January, 31, 2013

   Well, trying to write something new... but coming slow. I meant to get out today and just... I don't know... just experience something... Never made it out the front door. This came out of that.

 

 

Something There

 

Outside the door... there's something in the hall,

scratching at my door. Should I let it in? No. Too many

things to be considered... important things one must

consider before I turn the lock: The weather, for example…

is it mild out there, cold, hot? Is it wintery, is there snow

that somehow found its chilly way into the hall? Footsteps

echoing, a clock like steady clump, clump, clump, the

steps descend… down, and down the stairs they go…

is that the neighbor that I hear, or is it something else…

a something I should fear? Sweat, my heart beating,

racing, hand shaking as it reaches for the knob… that

scratching sound again… scratching on and on… I…

am… afraid. The world, it may be out there… long,

dangerous claws waiting, patiently for me… for me…

waiting there patiently… to tear me apart.

rrw o1-31-13



January, 29, 2013

   Okay, I know this is for "poetry" but I wanted to get a BIG shot of my ZOMBIE out there so people could see it! 

 

 

January, 29, 2013

  I haven't written something short and fast in awhile. Not sure it's the best way to do things. I've taken a lot of pics of the moon in the last five years and I post them on Facebook. A friend of mine, a former roommate, saw the pics today and asked for a "moon" poem. I sat down and wrote it in less than an hour and think it works well. You decide:

 

Moonless

I've been waiting for the moon tonight
but it doesn't want to shine for me
the stars too refuse to show themselves
the universe ignoring me

I don't mind the lack of attention
I am quite resolved, my ambition
is not to be loved or even recognized
just not criticized or vandalized
by existence.

rrw o1-28-13

 

 

 

 

January, 25, 2013

  Difficult to write lately. Depressed. But depression I have always thought was a creative spot to be in. Not this time, though. I just want to lay on the couch and watch TV. But I gotta post something. A little psychological horror thingy here.

 

 

Dream Monster

My fantasy runs locomotive. Burning steam

rushing up from the bloody cradle to the rocking

chair where sleep is only interrupted by a nightmare

and a simple snort which may if too exuberant

awake the monster dreaming there.

And what’a monster he was, yes, indeed! And though

a withered demon now, he once devoured everything

with large jaws and broken fangs. His toxic venom

(bright blue it was) poisoned every living thing:

The brown tanned farmer of the field, the bloated

banker in his vault, the few rebellious poets who

defied both Earth and wealth, it churned the lot to

butter, to nothing more than gushy gobs of dragon spit.

But in this the 21^st century, would the creature of my

deadly dreams with its arthritic claws rip the world

apart as it did so long ago? Would it stand a chance

in hell against the righteous wielding Bible swords

or the murderous peppering its leather flesh would

receive from Facebook trolls and video games?

Would its roar be a roar at all or just a nagging cough

a smoker’s hack which the cyber world scoffs at, or

pays no attention to at all? That beastie of our darkest

nights, that wicked thing which drove us to our covers,

could it frighten anyone?

No. Some would say, the creatures of our youth

can’t match the ones that live and breathe… today.

rrw o1-25-13



January, 21, 2013

   haven't kept up on my "Daily Write." However I have discovered some "unfinished"  poems that I've been working on... It's a good thing to let a poem "simmer" for awhile then go back with fresh eyes and more skill. I wrote this one back in 2011 for the writing class at OCU. But I never finished it... until today.

 

Face

The blinds drawn, the day passing by without sight,

just that slushy sound cars make on wet pavement,

that rumble of unhappy engines barreling along

muttering to each other about nothing... nothing

much at all.

The day woke him, greeted him with a smaller cage

than the one he went to sleep in. The low ceiling

of his apartment made him hunch over as he

staggered to the kitchen. Even the coffee freshly

brewed seemed somewhat flat, not bitter enough

to push his fantasies into unconsciousness.

Yes, he’d been dreaming that face, again.

Even as the day split noon, and the sun began

to force itself between the cracks in the blinds,

his mind was still… full of face.

A face so desperately deep in the past

that he didn’t recognize it anymore,

couldn’t put a name to it though he

was certain that sometime ago

it had meant... something to him.

It was a soft face, a girl, short, spiked hair,

a tattoo of an open rose on one cheekbone,

a smile which exposed a set of bright

but crooked teeth, and a faint chuckle

that never seemed to lose its breath...

Who the fuck was she...?

She stayed in his mind through the first

cup of coffee, the first cigarette, the first

stretch of arms, and legs, the first, second

and third sigh that confirmed he was awake.

Although her look wasn’t unpleasant,

That laugh began to tear at him.

barefooted, he  paced back and

forth across the carpet in the small

apartment, he yelled and screamed

at the unyielding walls, began to smoke

one cigarette after another.

He forced the blinds open, stared

out at the street now crowded with passing cars

and Elm trees that shimmied in an afternoon breeze.

Yes, the world was intact still there… But he wasn’t.

He couldn’t visualize himself in the world…walking

down the street or riding his bicycle through the deadly

Oklahoma heat. Even the bathroom mirror refused

to reflect his image. All he could see in front of him

was that damn face. And that hideous insane laugh,

It left a stain on the inside of his skull.

rrw o1-21-13 

 

January, 20, 2013

   Took awhile on this poem that was actually started in 2011. Taking my time a bit more, trying to find the right poetic phrasing for a poem... I guess, you could say being more specific with my imagery, my wording. Takes awhile for a poem to gel. Have to look very close at each word, and how each word fits the next word. Anyway, here's my newest piece.

 

The Dirt Garden (Part I)

Hobbling about in strange shoes tonight, angry shoes

that argue all the while with my swelling feet.

The parking lot too, dark and black and sweaty,

It eats away at my fragile soles…

there’s no place for me in this world,

this hot, dry world.

She, on the other hand, demands very little of me

as she bounces out of her beat-up Bronco, four bulging

plastic bags swinging freely in her freakishly fat hands,

on hefty legs (the width of two large babies), she propels

herself towards the apartment two doors down from me,

 “How are you tonight, Hon?”

I say nothing ‘cause I know she doesn’t mean it,

She doesn’t care, not really. And I can’t condone

the use of plastic over paper or asking questions

that have no answers you wish to hear.

This evening has blessed us with a soft

breeze, it tempers the hell our daily sun

has butchered us with for the last week.

Rays of UV light sliced fine pinstripes of golden

pink along my forearms. And though I wore a hat

all day, sometimes I forget the sun screen.

I don’t want the cancer that gobbled up my dad.

That’s why I’ll go out only at night, now…

only at night.

It’s why I’ve tried to stop smoking, why I

work so hard to eliminate this persistent,

urgent need…  to harm someone.

Here

plopped on a cool stone bench,

my elbows propped on this cool stone

table beneath the gaze of a huge elm tree

with octopus arms twisted out, above

and over the dirt garden and me,

here

below its monstrous leafy tentacles misshapen

by a lone street lamp that hovers right behind

its mossy side,

here

among her many arms, like a mother’s

reassuring touch, a lover’s scent,

here

she anoints me with soothing calm, grey darkness

that mends the countless bruises, and quiets (if just

for a single breath) the echo of those swift piggy tongues

that whip me into nonexistence on a daily basis.

 

The Dirt Garden (Part II)

 

Here

all that garbage drifts away with one sturdy exhale

of cigarette smoke that  floats past my vacant eyes,

past the dark green leaves hanging like

dead men from the elm’s black branches,

along Interstate 41, where a  constant rush of metal,

screeching tires, screaming sirens digest an oyster

colored sky which threatens thunderous weather…

a promise made but never delivered,

past my murky memory… you spread out like

a picnic basket for my fingers and mouth to devour,

past Viet Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan, the War on Drugs,

the War on Poverty, the War to End All Wars,

the homeless veterans sitting

underneath the 41, filthy and shirtless

begging bread and butter and,

“…Just one more dollar, my brother,

for a warm bottle of Night Train.”

Past the blistered gables of the apartment complex,

slipping by the throbbing red warning beacons atop

all that concrete and steel… 50 Penn Plaza,

then warping ‘round the Boeing 707 that hurls eighty-six

reluctant passengers toward the slaughterhouses

of Los Angeles, Albuquerque, San Francisco…

all those mumbled prayers… hope shall keep

the plane from crashing… or maybe not.

And beyond, far beyond the unwavering eye of

a God  who just stands there, condemns us all

to die a silent death in an infinite grave.

Beyond my own desperately quiet rage:

Something’s got’ta fuckin’ change!

Right fuckin’ now!

But not tonight. No need tonight. No worry tonight.

My anxious shoes dig jagged trench-lines

in the dirt garden’s soft skin,

my wandering eye examines a tiny plop

of rotting bird poop retired on the stone table

as an elderly couple from apartment 207 (I think)

wobbles down the concrete path, one holding

the other up. The older man takes the time to raise

his withered hand... and butterflies hello to me. She

waits patiently to resume their evening crawl,

and suddenly…  she smiles… for no particular reason,

no reason at all.

Not tonight. ‘Cause it’s cool tonight. It’s nice

tonight. The dark is filled with tiny, honest smiles.

Tonight the world is safe… from me.

rrw o1-2o-13

 

 



January, 14, 2013

   I haven't written something in several weeks. However, there are a few poems that I wrote "last year" that I haven't posted yet. I nee to start writing again... but since I'm not there yet... here's a poem that I haven't posted here that was written back in November, 2012.

 

Movement

I watch the world pass by

and wonder why I feel it's me

moving and not the Earth?

Students, tons of them,

backpacks slung over one shoulder,

feet shuffling across the parking lot,

black clouds of asphalt in their wake.

I remember movement as steady steps

that knew their direction, always

running away from the ghosts

that the amber streetlamps make

when darkness becomes to much

for the stars to bear, too much for the sun

and moon to carry on their broad shoulders.

She wore a thick, fake fur coat even in

an Oklahoma summer... She was English.

Her body liked to hide itself inside acrylic fibers

that couldn’t fool a fox or spotted leopard or

the pretty little boys who paced about the

convenient store hoping some old fart

will consent to buy them beer and cigarettes.

I touched her hair once as she bounced by me.

Nothing too obvious just a brush of those blond

Highlights of her dishwater hair with the tip

of my index finger, feeling her just long enough

to transfer her scent to the palm of my sweaty

hand. I can still smell the lemon shampoo she

always used... my nose has the memory

of an elephant.

rrw 11-27-12

 

January, 10, 2013

 

   Well, a very cold and rainy day. I like it when I don't need to get out in it. Not writing much poetry but I am making a little progress on The daily Write. Here's a poem a wrote late last year that I'm somewhat proud of.

 

 

Snake Water

I love the rain when I can sit

and watch it slither down

the gutters like a watery snake.

 Maybe that's why the reptile's skin

glistens like a stream when the sun hits

it just right.

And maybe, just maybe, it's wishful

thinking on the snakes part. Wanting

to become H²O, becoming something

more than just a snake.

For what reason? I don't know. Perhaps,

it's the lack of respect we legged thingys

give to creatures that appear so dark and

evil, that crawl the whole life long upon

their bellies... makes them wish to be

something different than what they truly are.

Better to be rain, I suppose. A gentle,

Fall rain, I suppose. A quiet rain that

doesn't hiss or spit when I try to pet it.

—rrw 1o-24-12



January 7, 2013

 

This poem was inspired by the number of fall leaves we have on the streets of Norman back in November. And  Stephen Hawkins who recently on a "science" show told me and the rest of the world that God did not exist. Thanks, Stephen. That's like seeing a movie  and telling everybody in who haven't SEEN the movie what happens at the end. 

 

 

Science

 

There are large islands of autumn leaves drowning

the driveway... cars rush by changing the physical

formations of all those burnt orange, dying things.
The Big Swoosh in action... nature changing its

underwear in a very public fashion.

It may well be that the Big Bang Theory our twenty-first

century thinkers just love to gossip about was nothing more

than a simple sneeze from God’s huge nostrils. I’ve heard,

from reliable sources, it’s one of His best tricks, along with

burning bushes and angels with fire retardant wings and

trees that bear fresh, green fruits of original sin.

Charlton Heston, I’m told, stood on the mountain
watching us drink wine and scurry about like sexy,

drunken ants. I wonder why he didn’t turn around

and flee back up the path yelling and screaming for

God to take him, take him now. I guess, like the rest of us,

he believed that life—no matter how filthy and disgusting,

how silly and dangerous, how broken and sad it can be—

is better than a heaven where’s there not much to do all

day but pray... and occasionally sing... with angels.

When I was twelve, science scolded me, “Don’t you dare

eat chocolate! It will give you pimples!”

At thirty-five science said, “We lied! Go ahead,

eat all the chocolate you want... just don’t have sex.”

But if science got chocolate,,, and sex... wrong, how

can I trust when Stephen mechanically insists,

“THERE... IS... NO... GOD...”

—rrw 11-17-12



January, 6, 2013

 

 

    Here's another one of my poems I have yet to publish on this site. Another poem contemplating being alone... I like what I've done with this poem... but don't know if it's specific enough or is just a mix of clichés. It's hard to tell. I don't get enough "honest" responses to my work. On here... none at all. So, I only have me to depend on... I guess that's the way it's suppose to be.
 

 

I’m Still Here

                                         

Alone... again tonight. Not unusual.

But somehow the walls seem a bit thicker,

the late evening a tad darker,

and my mood a little muddier than I hoped.

I wish the phone would ring. Even a wrong

number would be comforting. I wish there

was something, some reason to go to bed

before two, three or four in the morning.

Breakfast with a friend, a job interview… hell,

even the landlord dropping by unexpectedly

to fix the toilet (that never stops running)

would be a welcome.... anything to get me

back in touch with a world that appears

to have forgotten... I'm still here.

 

Yes, still here with all these thoughts, memory,

remembering... because there’s nothing to look

forward to... the past clearer than the present...

the future... nonexistent... a thick void...  God

could not fill it. A sinister, midnight rattles at

the window on  the north side of my apartment...

it’s a gentle sound... cat bone purrs on broken screen.

 

I can’t think, begin to write. Ink blotches gathering...
broken leaf-like... festering to a winter’s head inside

my head... my head wishes sleep would drown us all...

unwanted puppies... who whimper darkness... dull

the amber streetlamp screaming from the corner.

 

There’re shadows out there too. Black, skinless things

marching about in metal boots shackled to the thump

of their own misguided footsteps...  shadow-steps...

they make the world ache. I can’t recall dreaming

or waking... or sunlight beating me to consciousness.

I do, however, remember your shadow... against my

shadow... bound to each other... a not unpleasant

way to finally fall asleep... remembering you.

—rrw 11-12-12

 

January 4, 2013



 

Well, It sure took awhile (not as long as Eliot spent on Prufrock). Here's my first poem of the new year. I wanted to play with internal rhyming (that's what I call it) and rhythm. I feel good about it because I really paid close attention to structure. I DID want to write something about guns and our attitude towards the mass murders we have seen in America in the last year. Quite a few, sad to say. And we really never do anything about. Why? Well, takes a lot of will to stay with it... especially butting heads with the NRA. But we may, this time, do something about it. I doubt this poem will affect the outcome of our fight against gun violence, but it's pretty much the way I see things.

 

 

The Gunny Boys

 

The gunny boys ride high today, they’re  shootin’ up the mornin’ sky.

Ragged jeans and tractor hats, six packs of beer, all blurry eyed.

They beat the dawnin’ sun into submission with their semis and

their hallow pointed ammunition. They don’t need permission

‘cos the Bill of Rights done give’em liberty to do just what the heck

they please on private property. The stratosphere is free, you see,

it don’t belong to you nor me, to none but God Almighty! And He,

Himself sports a B.A.R. He done scored from that war way back

in ‘63. So, He don’t mind a few stray rounds a buzzin’ by His golden

crown… although the angels up on high do tend to frown and rightfully

become alarmed when redneck gun boys armed with AK-47s

blow to waste their sweet suburban homes in heaven.

Ol’ Bo and me sit on my porch scratchin’ at our fleas and watch them

drunken gunny boys across the gravel street blow tiny holes in ever after.

How they smirk each time the blasts sends mama’s scrawny cat a runnin’

for safe haven underneath my daddy’s Ford— But.. oh…  my… Lord.

That skinny redneck with them sharp gray eyes that dirty AC/DC T-shirt

wrapped around his scarecrow frame… Yeah, that goober’s lookin’ right

at me. He humps a 12 gauge pump and licks his lips and moans and grunts

and groans— and  I hopes it’s the only fuckin’ he’ll ever know.

 
Luckily for me, a flock of barnyard geese take to the air; he turns

that red-eyed stare on them and  starts’ta hum a Sunday hymn.

The friendly geese ascend and fly around his greasy head… and then,

then… BLAM! BLAM! BLAM…! Three giant birds hit ground like

lead… dead.  All them other geese flee for the shelter of the Blackjack

trees over on the far side of the fence. Redneck’s drunken friends, they

look at him, surprised...he smiles a toothy grin, says, “What?” And boy,

they laugh, they laugh so hard, they laugh so loud, they slap him

proudly on the back as they stagger to their truck.

My dog and me watch helplessly as the pickup rumbles out of sight

leaving in its violent wake red clouds of bloodied earth and down

that settles with a graveyard hush upon the recently deceased.

And Bo, he gazes up at me, but I can’t look at him. That mangy

cat crawls out from underneath my daddy’s car and joins us on

the steps…. My daddy’s flathead Ford? Man, it never ran for shit.

Rrw o1-o4-13



Freak Show - by Robert Woods

I wrote this awhile back and Jess & Tim came up with the animation, and the animation is GREAT! But I'm not all that impressed with my vocals. Never did get a chance to rework it before Jess had finished the animation... I guess it came out okay. The poem has been rewritten some since Jess' contributions. Original draft of this poem was written in 2008. I always come back to it and make a change here and there. I think it's one of my favorites. So, thanks to Jess and Tim for their work on this project.

Welcome To… the Freak Show

Hi-de-hey, hi-de-ho!

Welcome, friends...

to the freak show.

Shuffling footsteps

down the hall

come one, come all

the end is near

where breathing labors

like a vacuum cleaner

running out of suction!

All those horrible years

spent a munchin' kitty fur,

globs of wadded dental floss.

All those tears lost,

spent weeping withered leaves

to grieve for bleak December.

All those fears

piling up:

mourning cobwebs

and cigarette butts

fornicating on the rug.

"Heya, Heya!" cries the barker

from the sideshow tent,

"See the amazing frog boy

pickled in a jar!"

And here he is… pissed yellow

for all eternity to schijt upon.

How our blue-stain collared

fingers mock him,

skeptic sneers, cruel jeers

torment his lifeless body,

petrified for resurrection

in the soiled pocket flap

of heaven's evening coat.

So, better kiss me quickly, deary,

while my tarnished lips

remember how your

warm, wet tongue

once brought to life

my decaying smile...

But she'll have none of that.

For she’s too busy now

her hands a burying the dead,

her tapered fingers

screaming lily white, red

fire tears carving

crimson rivers 'cross

her swollen angel face.

Our graveyard spirit spits

too much these days,

drinks too much

these moments in,

stands far too close

to grief soaked sparrows

who’s only sin was searching

for a simple truth or two,

a simple though that might

comfort all of us who lie,

who die naked in the winter snow.

We shall sleep, no more.

No more may we sing

for better or for butter or

for weather kinder

than the mother who

delivered us on the nunnery steps

with the curdled cream

the milkman left last night.

But the willow may weep,

may bow it's green-weary head,

sniffling improper oaths

as the horsemen trample past

the wailing ghosts;

they won’t leave but bitter curses

on the few of us still lasting.

Too demanding we have been,

circumcised from sweet nature's treat

at such an early age... no longer

do we recognize the bourbon scented breath

of poor old father as he staggers to the

smoky-mirrored barroom in the sky.

Then shall we surely meet our makers,

slovenly, brutal gods who ram themselves

deep down within our youthful throats

then lick their sores like wounded dogs

and disappear into the fog.

They never loved us, not at all.

rrw 2008 (rewrites o6-27-12)