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)