The Goobley Goom, October 29, 2o13

Tuesday,
   Yes, A while since I've posted a poem on this site. Almost a month. Not sure why I haven't posted. But it is close to Halloween and that is my favorite holiday. So, for the next few days . . . nothing but Halloween poems. All of these are older poems.

The Gobbley Goom

The evening moon is burning bright

The door is locked-up good and tight
The world outside burns dark with gloom
Beware sweet children the Gobbley Goom

He stalks on leggies made of clay

His face is yellow with decay
His breath smells like a rotting tomb
A nasty brute is the Gobbley Goom

When midnight comes he roams the streets

He looks for children bads to eats
The child who doesn't clean its room
A tasty treat for the Gobbley Goom

I heard there was a boyish brat

As dirty as an alley cat
And late one night he met his doom
Becomin’ a stew for the Gobbly Goom

There was a little girl they say

Who always had to have her way
She never learned to sweep a broom
Guess what? Yup! She got served up
as brunch for the Gobbley Goom

So all my precious ones take care

Mind your manners and brush your hair
Do all the things good children do
Or . . . The Gobbley Goom . . .
WILL COME FOR YOU!
 —rrw 10-31-2009

Murder Me, September 23, 2o13

Monday
Been away for a while. Gotta take a break now and then. This is an older poem that I wrote for a "challenge" some years ago. maybe the original was written 2o1o-11 or so. To tell the truth, I don't remember the challenge or what it was about. Reworked this one several times, and I feel as if it would make a nice title poem for my book . . . if I'm ever published. The ANIMATION work would the cover.

Murder Me

I can hear beyond the walls the vacant wail

of children . . . muffled screams, lips mumbling
unintelligible curses. Soft, whimpering . . .
tiny human things . . . slowly dying.

Nowhere to hide . . . out there . . . inside here

where the white monsters, the badger-men drag you.
The whisper room, the silent room . . .
Darkness bangs the door shut, the cold, grey floor
nibbles at your ears ‘til all goes . . . deaf.

They’ve killed me . . . this time . . . they murder me . . .

Thin, clean scalpels slicing wafer thick slits
along the hairline . . . opening the inside
of the skull . . . mind blisters, curdles, cringes . . .
a battery of drilling sounds gnaw at my brain.

The smell of cigarettes burning in an ashtray

near the Duster’s chair. He writes upon a yellow pad,
his scribble rips across the page, peels away
the festered layers of scab protecting my wound . . .
protecting me . . . from him.
He craves a deeper view of the deformities.

They’ve killed me . . . this time . . . They murder me

with comfortable wool-lined straps . . . restrain my
movement . . . the gel applied to the temples,
the hard, rubber mass shoved in my mouth.

I cannot breathe, I can’t . . . they lash

my head within a stainless-steel band . . .
They murder me . . . for sure this time. They—
—rrw o6-o9-12 (rewrites o9-21-13)

 

Shadows, September 12, 2o13

Thursday,
Finished this today after I spent a little time reading Whitman. Sadly, I never read much of Walt. I'm highly uneducated when it comes to poetry's American roots. Maybe a "little" of the Whitman style rubbed off on this poem.

Shadows

They're watching me again,
the shadows are. Right outside
the window. They huddle there,
a small crowd, a lump of gray
goo stuck to the bark, to the branches,
the leaves of the grandfather oak
right outside my pathetic window.
Annoying they can be . . . sometimes.
Even evening strains to whistle
them away . . . go . . . away!
Slither away, find some other place
to loiter, somewhere else to haunt,
someone else to bother.
And you, there, I can feel you there,
no need to deny it with silence,
no need to pretend it’s all in my head.
I can smell you picking at the lock.
I can taste you too, a bitter tongue taste.
Why can’t I spit you out, drown you out?
I should get up, flick the bedroom light on,
slam the blinds shut,  jam a sturdy, wooden chair
beneath the doorknob’s chin.TV on, full blast, cat
screeching loud, shadows screaming,
steel-grip fingertips garroting the ears.
I can’t hear you anymore.
I will not listen anymore.
You’re dead . . . violently dead to me.
rrw o9-12-13

Coffee Date, September 11, 2o13

Wednesday,
Short but, may I add, somewhat sweet little poem here?

Coffee Date

She had a dollar once.

She asked me out for coffee

way, way back when you could buy

two cups of coffee for less than a dollar.

No wonder lonely people unleash

the internet hounds to hunt  down love.

It’s far too expensive, these days,

to woo a lover in person.

rrw o9-o9-13

 

GREEN, Sptember 1o, 2o13

Tuesday,
Up again all night writing. Some of this newer stuff needs more work. However, not excited enough about it to work on it more. I think it's okay . . . But not great. So, here you go.

GREEN

 

The sun will arrive . . . again.

Shinning yellow bright . . . again

through the kitchen window, 

the one facing east . . . as usual.

My plants hate it when I write poetry

until five in the morning. I don't get up

early enough to raise the blinds

so they may bathe in morning light.

But I swear the ficus benjamina,

the pothos meditating on top the frig

are far more poetic than me.

Yet, they don't complain or if they do,

I don’t speak houseplant,

I can’t tell what they’re up to.

rrw o9-o9-13

 

Love Massacre, September o8, 2o13

Sunday,
   Late night ramblings. I think I found my muse. Wait until late at night and write down some nonsense and then the next day . . . turn it into something like a poem. I say "something like" cause I'm not sure anyone considers it poetry. Most the time it doesn't rhyme . . . most times the phrasing seems to disjointed. Proper English? Forget about it. But I do try to write things that are interesting and I DO try to be "unique." Most of the responses I get to my work are rather mundane, "good work, nice description." Damn it! My soul is in here! In every word I write! Maybe my spirit is a bit thin on profound meaning . . . but still . . . it is a soul.
   I need to find a new site with better font colors for the picture part of the poem. For some reason the one I'm using tends to bleed, become blurry. Don't know why. Maybe because it's free?

Love Massacre

I beg her shadow to get off the bed, “Come,

the couch is large enough for both of us.”
This only makes her frown. For couches,
of course, where made for sitting on,
watching TV, snuggling a bit, perhaps,
but sleeping? No never. Our dreams
would get stuck between the cushions
and we'd never find them buried in that nether land
amongst the ghostly quarters, dimes and pennies,
the stale  popcorn SHE flings into the air
each time we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
We’ve seen that movie a zillion times.
SHE always jumps when ol’ Leatherface’s
chainsaw roars to life. And always SHE turns
her head and drills her perfect, little nose into my neck—
a trick SHE picked up from the dog.
Stuck its wet snout deep inside a half-eaten
bag of munchies I left unattended on said couch
one time . . . potato chip corpses all over the place.
Good company, I suppose, for all the other nasties
sleeping the sleep of misplaced garbage death. 
Ol’ Leatherface’s chainsaw screams,
the sexy blond actress he chases screams,
SHE screams and dog harmonizes
with a loud, mournful howl . I’m giggling
‘cause her pile-driving nose tickles. I’m
laughing  out loud ‘cause I can’t believe
How much I love this big wussy of a woman.
rrw o9-o8-13
 

Death by Comic, September o6, 2o13

Friday,
I meant to go to bed early . . . not a five in the morning! But I got busy writing some new poetry. Here's the latest.

Death by Comic

Too many people dying in the news tonight.

Civil war, of course, creates the greatest damage.
However, suicides and homicides domestic
are appealing to those of us who no longer bear
the shackles of a naughty, Arabotic government.
Personally, I would prefer death by comic. Ironic,
I suppose, but at least I’d be finished off
with a huge laugh. I’ve heard that men my age
can attract a heart attack, perish quite speedily
while performing sex. I do believe I have a better
chance finding me a sturdy, standup humorist
than a woman willing to make murderous love
to me, to those already dying from a lack of life.
But one can always dream. No matter how, or where,
or when I die, it will be (hopefully) quite entertaining.
—rrw o9-o6-13

 

 

Blubber, September o3, 2o13

Tuesday,
I don’t always cuss in my poems . . . but when I do . . . I cuss a lot. This poem has some language . . . so, if your offended by “language”  . . . don’t read it.

Blubber

 

Moby-Dick at a bar getting plastered,

“Motherfucker,” he muttered to himself.
“Mother fucking one legged bastard!”

“Hey! Hey!” the barmaid squawked,

“There’s no need for that kind’a talk!
We got ladies present!”

“Oh, it’s okay,” giggled Media quite pleasant . . . ly

while sipping at a quaint Chablis, “believe me,
I’ve heard worse from my twins.”

“Again?” William Shakespeare chimed in,
“Again with the fuckin’ twins?
Barkeep, tab me out.”

“Fucking peg leg son-of-a—“

“For God’s sakes!” Ahab screamed.

Everyone stared then whispered he,
“Jesus, Dickie, I said I was sorry.”
—rrw 1o-o2-11 (rewrites o9-o3-13)

Knittin' September o1, 2o13

Sunday,
I got caught up in this movie, Cloud Atlas, which has some scenes where characters talk in a Pidgin English. I was taken by it so much I decided to "create" my own language to express my poetry. Here's the beginnings of my "experiment."

Knittin'

I knit me-self a dreamy

out of darkly yarn, it binds me.
Longish sleeves, wide, gangly cleaves,  
sewin’ up the seeyers of my handys.
Me blubbin’ torso tumblin’ down
a black hole wooly, downhill deep
in boggy where the moon and starry-eye
do bolt to squawk when squawked upon,
pleaden with to yammer on and wispy up
a friendly sound, a bouncin’ ‘ bout
the cavern walls, a pleasin’ word or two.
A kindly thunk . . . me unforgettin’ you.

—rrw  o9-o1-13

. . . Like Death August 23, 2o13

Friday,

   So here it is Friday morning 5 am and I haven't been to bed yet. Damn. So I thought I should probably get a new poem posted. maybe then I can sleep.

. . . Lie Death

 

I'm afraid to go to sleep.
These last three nights

your dream-self came to me
jabbering about something I did
along time ‘go— I can’t remember
what it was. I didn’t understand it then
when we were together, when I was
somewhat more . . . conscious.
Why would I remember now?
I truly believe asleep should be a sleep
like death with no surprising 
midnight visits from the ex.
—rrw o8-23-13 (Pic & Poem)

More Than Dark, August 15, 2o13

Thursday,
Another poem that got lost somewhere in the wilderness of my flash-drive.

More Than Dark

 

More dark than pale this night

which the windowpane seems
to like more than bright,
more than dawning seams

 

that a stitching morning sun sews

to the bottom of his shoes.
A waddle-walk across the sky bows
him before the garden crow who woos

 

the grass and tends to evening trees.

No, let a kind, black darkness come along
and make her glass devoid of knees
creak and scrape and beg upon

 

her fragile shadow-sills. Refracted light

burning yellow in her one good eye.
Let her cry, may she weep for sight,
grieve for all those window dreams gone by.
—rrw o7-24-13

Ghost Poetry, August 14, 2o13

Wednesday,
Trying to catch up on my posts. All poets write at least two (or more) poems about writing poems. here's one that I revised. Original was written about six months ago. It's always good to go back, I think, and rework poems... even if you believed the original draft was "just right." Why? Well, because things change, your skills get sharper and maybe you see things clearer than you did when you wrote the first draft.

Ghost Poetry

 

Early, early morning. It’s early morning.

The brain’s already sleeping.
Consciousness snores lightly, tight behind
those blurry eyes that still try to count
the sheep leaping about like wooly ballet dancers
inside my skull. Where are all my ghosts tonight?
Often enough they’re premature, sitting cross-legged
in the cobweb corner next to my bike, tapping gray toes
against the carpeted floor. You see, haunting's not
much fun for them as I bee-busily scratch out another poem.
And they don't like it when I include them in some random
non-rhyme I’ve created right before my beddy-bye.
Rather shy my demons past. They refuse to talk.
They know too well, any mad ramblings or ghostly
gossip they choose to spill will wind-up on the page.
For there’s nothing’s sacred to a true poet, not the dead,
living or the dying. All that forgotten youth, childhood
distortions, all those tiny minded monsters old men adore;
they’ll show themselves when the coffee’s stale enough,
when there’s little else worth writing about.
—rrw o2-17-13 (rewrites o8-o7-13)

When the Darkness Comes, August 13, 2o13

Tuesday,
Sorry. It's been a while since I last posted a poem here. I have been writing. I just forgot about posting here. Manly because I've been working on the blog a lot. So, here's a new poem.

When the Darkness Comes

 

You know how it is, don't you, when the darkness arrives                                        

stands just outside the door waiting for you to notice that it’s there.
The brown paper bag in his left hand, the backpack slung over
the other shoulder, the sharp fast intake of breath; the crawl up
the carpeted stairs a bit too much for his age. But still he stands there,
and stands there, quietly stands there patiently stands there waiting
for you to say “Come on in, sit it down, take a load off.” And he does.
Plops with an earthquake certainty down in the only comfortable chair
in the room, gingerly folds his leathery, long legs under his ass, guru like,
takes a long, healthy swig from his wrinkled bag… “Ahhh! You want a hit?”
You shouldn’t, you really know you shouldn’t, fourteen years sober
and you shouldn’t… but you do, and you do... and you do once more,
and once again… and suddenly the walls begin to crumble, a skinny,
tight crack at first from floor to ceiling, then thickening, pulsating,
a river appears… an ocean crashing in on you… but you float like you
always do… along with the couch with the broken frame, the dusty
fifty-six inch TV… you float along within the rush of waves, the
sounds of waves slapping lightly against the inside of your head.
You float and wonder, hoping and pray the floating will never stop.
—rrw o8-o4-13

Random Chance of Rain July 29, 2013

Sunday,
   It may be a while before I post another poem. So, my reader(s) you'll have to do with this last one. Again, this a few short poems that were written first as posts on Facebook. They also revolve around a central theme, rain. It's late July and we here in Oklahoma have had a LOT more rain than we are use to. It was a pleasant surprise.

Random Chance of Rain

1

… AND it's still raining
a steady, light rain
like sparrows cry
not like crows do
who thunder
far too loud
who linger
far too long
on their own
sorrows

 

2

Shall I sing of shadows
pounding out the dents
the summer worked
so hard to print
to layout in fire and stone
only to be
washed away
by a sandpaper storm

that smooth the edges

of a rainy thought

from a deluge

to a soft shower

that spring could wear

leisurely around

her shoulders

 

3

I wish the rain would stay
not wander off

from place to place
like it always does
like you always do
when your sun
comes up

 

4

Thick, wondrous clouds

black and white

afloat upon a greying sky.

I've hoped all day that they

won't go away until they drain

us, repeat that gentle rap

of wet, cool rain that beat

against the windowsill last night

 

5

Clouds hang like paintings
in God's gallery... I wonder
will He serve hors d'oeuvres,
will the artist make an appearance?
And if He does what do I say?
"Yes, very nice, although you might
add a tiny bit of rain."

6       

I seldom think of you, but if I must

I think of you as rain stomping on

the roof inside my head like tiny

hooves of reindeer would, or like

butterflies that have lost their way

and smashed themselves to death

upon the windowpane of the only

window in the house that  isn’t blind.

Yes, I think of you as rain, the kind

that whistles while it jerks my mind

around, splatters its memories against

my memory until I fear remembering

at all. How you came into my life

wet with life and left muddy prints

upon the carpet when you finally

said goodbye and evaporated

into sun… yeah, if I must, I think

of you as rain that comes and goes

when it pleases, when you  need

to be thought  about, when you

need someone to remember your

ever changing weather patterns.

—rrw o7-28-13

 



SWEAT July 27, 2o13

Saturday,
   Been working on this for about three or four days. Still not totally satisfied with the beginning but in good enough shape to post, I think.

SWEAT

 

Not sure the sky is blue today,

it seems to me a muddy Chevrolet
slow dragging on a cloudy day.
And I myself am feeling jazzy-lazy, ragtime crazy
as the summer broils my brain, heats up my veins,
forces me to growl a melancholy song
that Billie might have sung  way back in ’41 while high on heroin.
Her ivory horse adrift from dirty bathroom to the kitchen sink,
down the corridor where the pasty coroner gets you ready
for the grave, then crawling low into that deep, dark hole and
through the swinging doors of the local jook where thick cigar
and cigarette smoke and those shady men in overcoats
claw at that sweet, tight ass as she struts past the wobbly chairs
and splintered tabletops. She slides across the barroom floor
that’s stained with beer and blood, where coat-tail waiters shrug
and shuffle ‘bout in wingtip shoes and holey dungarees still damp
from slaving in the fields. They mutter to themselves, “It’s hot as hell!”
And God, He laughs out loud, “You think it’s hot, huh?!  
Boys, come live up here inside the sun!”
‘Cause even He-On-Top sometimes must stop
to grumble to Himself  while changing into linen robes,
“Because them silky ones will lick you up like jellyroll!” 
And me and He and Billie all agree,
this mean ol’ life, no matter where you be,
or who you be just makes you wanna die,
makes you sweat, makes you scream.
—rrw o7-27-13

 

 

Mother, July 24, 2o13

Wednesday,
   This has been on my mind awhile. You know there are those "events" that go on in the world that really have little to do with you personally... and yet they touch you in some way... you need to write something... you don't know what exactly... you just need to get it out onto the page... hope it says something worthwhile.

Mother

 

What strength it takes to stand like wind.

Early morning rain has forced your head
to slightly bow. A sudden thunder
rumbling behind your eyes. You voice soft,
but strong like iron leaves burning
in an open fire place. Not a hint of smile.

Your lips have lost the memory of happier thoughts.

But I don't mind, I barely notice.
Nor does the crowd that's gathered here
to watch and hear you speak.
And when you finally do, the words... the words…
we can't imagine those words
spoken by anyone else but you.
—rrw o7-21-13