More Poetry by Robert R. Woods

June 17, 2o13

  Actually started this on this one last night and didn't finish until six this morning! I know, "All that time spent on writing a poem... and THIS is the best you could do?" Always a critic somewhere.

Cloudy Day

 

Take the sun out of it,

shadows lose their appeal.
Trees laugh at them, sidewalks too
can’t help but snicker a bit from
beneath their cracks, and mud,
a smug smile he wears all day
when the sun don’t shine.

 

I think sparrows choose

to ignore the sun at times
when hungry enough. And
squirrels, crows, small dogs,
all three don’t mind ol’ Sol.
He ain’t nothing, don’t mean nothing.
Man, can they take the constant heat?

 

But without the sun’s warm, strong hands

to hold things together, shadows
cease to exist, and never can resist
the temptation to feel sorry for themselves.

 

Yes, they’re temperamental. Belittled

easily by working class grasses,
the demeaning whistles of manly elms
checking out their skinny asses when they
float by on a pimped-out summer breeze.

 

Please, don’t ask trains about the weather,

trains just don’t give a damn, whatever.

Rain or shine snow and hail

the postman of the rails
just keep hauling crap
back and forth, dawn to dusk—
The sun? Who gives a fuck?
There’s too much work to do.

 

When I can and where I may,

I search the sky for shade.
The sun may be man’s best friend,
but I won’t pretend, and say
straight out, I prefer a cloudy day.
—rrw o6-17-13