moviemakers. I was sitting there watching the barkeep run around (lots of customers) and I noticed this group of girls shooting pool. The rest of the poem just came out of that simple moment of watching people.

Red-tail

 

The bartender circles above us,

huge, metal earrings smacking her upside the jaw
each time she abruptly halts, slaps the bar-top’s face
with her white bar towel. I love the rough way she sops up
tiny puddles of beer-glass sweat she just knocked
unconscious with one deadly blow.

 

And suddenly, like a beautiful red-tailed hawk,

off she flies to the other side of the liquor island
just in time to ask the bearded man perched
on the edge of his favorite stool,

 

“You need another?”

 

His pigeon head bobs; he mouths a silent “yes.”

 

“Some coffee over here?"

 

I shout a bit too loud. An unidentifiable Hipster song

bombards the Brewhouse with inarticulate lyrics
about peace and love in the 21^st century . . . or something  . . .

 

The Keeper scans me from head to foot,

then foot to head,
visually frisking me with her predatory stare,

 

"No refills."

"Can I get a burger too?"
“You got $12.47?”

 

I slide a twenty towards her.

She swoops it up, examines it
with the keen awareness
of the red-tailed hawk.

 

Pool table #3:

A gaggle of sorority girls

chugging huge mugs of beer
swarm the pool table where a football guy
attempts a difficult shot; he doesn't make it.
A final, sad squawk from his adoring fans
and all falls as silent as a dove’s wing.

 

Awkward moments, a very solemn moment

in which all becomes clear to me,
as clear as beer in a water-stained glass,
as transparent as the Hipster lyrics 
digging holes inside my eardrums:

 

“This is the first day of my life . . ."

 

The red-tailed hawk

is watching me again.
She’s sure I’m up to no good.
rrw o2-o4-15