Birthday Poems May 23, 2019

So, it's MY birthday . . . TODAY! I have a bit of a b-day tradition. I write poems for my birthday, day. Some times they are very long poems, sometimes they are shorter poems, and many times I write more than one or two poems. This year I decided as I went along that I wanted to write MORE than one poem or two poems . . . I wrote FOUR POEMS! Two (1 & 4) were written specifically for my birthday. Poems 2&3 were written this month. I liked them a lot so I thought I'd include them in my Birthday Celebration! Anyway, here they are. Oh! If you want to read them off the art work and the words are a little to small to read . . . get some damn reading glasses! Or just click on the pic with your mouse and . . . it will become larger . . . maybe. {smiles}

My 497^th D-day B-day

Every Day Its Dog

If I were a dog, on this day, I’d

be celebrating my four hundred

and ninety-seventh birthday.

Unfortunately, if I were a dog,

a four hundred and ninety-seven

year old dog, I’d already be dead.

For a very long time now . . . dead.

We had a family dog . . . once.

A very old dog named Blackie.

He was named Blackie because,

well, his coat was . . . black . . .

very, very black . . . way, way back

when he was youn . . . ger.

His fur seemed more grey than black to me,

a sort of salted peppery look. Poor old guy.

He could barely walk from his favorite spot

on the living room’s carpet to another —did I

say walk? it was more a wobble than a gait,

like a circus clown learning to balance on stilts

for the first time. And for every painful step

his paws would take, all us kids thought

that one will be his last. Then one day . . .

I plopped his water dish down on the back porch;

he wasn’t there . . . his food bowl . . . still full

from the night before. We all called for him,

we whistled him, sang his name . . . BLACKIE!

Then dad crawled underneath the house . . .

found his body just lying there . . . peacefully.

“You’re a dog.” My ex growled into the telephone.

This went on during the first two years after we

broke up. “You’re a dog,” she would drunkenly

whisper in the forced imitation of a male voice,

and then hang-up with a profound BAM! of the receiver.

But I always knew it was her. She was born with a

delightfully, sexy English accent. She couldn’t disguise that.

When a woman calls you a dog you know she’s mad.

When guys call you a dog (My main dog!

How’s it hanging, dog? See you later, dog!)

it’s always said with a tone of regard, of

high respect, one dog telling another dog,

“I know your pain. Women! Ain’t I right?”

Some rather cold-blooded friends

often ask me if I fear death . . . being

that I am 70 something and I’m that much

closer to the end. “No.” I always sigh as

I say the word no. That deep, sad, painful

sigh of the elderly, and then I continue with,

“At least I wasn’t thinking about death 

until YOU MENTIONED IT, ASSHOLE!”

(the “ASSHOLE” tag? Always optional.)

I suppose I’ll approach my death in the same spirit 

as old Blackie. I’ll wobble around on my skinny

stilt legs going here to there lying down, getting up 

to eat, scratching myself while watching TV . . .

write a poem perhaps. Go to a movie . . .

until one day I decide to crawl under the house 

and quietly sink into the depth of that forever sleep.

Written by Woodie

for his 71^st birthday

May 23^rd, 2o19

Me

Me, this is me. A copy of me

from a photograph . . . of me,

which is also a copy of me

from a copy of a shadow

of a stranger of a shadow

of a dream that refuses to dream.

This is me being me

dodging shrapnel from

a shattered memory

or two. . . perhaps three?

I can’t recall.

This me . . . as I am and am not.

Schrodinger's cat in’a meat box.

This is me as I am, as I wish I were . . .

as I'll never be . . . less than a thought . . .

more than everything, the total sum

of nothing at all . . . becoming what I
never was, what I’m not now . . . Rules

whispered in my ear . . .

my hole existence . . .

not worth the dirt

it takes to fill the grave.

Written by Woodie

for his 71^st Birthday

May 23, 2019

Today is World Poetry Day

But, of course, for poets every day, 

every moment conscious or sleeping

every tic and toc of the clock, every

breath taken in every breath pushed

out is, in and of itself, a beautiful poem.

Poets are like fairies,

like gnomes, wizards,
like those black cats that wander
through our tiny town
during the darkest, graveyard hours

that night and morning have to offer.

Some who have no use for the words

dribbled lovingly onto a page, have no use
for poets either, the writers of dreams, the

believe that poets are not what they seem.

“Get a real job,” they often shout

when spying the poet staring at his shoes.
“Get a job like the rest of us do!”

Little do they know that when they scream

in the face of a poet, they are just giving
him . . . or her something to write about.

Written by Woodie

for his 71^st Birthday

May 23, 2019

71 & Counting

1. You’re only as 

young as you feel.

1a. In that case, I’m actually

184 years old . . . TODAY!

2. Age is just a number.

2a. Yeah, a large number, and

it gets larger, harder to carry

every friggin’ year.

3. I’m 78 years old and

I run five miles a day!

3a. Oh, well, good for you.

4. You know, you’re not

getting any younger.

4a. I’m just guessing here,

but your degree is in

mathematics, right?

5. She: I’m leaving you.

He: On my birthday? why?

She: You’re not half the man

you used to be.

He: Oh yeah?

She: yeah.

He: Well, for your information

I’ve NEVER been half the man

I used to be!

6.  . . . from 68% Polyester

. . . How do I start or end or begin again

within a new pair of Levi jeans

that haven’t yet that comfortable feel,

that gentle, warm feel which worn denim,

frayed cuffs—made such by the stubborn heels

of my murderous Chucks—afford to us

still young enough to remember youth,

and yes, even love... that it all... it all...

existed... once?

No! No, I’ll bear the burden of my generation,

defy the popular frustration

with the elderly who walk too slow,

who drive too fast, who take too long

counting pennies at the register...

I will not defile them or deny them,

I shall be them as one with them.

Written by Woodie

for his 71^st B-day

May 23, 2019

Bird Flu February 24, 2019

So, I did get my flu shot back in October 2o18, and as it somehow goes I got a real bad case of the flu about a week ago. Really bad. My sister drove my semiconscious body down the Urgent Care behind my regular doctor's office. They gave me some antibiotics and steroids. Steroids make you higher than the HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey. And being shaky nervous and filled with adrenaline I decided to write and write and write on Facebook. AND I decided to take my drugged out comments on  Facebook and make poems out of them. I call them' The Steroid Flu Poems. Here's one of 'em.

Bird Flu 

on leave . . . 1969 . . .  fresh back from Nam

sitting at a local bar with my dad watching

the moon landing on TV, blurry picture,

listening to the newscaster describe 

the event and then: “the Eagle has landed.”

Big whoops and hardy hollers from the bar crowd

who just stopped in to see (as best they could?)

the big show. Even the mostly silent bartender 

couldn’t stop himself from whispering a “God Bless ‘em” 

to himself as her poured free beers for the house.

And a group of older men sitting next to me and dad,

big smiles, slaps on the backs, "We did it! We did it"

but somehow all that joy and pride,

all those tears of God Bless America

suddenly turned into something . . . else:

"Yeah, we did it, alright. And those damn

hippies are still out there protesting the war . . .”

“And all that Civil Rights shit! Always
complaining they are . . . “

“Just gets in the way of what’s going on

right here on TV, on the moon . . .”

“On the moon they are! But do THEY care?”

“FUCK NO!”

It took me a while to figure out

what the hell they were talking about. 

We celebrate moments. . .  Personal,

American moments . . . but it never lasts

because other moments intrude, stronger

moments invade our minds, our bodies,

our will to . . . to . . . 

What the hell was my point?

Woodie o2-24-19

Not a Valentine's Day Poem February 14, 2019

Doing what I always do for the Day of Love Day . . . mock it a bit. I wrote this poem in 2o17 . . . for Valentine's Day. It's just a short poem about what probably are my three "loves" of my life. My only hope? None of them read it. That could be . . . interesting . . . more than likely not. Anyway, I know longer hate SVD. But I'm not all that in love with it either. {smiles}

Not a Valentine’s Day Poem

I chose not to write a Valentine poem,

but then decided, what the hell,

I might as well, since it is Valentine's Day.

In The Garage, standing in line to order

a Swiss and mushroom burger you kissed

me, hard. It felt like a passionate, drunk

Mac truck had just smashed into my lips.

I will not lie and say it was unpleasant

because you did taste like 1979, the last year

that our mouths said hello to each other.

And the other one, you know who you are,

the one that I bought a Teddy bear for

on the 12th of each month just to tell you

how thankful an oldie was to have you in his life.

You were nice until you weren’t anymore.

And then there was the one, the only one, really.

Blond hair, English accent, glasses

that partially hid the bluest eyes . . . 

I don't remember ever celebrating

Valentine's Day with you. Perhaps,

it was that every day seemed like

Valentine's Day when we were together.

So, writing a poem about ghosts

isn't the most romantic thing.

But when you have little left

except for memories? Well,

memories are better than nothing.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Woodie o2-14-17

(rewrites o2-13-19)

Buggy Bites January 08, 2019

I'm not sure if a poem is ever finished. Yeah, first write is fast, incomplete, rewrites a necessity. And then your done . . . or so you think. You see types, lack of imagination in the word choices . . . you fix it . . . and then you see something else . . . a line that's clunky . . . more typos . . . fix all that and finally put it on the blog. And all the time knowing that you will probably rewrite it again. I don't know if my poetry is good or bad. Sometimes I just don't care. I just enjoy writing, and feel a strong compulsion to continue  writing whether or not it's worthwhile to do so.

Buggy Bites

I close my eyes the dark appears.

I open my mouth I hear

the flutter of raindrops against

the window's pain.

My shadow laughs, a silent laugh,

the laugh of those elderly ghosts

that still haunt me whenever I

try to dream or sleep.

I feel them tramp, tramp, tramping

around inside my head.

Once my nutshell was filled

with dreams, childhood,

a mother's touch, her lips

upon the forehead to test

for fever. Her whisper in my ear,

"Don't let the bedbugs bite."

She'd turn off the light

as she existed my bed room.

I always obeyed her. I never once

let those bedbugs bite me.

Woodie o1-o8-19

Lighter Than Gravity January 04, 2019

For this fuzzy old raisin of a brain, this poem keeps being relevant every time I start reading something on Facebook. So, I keep reposting it, writing it a bit first because there always seems to be something that I missed the last time I revised it. One of my favorite poems. Also, I found a picture from 2 years or so ago that really seems to fulfill the visual needs of this poem . . . P.S. Again, if the art is to small to read the poem off it, click on the image and it will enlarge . . . a little. 

Lighter Than Gravity

I’m sure you understand

how unnerving it is to . . . change,

to feel your body, your thoughts,

your already oddly shaped being

transforming into some . . . thing!

Some unmentionable . . . thing!

Something you never, ever

dreamed of becoming, some . . . thing

you never wished to be.

My friends (those very few that I still have)

keep telling me not to worry,

“CHANGE is inevitable, we CHANGE

everyday, from the day we’re born

we CHANGE, we all CHANGE

we must CHANGE and . . .”

Okay, if I MUST . . . convert, I hope it’s not to dirt.

I hate dirt. Pushed around the whole day on

by any clumsy breeze that comes along,

or stuck for all eternity to the endless

bottom of a shoe. What kind of existence

is that? And when it rains? You become . . .  MUD!

And I hate mud… even more than dirt!

But if I must, IF you say my resurrection . . . MUST

be akin to earth let me become dust.

No, STARdust . . . YES, glittery bits of cosmic grit

which wander gypsy like between

barrooms, streetlamps and . . . GALAXIES!

Yes, STARdust! That’s what I’ll be.

That some . . . thing that’s ever so

lighter and kinder than gravity

has ever been to me.

Woodie 4-24-12 (rewrite o3-26-13,

o7-2o-16, o1-o4-19)

Shotgun January 04, 2019

I'm posting a lot more poetry than I'm used to doing . . . WHY . . . you may be asking yourself. Well, just have a spirt of creativity for some reason. Short poems are coming to mind on a daily basis, it seems. But there's also a pragmatic reason for posting so much. If you noticed, I type out the month, date and year for each poem. And since this is  the beginning of a new year, I feel a need to drill into my head that the year is 2019 and NOT 2018. Like I said, I've been writing a bunch of short poems and discovered a bunch of short poems from other years hidden away on Facebook. There's so many of these short pieces I decided to put them all  together as one poem titled: Short Stuff. But for some reason, I was drawn to posting this one by itself. P.S. As always, if it is too small to read, just click on the image and it should get a bit larger.

Wedo!

Well, Here's another New Year's Eve poem that I started work on, on the 28th of December. I don't know how these images pop into my head . . . but I where they go my fingers follow them, and my poetic mind translates to my digits what they perceive . . . and a poem is born, so to speak. :) Oh, the art/pic you can click on and it will enlarge . . . a bit but not as much as I would like. But do give it a try. There's something of value to be experience when you read the poem off the art/pic . . . I hope.

Wedo!

A wintery blister gathering inside the head

every limb of thought, every memory frozen,

collected and stored away in the cluttered

‘memberin’ closet. Each New Year a promise

to clean it up in there and, of course, I never do.

Thunder beneath my naked feet, tonight.

My fingers a bit age-shaky but readily,

steadily enough to hold a cup of coffee up,

toast the ending and beginning of things,

another day, another month, another year.

The grey rains on the march again

across an unbearably cold night again,

their wet hands begging at the window

for more life . . . a lathering existence . . .

a rinse . . . repeat . . . rinse, repeat, repeat . . .

repeat once more . . .

this life better than the one before.

I’m not half the man I used to be,

and honestly, I’ve never been that

half the man I used to be.

Mother would spread a luscious light-brown peanut butter

onto the white face of a Wonder Bread slice. She’d stop,

take a giant sip from her sweaty Hamm's beer, beer . . .

Beer, always by her side . . . her steadfast life companion.

And onto the strawberry jam layer . . . SLAP! SLAP!

another slice of bread on top of that and . . . Vwa-lah!

school lunch prepared, wrapped lovingly

in wax paper, stuffed into a nondescript paper bag,

motherly duties completed for the morning . . .

No gossip here, nothing this morning to stir the tongues

of other mothers, the ones whose children always look

so . . . Leave It to Beaver clean . . . wholesome . . .

bright blue jeans, t-shirts glowing spring fresh . . .

like Wonder Bread in its classic white jacket . . .

colorful balloons along its wide-white ass,

its chest a see-through cellophane vest so all

those caring mothers can see just how healthy,

how decent, how upright white bread can be.

Woodie o1-o1-19