The Nothingness May 13, 2o16

I found a poem that was written back in 2o15. I was looking for something that spoke addressed the concept of  nothingness. I typed into word search the single word "nothing" and this popped up. I admit I was surprised to find it, and to be totally honest after I read it I wasn't sure it was one I had written. I mean, it sounded like me . . . but it felt like it was written by someone else. It's funny feeling to create something, set it aside for awhile, come back to it and then not recognize it as your work! But it is mine. No doubt now that it is mine, written by me. I reworked it a bit yesterday, not much. It didn't seem to need much.

The Nothingness

Extraordinary to see yourself outside your . . . self,

looking back into those eyes that you've never
really seen before. Counting each wrinkle on that
alien face, each scar that you never were aware of.
You look and you stare and you analyze and criticize
every nook, every cranny every blemish that time created.
There's a warmth gathering around that hole inside you
where nothing lives, where nothing feels more like home,
like all that you are is that nothingness and that nothingness
is real, it’s solid, more valid than anything they've told you,
and all your life they showed you what reality is supposed to be.
A bare existence that glares at you through that self you've
never known. You have never known. It feels like butterflies
fluttering around a burning bush, like the deepest end
of the deepest pool where panicky legs keep searching
for the bottom and find nothing more than . . . than . . .
and there's that word again . . . nothingness.
All there is, all there’ll ever be . . . nothingness.

Not even a splinter of a shadow left.

Woodie12-19-15 (rewrites o5-13-16)

Dog Freedom May 1o, 2o16

I seem to be hitting a prolific stretch of poetic highway. Not smooth driving, I confess. Maybe a few pot holes, now and then the concrete turns to a muddy trail barely passible . . . but I manage to make it down the road no matter the terrain. I wrote this in a huff over something someone said. Who that person was, what the actual relationship I had with this person . . . I don't remember.

Dog Freedom

We make mistakes.

Hopefully we learn from them.

Sometimes we keep repeating ourselves,

the same response to an action.

Others find fault in our limited ability to "get it right."

They’ve even less respect for us if we do change.

Ignore the ignorant bastards, this flip-flop generation:

"Thou shalt not change. And even if you do,

we’ll still treat you like dog."

I'm tired of being dog.

Scratching at a gang of flees

who I can never, ever please.

I break the leash they strapped on me.

I run free, free through these wilting words.

You’ll never catch me again.

Woodie o5-o9-16

Dragon May o8, 2o16

I'm writing again. For better or not better I'm writing again. a Facebook friend posted a picture of a dragon in a very dark and gloomy cave. For some reason the image jump started my poet's mind. I've been looking over the scribbles I've put down this year and some of them are worthy of working on. about 18 or so "ideas" sleep in my poetry file. Trying to work on them a bit here and there whenever I have the energy and the time. Anyway, here's a little one.

Dragon Day

Waiting on the edge of it

in a cage, in a rage
creating the fire
that will devour him.
His feet, his thoughts
floating like ash, up
towards the ceiling.
A murmur, like a river,
a disturbing sound
bouncing off the wall.
At peace, a ghost wailing.
Woodie o5-o8-2o16

I Hate It When I Can't Sleep April 3o, 2o16

I found this older piece that hasn't yet been posted on the blog. I lose a lot of poems, or they get lost, or they run away from home of their own accord deciding to hide in one of my flash drives.

I Hate It When I Can't Sleep

I’m wondering if there’s even

a tiny bit of shadow left in me.
The nights aren't closed-in enough,
the darkness isn’t dark enough to be called  
darkness anymore, not these  days.
Too many streetlamps guarding the corners
and the parking lot elms,
the black tar pot holes all but dried up
tormented by a lack of rain.

I should sleep, but I seldom do . . . these days.

I should do something useful, then.
Clean the house, scrub the sinks,
breakout the vacuum cleaner
listen to its small engine purr
like a cat in heat.

There’s something black-green growing

in the toilet bowl.

Tomorrow crawls inside today

and all I can say about it all
is that I gave up
caring about the solar system
the moment they denounced Pluto,
turned her into a stone, a measly rock.

Educated people are cruel.

Science even crueler
than the God they've demoted to a myth.
Heaven. Nothing more than a delusion
dreamed up by the tired working class
that longs for their suffering to end.
Woodie 4-27-14 (rewrites 4-3o-16)

The Dove April 21, 2o16

So, I'm frantically working on my annual B-day poem wondering exactly where the hell this damn thing is going. It's making no sense, it means nothing . . . and not in a good way. And then something happens. The world changes a bit . . . a bit gloomier than it was before. Not much on eulogies for the rich and famous. Figure there's enough folks in the world to do that . . . and most much better than me. But for some reason unknown to me I have decided to write something about a someone who moved on from this plain of existence. It's also going to be a part of the B-day poem I'm working on.

The Dove

I woke up to the news:

On this bright blue sky morning,

the Dove has been eaten by Crows.
On this bright blue sky morning,
a pure white cloud weeps silently.
The wind, however, rages.
It’s never subtle with its grief.

I wonder why the Crows were so eager to destroy,

to rip apart the beautiful song the Dove sang?
What’s the simplest explanation? Well, they’re Crows,
what should we’ve expected?

My ears will miss his voice for a moment or two,

but then they’ll move on even before the day is done
because there are more troubling things to worry about.

The passing of a Dove is a minor thing compared

to everything else that is going on, keeps going on,
keeps moving on, rushing down the drainpipe.

That’s how we survive.

That’s how we exist.
You must keep moving.
Woodie o4-21-16

Beat Down April o6, 2o16

Okay, so I accidently got into poetry mode, wrote quite a bit that was good enough to work on and start publishing on my blog. Politics makes us all nasty, rabid dogs towards the candidates and their supports. I hate it the most of all my friends . . . and yet . . . I'm probably the worst offender.

Beat Down

I don't understand sometimes

the laughter, the sneers,
the beat down with words.

A booted foot, a stomp                      

upon the exposed ankle,
a fist against the pointy part
of the chin paralyzes the whole body.

That I can understand.

Yet it's never enough,

the need to torture,
to poke at the dying scorpion
as the bloodied riders drift by.

It's never enough.

Nail the curtains up,  
let its own weight
slice through the skin.

Not our fault the cloth was so heavy.

We labor, we bear the weight
your words put on our shoulders,
we sing until the voice is but a whisper,
an aging echo, until that echo too fades
and finally echoes no more.
Woodie 4-o6-16

Haunters January o5, 2o16

Well, earlier than I wanted, but here is the first poem of a new year.

Haunters

I couldn’t sleep tonight

because the winter clouds
kept creeping into my dreams.
You were there too which
didn’t help. Ghosts are ghosts
and all they do is scratch away
at the surface hoping that they’ll
hit a vein and make me scream
myself into consciousness.

And then it’s cold coffee

in my favorite cup, an apple
to chase away the hungry demon
clawing at my gut, and an hour or two
on the computer, or however long it takes
for the spirits to get bored and go away.
And I’ll try to sleep again hoping all the while
that these haunters living in the clouds
won’t come back, won’t come back tonight.
Woodie o1-o5-16