Kamikaze Septmber 20, 2015

What? Even another new POEM?! tell you the truth, I had a tooth pulled the day I "stream of consciousness slapped this down on as Facebook post while feeling somewhat "un" conscious on the pain killer they gave. And folks really liked it and . . . I really didn't have to do much rewriting. Lucky break when you write something once and think it's worth posting on the blog. But if you know me, you know that later on I'll look at it and go . . . rewrite, rewrite, rewrite!

Kamikaze

 

The rain hunts me down

one block away from home.
Big cold drops of it
pounds away at my bald head,
the tips of my hairy ears.
Soon I'll be blinded by
a flash flood of rain
drowning my eyes.

 

Even the ducks

who've taken cover
on the neighbor's porch
thinks it sucks right now,
right now in this . . . this
soggy moment of diluted time
to be me.

 

Quite aware I am of how hopeless

life has become when the local mallards,
the hunchbacked grackles
and the vicious snapping turtles
who usually stalk the deep end
of the murky Duck Pond
watch sadly as I run for
the front door of my apartment;
my shoes squeaking like dying mice.
Woodie o9-19-15

Seeing Eye September 18, 2o15

What?! Another poem?! Yes, dear friends, I'm starting to write again. Short, small things. One tiny idea . . .but hopefully, a tiny little taste that your brain can lap up, and your imagination may savor.

Seeing Eye

 

The coffee in my Walmart ceramic cup

is pleasantly warm. My poetry however . . .

 

Not enough caffeine

to awakened my inner, creative eye. . .
it appears I've become poetically blind.
Hopefully, I'll write I’ll right
continue to write until my musing spirit
needs glasses . . .

 

I'll quit when Beckett's ghost transforms

into a seeing eye dog
and leads me to the promised lands
where poetry can be plucked
right out of the apple colored sky.
Woodie o9-18-15

What I Think About Before I Go to Sleep September 13, 2o15

Last week a Facebook poet/friend asked for a cure for "writer's block." My remedy is: WRITE . . . just write . . . keep on writing . . .  doesn't mater what you write . . . just write." Taking my own advice, I wrote this a couple of nights ago(?) right before I went to sleep. Worked on it today, pretty much all day, and found that . . . well, judge for yourself.

What I Think About Before I Go to Sleep

I think I'll go off to bed—off to bed—off—of  what?

Off my feet, off my chair in front of the computer . . .?
Turn off the light . . .? Why not turn off the moon, the stars
(if there are actual stars in the dark and not just pinpricks
in a sheet of black, unholy paper—what  lies beyond
those pinpricks must give us pause.) . . .? The sun can be
blotted out and may well be someday . . . or
should be some day. . . . according to young Mick. You can
turn out the dog into the backyard to do his . . . unmentionables.
But do not turn out your dog’s insides . . . it would cause him
great discomfort . . . and a big mess on the carpet.
You can turn out to be a good person, a decent enough citizen
of the humane race . . . if there is such a being in existence.
Existence, for instance, exists for a moment,
for a brief moment, some say. But nonexistence is
calculated to be a much longer moment.

 

Nonexistence

n.: 1. a state of being without the knowledge that one exists.

 

Impossible, I'm told, by people who think about such things as that.

But I have time these days . . . time to think upon, about, around
and through things like that for I . . . am old.
When I was younger—a half hour or so ago—I had no desire to think,
no need for thinking . . . too busy living my existence
(Ah! That word again!). . . too busy to decide
if I am carrying out my natural exist—Hmmm, carryout.
You can order carryout . . . Chinese, pizza . . .
You can carry out the garbage but you can't carryout the garbage
because "carryout" is NOT a verb! And you don't want to look stupid
by typing "carryout" when you mean "carry out." However, if you feel
a bit naughty, you can say "carryout" when you mean "carry out"
and no one will ever know the difference.

 

In closing:

“You can say what you mean

and mean what you say—“

unless, of course, you’re a mime.

Woodie o9-13-15

Early Morning September 11, 2o15

I'm finding my way as an artist by discovering the artist I was a few years back. About 3 year ago, I got into writing these short, off the top of my head "little things" for Facebook. They weren't really worked on, just written as posts . . . not much to them, really. But I found a few of them and thought, "Hey, these scribbles! I could turned them into poems!" Here's the first one. {smiles}

Early Morning

 

Morning creeps-up on my eyes.

Such a weight  upon the lids,
upon the gray matter
where my thoughts reside.

 

I feared the dark once long ago in this life.

Always needing a bit of light
to watch me as I slept.

 

Too many shadow creatures living in the dark,

hunting in the dark, in the cobwebbed corners
of the bedroom that I shared with a younger brother,
between the cracks of the door and jamb,
in the haunted boughs of the old oak tree
just outside our window.

 

Too many frightful, horrible  things in here, out there.

 

Scratching sounds . . . branches against

the window screen . . . Sleep? Impossible.

 

A thump, thump, thumping on the wall,

a constant thump, thump, thumping on the wall
scares the living shit out of little boys, all.

 

I'm not sure why she has it in for me,

but from the moment that I hit this Earth
Mother Nature’s tried to murder me.
Woodie o9-11-15

So-less September o8, 2o15

You ever have those nights when you are So tired, but for some odd reasoning your body just can't get comfortable enough to let you go to sleep. That's my problem tonight . . . or I should say this morning since it is 6:00am. I read an article some time ago that said if you are having a difficult time getting to sleep you should get up and do something until your body and mind decide it's time to cut some Zs. So, I found this poem from '13 that I wanted work on and repost and I hope it's enough to knock me out!

So-less  

 

My shoes have no soul this morning,
this shadow weary morning
this morning mourning grey.
This morning turning noon,

a dull, flat-black noon that soon
will advance to 1 pm, 2 pm, 3:45 pm . . .

 

forever climbing, straddling
the infinite ladder of success
the stress, the endless stress
the hopeless, hopelessness
only to fall backwards into midnight .
Starting over,
                   all over

                              again . . .

 

and once again  

                       endlessly . . .

 

waiting, waiting forever waiting

for that final moon to plop itself
down upon us, squish what’s left
of the rest of a restless,
meaningless night

 

But such is life for those without souls,
without hearts, without eyes enough to see—

no! Eyes, yes, yes, eyes they surely have
in abundance! Large, mouth shaped eyes.
Always surprised they seem to be
when the sun goes out and the stars rush in.
Never noticing the thick, white laces

binding them

                   foot,

                        to ankle,

                                    to all eternity.

Woodie 12-13-13(Rewrites o9-o7-15)

 

Almost Cut My Hair September o6, 2o15

I Know, I know a bit of time has gone by since a "new poem." And to be honest about it if Facebook hadn't ad done this "Facebook Memories" promotional I would never have found this poem I wrote back in 2o13. Hell, it was one of those "write quick and post" poems . . . I had forgotten it even existed. Although it need work, I decided it was worth the time. Not sure I'm all that finished with it.
But I think its now worth a read. 

Almost Cut My Hair

 

. . . my long hair bothers me . . .

a dirty red symbol of rebellion and—
dare I say it—youth.
Worn-out now, thinned to string now,
slowly evolving, dissolving into a winter,
a winter it will never recover from.
The spring no longer sings to me.

 

What’s left of it, my hair,

spends far too much time this morning
tickling my nose, and my ears and high diving
off the top of my head into my coffee cup . . .

 

I must be getting old, or older, or something.

Last thing to go?
The childish addiction for coolness.

 

These days I favor comfort over fashion,

sweat pants feel more at home
around my expanding waste than blue jeans.
Beards are out, too messy a thing,
a goatee remains but merely as a cover-up
for the saggy skin below my chin . . . chins.

 

No cause to march for anymore,

to fight and scream for . . . anymore.
Black Lives Matter! White Lives Matter!
It’s all just vacant noise to me ‘cause
matter just doesn’t matter anymore.

 

The news  . . .  weary, dreary tabloid vomit

mouthed by trained canaries,
melting one into another . . . short clips
of weeping widows and  angry fathers
and store bought politicians  
banging impotent fists against the podium . . .
for as long as the cameras continue to stare at them.

 

Everyone raging these days, everyone shouts

so loud that the world has gone deaf.
Fingers wagging in the stranger’s face
like a babysitter scolding an unruly dog,
“Bad, doggie! Don’t drag your ass           
across the carpet . . . Bad, BAD, doggie!”

 

Kent State

not even a bloody memory anymore.
The stains wiped clean . . . time . . .
such a diligent, thorough  housekeeper.

 

Where’s Janis, and Jimmy, and David C,

faint echoes now  whimpering
from  iPods and CDs
or whatever  the hell
they call those damn things.

 

My past . . . vague glimpses of acid trips

and drunkenness and cigarettes
and girls with flowers in their eyes . . .

Made it through another war

not much different than the other wars to come.

 

I’ll keep my hair long for as long

as it cares to stick around.
Maybe some years from now

 

I’ll notice it . . .

tickling my nose, my ears
and high diving off the top of my head
into my coffee cup . . .

 

And I’ll wonder why I never got it cut.

Woodie o9-o6-15