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