Bits & Pieces October o7, 2o15

I write "flash" poems every now and hen and post them on Facebook. They're off the top of my head, no rewriting, what you see is what you get. Facebook is doing this "memories" thing where they post the posts you made last year. I found a few of those flash poems, worked on them a bit and along with a couple of old poems  created one poem . . . sort of. Judge for yourself their worth.

Bits & Pieces

1

I don't dream as often as I should,

as well as I could. I tend to fantasize
in  reruns, streaming old episodes,
the ones in black and white where
it always ends quite bad for the protagonist,
no happy endings, inevitable sorrow.
Like Walt or Tony, I fading into the credits
accompanied by some old song
that no one remembers the name of. . .

 

2

My thoughtful-self chooses the late evening

(or is it early, early morning?)
to come along, pounding on the door,
scratching at the screen like a lost cat
or sometimes a restless mouse
searching for the cheese.

 

I never whispered a word into your ear

that you would ever care to hear.
I usually save such nonsense
for winter, when the moon neglects
to shine or I haven't found
a dream worth falling asleep on.

 

3

Silent yawns, hands, fingers

staggering about, short, awkward steps
across the computer’s uneven sidewalk.
If they saw them, the poetry police
would be suspicious. But my fingers
haven't touched a glass of beer
in so long a time. They’ve forgotten
how comforting a cold one can feel.

 

4

A sip of cold coffee—I glance up,

Just in times to see
a shadow standing in the door.

 

My heart beats somewhat slower

than a drum, somewhat faster than
the march of mourners toward the graveyard.

 

His hands bloom two large fists,

scarred knuckles, wrinkled flesh
marred by liver spots, dark and brown . . .
the lifeless color of dried rust.

 

Hair, only a fond memory for the top of his

creased skull.  The sides and back
still alive in long, gray strains
of what was once unruly, red hair.

 

I recognize the eyes. two blue rocks,

a hard, unwavering glare,
that carves its memory, into my brain.

 

He tries to talk, his lips move

but not a sound— No, there is a sound.
The one that leaves make on a windy,
autumn day, the one
the dead make upon the slab . . .

 

I blink, he’s gone, just like that,

like a spirit or a dream— No, neither
spirit or a wayward fantasy, but a thing
it surely was . . . standing at the door.

 

5

I’m suspicious of that dark cloud
nibbling at the elm tree tops
just outside my window.

 

It moves like a black buffalo.

Quietly,  grazing on the lively sky,
on the rusty eves of houses.

 

No threat of rain, not a rumble thunder.

But that could change because it might
if it chooses unleash an angry downpour.

 

Its companion, a winter breeze that gently

tickles at said sad trees, the burnt
grass that wishes, prays for spring.

 

And there it is, quite suddenly, the rain.

Big, juicy drops committing suicide
in the middle of the day,
churning the sidewalks bloody gray.

 

I will not mourn for Nature’s tears

though they’re  forced to die on her command.
I do, however, weep for man.
Woodie 1o-o6-15