December 31, 2012

Well, thought I would sit down today and write a poem about New Year's Eve. I think I've written one every year since 2005 or so... Not maybe the best poem. It will probably need to be revised. But I feel obligated to write something for the occasion. I do think I'm getting better at writing fast and with a bit more poetic accuracy. Anyway, here it is. Happy New Year to everyone:

New Year’s Eve (H.P.N.Y.)

It is morning. A new year percolates

inside my coffee cup, a spoon taps

the edges of its mouth as I stir

the cream into the darkness

that Folgers has conjured up.

The sugar has made the second sip

a bit less bitter than the sip before.

There's a soggy, grey world out there,

outside the smoke stained windows

of my small but somewhat comfortable room.

I can smell the wet, dry rot of winter,

the wood burning fire from next door

and a thick sent of peppermint from

the Christmas stocking she gave me

right before she walked out the door.

I may go out tonight, wiggle into

a freshly pressed pair of jeans,

loose fitting T, brush my teeth and hair.
Grab the camera, my winter coat and

gloves, the stocking cap I bought

last month in NYC. Don’t forget

clean socks and underwear and

that thick, black scarf she bought

me right before she left.

To that little bar just down the street

I’ll go. I’ll drink iced tea and maybe

sneak a cigarette or two while I watch

the girls in short black dresses

and to high a heel shoes stagger ‘round

from boy to man to boy searching

for that special one who looks like

Brad Pitt and smells like rum and violets.
I’ll watch them pick the one they’ll kiss

when midnight strikes and this year

finally goes its way and another just like

the last appears as festive songs

and drunken cheers greets it

like I greeted her when first we met.

Or perhaps I’ll just stay home.

I’ll watch TV alone.

A movie maybe, or music or

maybe I’ll write some poetry

and post it where my friends can see

how pitiful a man I have become

since she has gone away.

—rrw 12-31-12

December 29, 2012

Yeah, I know. Awhile since I last posted. Been away at my friends house for Christmas. I've known this guy for 42 years been away from him for about 27 years. But we friends from the Marine Corps. Spent a lot of time growing up together. Could say he's my best friend... along with Nate Perez. They are the only two people I knew well who didn't give up on me. But enough of that... Here's an older poem that I've rewritten now... three or four times. I revised for a picture I took the other day... the first snow of December. Working on a new poem to start the New Year off. Plan to start writing "seriously" on the 1st. Anyway, here's the old poem:

The Ice Age

A thick frost accumulating ‘round my polar spirit;

I can hear it snoring quietly beneath the snow;

so restlessly, impatiently it dreams beneath the snow.

A chilly thought it is; a bitter storm of thought that snakes

its way between the quilts piled up about my heart... they

keep my hopes alive. My breath is but a shallow wish

 that the sun will peel away the winter festering on my skin,

replace the numbness of my fingers, feet,  my expectations

with a spring or summer like warmth sweet with sweat,

a day when ice and age no longer matter. Yes, oh, yes,

another time another place where time… no longer matters.

rrw 2-7-11 (rewrites o6-15-12) (12-28-12)

December 23, 2012

Not feeling well... Too many years... too many cigarettes. But I survive. Don't we all. I never thought of myself as a "nature" poet. Thought it was too 19th century. A lot of contemporary poets try writing about the flowers, the rain, blah, blah blah... and it always sounds somewhat... fake. But lately the weather has been relevant to my life. About the only thing I experience anymore. I don't have friends, really. Not much interaction with people... so, I have a lot of time to think about the weather, watch it, let it affect me. Here's a "sort of" nature poem which I'm hoping is contemporary and doesn't read too cliched. It was inspired by Hurricane Sandy and, of course, that one girlfriend I've never gotten over.

Weather Depression

I was thinking about the weather

and noticed a depression mustering

around the polar regions of my heart.

Yes, you were there again uprooting

the trees then flinging them against

the neighbor's new truck. He was 

shocked to see the devastation

but was more worried about me

standing there barefooted in

a puddle of bloody, muddy water.

“Are you all right?” He asked as
he surveyed the damage you had caused.

“I thinks so...” I had a difficult time

looking him in the eye. I’m sure
he never expected that a girl

your size could reek such havoc.

Over the years I've learned to accept

the inclement weather that

accompanies your presence.

The thought of you raining

down on my shelter-less dreams

as just a given like snow in the winter,

dead leaves in autumn, the fall.

I've learned to accept the chance

that you will return and blast

the world away with the same

suddenness you left with. They

should name a hurricane after you.

rrw 1o-24-12

December 21, 2012

It's been a painful day. The debate over gun control on Facebook gets heated and hurtful. I felt compelled  to "unfriend" a few close friends because of their outrageous opinions on mass murder and the NRA. It's a very touchy subject and I want to write something about it... but right now I'm too close to the subject. So, you, my faithful reader, will have to settle for another bicycle poem. I write about my bike a lot. Maybe the closest friend I have. 

Bicycle Dream

I was dreaming bicycle wheels the thick,

black kind that gobble down the gravel in

the alleyways as they lumber along,

go barreling along searching for a bit

of streetlight, a slice of moonshine to brighten

up a rather dull graveyard night.

I dreamed of red Corvettes and white Mustangs

chasing us, my bike and me, the two of us

swerving around the pot holed streets, dodging

the sticks and stones and shattered beer bottles

that jump out from the shadows... left over, no doubt,

from an OU Game Day. Yes, my dreams are similar

to my waking life... filled with hazards I’ll never tame.

But one tries with eyes open or shut

to make the best of what dreams may

happily throw their way. We take that

which we can and give what we must

to appease those ancient, thoughtless

 gods of human propulsion.

rrw 11-o2-12

December 20, 2012
(The day before the end of the world)

Well, this could be the past poem I write... in this world. I know, I know. I'm being silly. But you can't be too careful. So, here's the "Last Poem I Will Ever Write." However, if by chance the Mayans were wrong about the end of all things... be sure I'll post another poem... tomorrow. 

Ending

My bike and I are ready for the world to finely end.

We’ll drink the morning coffee then we’ll call up all our friends

to wish them fair thee well, and tell the ones we never liked

to kindly go to hell.

We’ll  ride along the winter streets of dear ol’ Norman Town

stopping every now and then to watch the sun go down.

We both agree it is quite sad. We’ll never see or feel

that kindly sun again.

But there's no time for tears; the end is near. My conscience? Clear.

I'll go into that unknown night upon my bike and hope the end

is not as cruel as I have been, and heaven is as nice a place

as everybody says it is.

rrw 12-2o-21

Poetry December 19, 2012

A lot of my poetry deals with being alone. Why? Well, because that tends to be my existence for the most part. Alone. I also write about simple things happening at the moment I'm writing. Again, Why? What else should I write about? The simple things, the "little" moments are what count. Those little moments of pain and/or delight shape us in ways that we may not be aware of. Here's a poem about being alone on a rainy night.

Another Rainy Night

A thick rain falling tonight

crackling like fire. The lightning

flash, the cold rumbling breath

of thunder shrivels summer

to a dark, cold whimper.

Rain has its own smell

born of earth and grass

a hint perhaps of sunflower.

For me a rainy night

has long wet fingers

that claw away

layer by layer every inch

of matted memory

that has dried up,

cracked and peeled

itself into fine red ribbons

that resemble rose petals.

Nature has never loved me

like a true mother, more

like a step son she thinks

of me... not truly hers

but still her responsibility.

She has called the rain tonight

to babysit, and it has never once

complained when I beg of her a gentle

lullaby to close my sleepy eyes to.

rrw o8-25-12

Poetry December 17, 2012

I want to start with a poem that came about NOT from the horrible school shooting last Friday but from the response on the TV by "experts" and by my friends on Facebook. Don't know if it really has a point... more like just a reaction to all the noise.

Not Me

Waking up, drinking coffee, a few hits of nicotine gum...

my world is so simple. Not like that "other" world, the one

just down the stairs, outside my apartment. It hasn't yet

figured out how simple this thing called living can be.

Poor old world outside my door... I'd invite you in for coffee,

nicotine gum and a pleasant chat... but I've only one cup and

my nicotine gum... well, I won’t give that up to strangers. No,

you’d have to pry my Polacrilex from my cold, dead hands!

Besides, you've been known to make a fuss on the carpets

of those who invite you in... AND... you never apologize or

even offer to clean your mess up! I'm afraid you'll have stay...

out there...  somewhere past the sidewalks where the wild

flowers grow, where the rest of this untidy world goes

to complain about its plight, about the price of taxes and rice

and the horrors of living in a country where freedom of thought

is held higher than the freedom of life. Where the young die

young, and the old die slow, and the shadow of the graves

you’ve dug for yourselves grows darker than the night that

soon will come and devour what little light still shines

for this fine but often confused Earth. But be of good cheer!

Don’t dismay The New Year is almost here, it’s on its way!

Maybe we’ll make it till then... and then... then what? 

rrw 12-17-12