Citron November 30, 2o15

Another "flash" poem from around 2o13. Did a bit of rewriting on it. Well, quite a bit of rewriting on this "romantic" poem, or maybe it's a "memory poem . . . who knows for sure. I don't remember writing it. So, not remembering what it's about isn't that far fetched. {smile} Picture is from an ex-student. Don't remember why she sent it to me through the e-mail. Not a blond. Brunette. I had to Photoshop her hair color to match the poem. Thought you'd like to know that. Why? Hell, I don't know that either!

Citron

 

I miss the taste of you on my lips

right after you smoked a cigarette.
Or at eight a.m. when you'd roll over,
smile and lick the side of my face.
My fingers too miss playing in your hair,
they loved to twirl themselves around
those thick strands of pure blond.
My sense of smell forever losing itself
in that thick scent of lemon shampoo
you always used. I never understood
your attachment to lemon shampoo—
as great a mystery to me as your fondness
for making love . . . in the morning . . . before
I even had a chance to open my eyes.
Woodie 11-3o-15

Common Knowledge November 29, 2o15

I don't  know my poetry anymore. I don't know if any of it is well written enough for people other than myself to understand it, identify with it, find something new to consider. Self doubt. Am I being too literary, too little, too cliché? I guess it doesn't matter that much. What does matter is . . . do I get it? Honestly I don't know. But here's another one. Hope there's something here to "get."

Common Knowledge

 

I could tell you about darkness,

how it blocks out the entire world
with just a blink of its enormous eye.

 

I could tell you about— but you already know, right?

You understand the empty, the void, you hear
the shadows rubbing up against each other,
against the walls of the small, uncomfortable  
apartment you pretend to live within.

 

You’ve listened, and more than just one night ,

you’ve listened to the whispers murmured
by the neighbor’s rat hunting  cat,
between the minutes, the hours,
the blistered bang of midnight.

 

Drunken frat boys lurking behind

the Campus Corner Market, urinating on
the parking lot fence, singing songs
they never quite know the lyrics to.
Howling songs heads leaning back,
eyes rolled upwards focused on a black sky,
a dead sky that could care less one way or other
who lives or dies on this little piece of dried-up sand.

 

I could tell you all about the darkness

the many headed creatures living there—
but you already know, don’t you?
Woodie 11-29-15

 

Alien Backpackers November 22, 2o15

Another "poem from the past" that I found and really can't believe I wrote it. I don't remember writing it, but I never would print someone else's poem on my Facebook without giving them full credit, so I must have written it. Another shorty but sweetie!

Alien Backpackers

 

Friends come and go and come and go

and dreams do too but they don't slam doors
and yell and scream and shout about
"How unfair you are, you fuckin’ bastard!"
I sleep well, though, when I sleep.
The sleep of a dead man who hung himself
out to dry during the winter months
and didn’t allow anything, anyone
to get in the way of his self-employed misery.
By degree we all must suffer the dead things
that live inside our tiny but quite tidy heads
and won't allow us (who sport a conscience)
one moment, one single dull moment of peace.
But I'm afraid I've lost the choo-choo of thought
I started this poem off with. But does it matter
if words mean nothing, describe nothing,
amount to nothing more than an aging hope
that someday alien backpackers will stop by
and read this poem and say, "Damn,
now that guy, he could write!"
Woodie 11-21-13 (rewrites 11-21-15)



 

Old Things November 19, 2o15

Sometimes a poem idea comes to me when I'm working on my daily blog. Yes, The Daily {W}Rite is suppose to be written in prose, but once in a while my poetic mode jumps in and . . . well, something like this pops onto the page:

Old Things

 

I'm sorting through the closet drawers

gathering up the holy socks and underwear,
both have lost their shape, their practical functionality.
Even this old cap, my red and black Spider-Man hat
needs to be bagged and tagged and thrown in the dumpster.
Maybe some homeless guy will find it. Its frayed bill,
the faded Spider-Man face on the front panel,
the yellow stains that through the years have multiplied
on the elastic sweat band. And the squatchee
on the cap’s top has worn-out its cloth covering;
all that remains is a gray metal button rusted and  bent.
Maybe all those things that I no longer find appealing,
that homeless guy’ll love. People who having nothing
often find pleasures in the things we throw away.
Woodie 11-19-15

Sandal Myth November 17, 2o15

Starting around 2o11, I wrote these little off the cuff poems to post on Facebook. I think I wrote them just to keep improving my writing skills. I didn't save them, or do any rewriting, I just posted them. Anyway, this year Facebook created this "Facebook Memories" thingy. They would repost posts you made in the past from the time you signed up for Facebook. So, I rediscovered these poems that I don't even remember writing! Some of them were pretty good. I saved them and did a bit of rearranging of the furniture (so to speak), and am posting them (one at a time) on my poetry blog. Hey! Here's one now!

Sandal Myth

 

Very sneaky snakes

disguising themselves,
this time, as shoelaces.

 

Clever indeed, however,

my tennis shoes were
not deceived and refused
to lace themselves up.

 

My toes and socks

were equally shocked!
Such deceptive behavior!
And my always dependable insteps
retreated to the safety of sandals.

 

Velcro straps make my arches relapse

 into a dark, sockless mood.
They refuse to trust anything
that doesn’t cover them properly.
Woodie 11-17-15

Paraduckx November 16, 2o15

This breathy poem has been lurking around for a while now. The events this month, the attacks on human life, the political scene in America, and just good old life  . . . well, make this poem seem ripe for the picking. So, I plucked it and now pass it on to you.

Paraduckx

 

. . . and in the end . . . the ducks . . .  those fuckin’ ducks.

Not Trump, not Isis and the warlords, or the peace seekers,
or the black puss oozing through the festered wounds
we carved into her fragile skin . . . not the war weary refugees   
greased up, fatted for the slaughter and then transported
to the market place and sold to the highest border.

 

And yes, there are no wide-eyed surprises nestled deep

within the strangled gaggle from their shattered ,skulls.
Their self-inflicted miseries groan as they struggle
to form a simple sentence or two.

 

And what of the dull-witted children buried in those

bombed out backyards, beneath the parking lots
and burning bushes lining the well-manicured
lawns in suburbia, what will become of them
when we are gone?

 

One thousand, pigeon-toed mourners mourning us

as the day dawns  and the sun upon their hankies yawns,
that sour look upon their tortured faces as they stone us,
beat us, raise us up high above their balding heads
and drops us unceremoniously into the void.

 

Why all the fuss, you may ask, you may wonder why?

Why all the tears for the leftover laughter
that is quickly sponged up and bottled and sold
at a far too reasonable price to those better souls,
the straight and narrow souls, the keepers of the watch.

 

We realize within the rushing sound of our last gasp

on this, on this . . . on this plagued of an existence
that it was . . . that it always will be the ducks, the ducks,
the goddamn ducks! They have outlived us all.
Woodie 11-16-15

Silhouette November 15, 2o15

Art Walk last Friday. Went into this gallery just to look around. Lots of hand painted art work by kids lining the walls. Silly fun, but very inspiring. A young woman sitting on a couch asked if I would like her to write a poem for me. I was delighted! But I stipulated that I would have to write one for her too. So, I gave her a word: nothingness. She gave me a word: Silhouette. She wrote hers in about 5 minutes, and I got stuck! Couldn't come up with anything. But I told her I'd work on it and send it to her, and I did. What I didn't tell her was that I didn't want to write a poem for her right then and there because:
1. My handwriting really sucks, and
2. I didn't know how to spell Silhouette!
So, I went home and for the life of me could not come up with anything until I looked at the card she had put her poem on. I didn't read the card, I just looked at the cover which was a Curious George Christmas card. It had George head standing on a Christmas package juggling Christmas balls! With that and a bit of a lively debate online about Beckett's writing style (whether he was as great a writer as Shakespeare. Ha! Of course he was!) I had my poem!

 

Silhouette

 

Beckett had his way with words.

Perhaps a cigarette or two before,
before the stripping off of shoes and socks,
a glass of wine some shredded cheese
to loosen up the mind, the soul—well,
that is to say, if such a fragile thing
as a human soul does  exist.

 

She’s a Frankenstein, a creator

of silhouettes sewn together
with blood black strokes
from a nondescript ballpoint pen.
Short, tight lines appear on
the white flesh of a corpsed tree.

 

Her fingers have a surgical mind

a ready, steady slicing motion that
scars its way across the unblemished face
of what was once a living, breathing thing
halting only now and then and long enough
to wipe away a small bead of creative sweat
that has forced her eyes up to the shadowy ceiling
where wordless spiders are busy weaving
their own strange, distorted version of reality.

 

I won't read her poem tonight.

Perhaps, I’ll never read it at all,
getting no closer to the artist’s work
than flirting with the  humorous card

 

it was written on. A cute little monkey

Standing on his head juggling
bright colored Christmas balls
with its hairy, misshapen legs.

 

I don’t fancy monkeys much

not since that unfortunate incident
at the Oklahoma zoo.
Woodie 11-14-15

Still Life November 12, 2o15

There are those rebellious poems that you write and before you get them tucked onto the page . . . they skip out on you, run about town, get lost somewhere on that strange highway where young poems love to roam. Still Life is one of those poems that I forgot about. No wonder he decided to go out on his own. But like every prodigal son, he reluctantly returned home. Good to see you, my boy.

Still Life

 

There are those rare moments when time begins to slow down,

the air circulating in the apartment becomes thick, a bit moist,
wet with an anticipation; something wonderful is about to happen.

 

Much like fruit, I sometimes feel. Just standing around waiting

for the mouth of God to take a healthy bite out of me, hoping that
He won’t take too long. Do it soon before my flesh begins to rot,
before the muscles in my arms and legs turn to juice and my
leaves begin to shrink and curdle into mush.

 

Disappearing might be nice. Disintegration, POOF! Just like that,

then blasted across the universe on the breath of ancient dragons.
It should be like that, departing on the same train that brought you
into this strangely wicked but beautiful mess.

 

Painters often paint still-lifes of fruit and coffee cups. There’s

something calming about it. Something wonderfully pleasing
about things that standstill long enough for someone to appreciate
them. Bananas are lovely in the right light as are pomegranates,
lemons, limes, but pears . . . pears I think are best. I’m sure Adam
and Eve would agree, pears are more tempting than apples.
Woodie o5-12-12 (rewrites 11-1o-15)

Walkabout November o8, 2015

Yes! A new poem! Not sure I'm totally pleased with it. But it feels, at this moment, right. may change it later .  . . I always seem to find new things to say on a subject way after the time I think it is "perfect!"

Walkabout

 

I’ve grown too conservative for my own damn feet.

Their need for wandering makes me older than
I wish to be. Too dark these days the alleyways
they long to drag me through. Too treacherous
those angry roads I once laid claim to.

 

Restrictions on such rebellious behavior from my shoes?

I allow them no more than eight or nine hours of wandering.
A single walkabout each and every night beneath
the electric glow of my subconscious mind.
There they can go wherever they care to go
and roam where they damn well please
while the rest of me lays sleeping.

Pleasant dreams, perhaps, a nightmare or two?

They don’t mind the troubles they might get into.
Shady things living there. Deep inside the corners
where the shadows hang. Portals leading
to those other shadows,  the other creatures that
my memory-self dares not think about.

 

Morons the both of ‘em. Like drunken teenagers,

rebellious at best. Seeking out exotic and often
dangerous places where I would never go when awake.

 

But as much as I hate it, I have to face it.

The bottoms of my feet are tougher
than my inner sole that spend the days
worrying and begrudgingly remembering
how wondrous a thing it is (or was)
to walkabout  every now and then
among the living  and the dead.
What a lovely, lovely thing it is (or was)
conversing with my fellow idiots.
Woodie 11-o5-15

My Shadow November o7, 2015

An older poem. it was started probably around 2oo9, but I've done so many rewrites on it that I'm not sure anymore. It's a favorite of mine. I think it says a lot about  . . . well, all my poetry is about me. ALL poetry is either directly or indirectly about the person who wrote it, isn't it? Anyway, let me know what you think.

My Shadow

 

My shadow’s grown quite pale, anemic if you will.

All those years dragged along the Earth,
across the cracks and gorges that sidewalks create,
the crooked roots of oak and elm scarring its flesh.
And cats! My God, the bloody cats! Scratching at
its dirty feet each time we’d pass them on the street.

 

Most bitter, yes, quite bitter should my shadow be.

And yet, it never sighs, not one tear does it ever cry,
or bleed from its eyeless face; never once did he
scream out in pain though surly he felt something.
Quite rare indeed to crawl along on hand and knee
through all the years without once feeling something.

 

A very honorable shadow, I must say.

And as I watch him slowly fade away,
I’m quite sure he’ll not utter a word,
not one single word of regret.
Woodie-28-11(rewrites o8-o3-14)

Unwanted Guest November 04, 2o15

The first new poem of November. I plan to post more before the new year is upon us. Yes, I need to write much more in 2o16. Hope I can.

Unwanted Guest

 

Death sucks the life away, decay lingers

like an early frost, like that last party guest
unwilling to return to the asylum.

 

Wrestling with the black beads of her rosary,

mother weeps for us. Too much fun has lain
me out in my finest clothes, sleeping forever now
among the broken cups and cigar butts, the half
empty bottles of wine.

 

Drunken testimonies

clinging to the chapel walls.
Somewhere a bell moans,
a crow caws, nothing moves.

 

At noon the old soldiers line up along the gravel road.

Stone markers standing tall, medals waving in air,
their grandchildren chase each other, jumping
joyfully into the large pile of rotted leaves
that the groundskeepers just raked up.

 

There's no pleasure, these days,

no comfort in the written word,
the spoken word. Poetry is dead.

 

It’s lost its willingness to haunt.

Woodie 11-o4-15