Weather Girl, Promises and Flesh Eating Zombies October 2o14

Yes, it has been quite some time since I posted any of my poetry. Sorry about that. Been somewhat busy writing some new stuff and revising some of the older poems. Yeah, the poetry I thought was so "good" when I wrote it . . . well, after a few years they don't look quite as good as I thought they were. But that's good. It's a sign that I'm growing as a poet. Here's old one that I just rediscovered and worked on a bit. I'll try to keep up with this blog a bit more. Lots of poems to post.

The Weathergirl, Promises and Flesh Eating Zombies

 

Somehow, in some damn way the day seems off.

Although the pleasant Weather channel girl said,

“Heavy thunder storms to be expected—“

 

None, not one, not a single one (as of yet)

has shown its grieving face. No hail, no
thick sheets of rain, not even the hint
of disgruntled cloud. Just clear blue skies
to impale my sad eyes upon.

 

I do not like disappointment of any kind.

I’ve worn my waterproof jacket, for goodness sakes,
my winter boots in the middle of July
and there appears to be—on this sun scorched day,
at this sweaty moment in time— no apparent
reason for having done so. I hate it when God
reneges on a solemn promise!

 

And damn George Romero while I’m at it.

Flesh eating zombies move so very slow
like Jell-O on legs devouring all we breathing
things at an extremely, leisurely pace. Perhaps
it’s because  they were dead and just couldn’t
eat that fast, or maybe, just maybe, they didn’t
have anywhere to go, no pressing appointments
to keep, no distraught friend waiting in a café,
waiting patiently to tell someone, anyone
how lonely this life has become!

 

Or perhaps they were just being polite.

 

The monsters, these days, move way too fast for me.

Computers! Instagram! Porno spam! The frigging Cloud!
Lightening speeds consume flesh, mind and spirit
with little time between breakfast, lunch or dinner
to take a quiet moment to contemplate
how terrifying  text messaging can be!

 

Gone in a Cyberspace mini-sec., all gone.

No hesitation, no reservations . . . skin and bone
gobbled-up like so much raw tofu, all humanness,
depleted, deleted, defeated by one, tiny misstep
on the cell phone of life!

 

The bogyman, dressed in black dragon tats,

tall and pale, he waits at the gates
of my Facebook account.

 

I don’t want to be forgotten when I die

or eaten alive by computerized zombies
who will (more than likely)
swallow me whole and assume my identity.
Please, someone, remember me . . . as me,
one who wrote simpleminded  poetry
and was almost, almost human.
rrw 7-10-08 (rewrites o1-3o-12, 1o-14-14)