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