More Poetry by Robert R. Woods

June o5, 2o13

   I do a lot of Facebooking... write a lot of "little things" that aren't always poetry... just random thoughts. And that's what I named them, Random (W)Rites. Here's a sampling.

Random (W)Rites

 

One

I appear to have the Bubonic Plague Blues today.
My negative thoughts are running a temperature
of a hundred and seventy-five. The sweats of regret
are taking over... I've developed a chill in my future,
a runny nose reality. I've been under the influence,
emotional storm front, my whole, sick life. No cure.

 

Two

There are lies you tell your friends
the ones you quote your enemies
the fibs you speak to yourself
when truth is just too painful
and boring to bother with

 

Three

Something’s burning. I know it’s not love.

 

Four

Damn, morning already. Thunder

and lightning. A very wet rain
my alarm clock. There's no snooze
button on the weather. My plan to ride
the bike to the grocery store… put on hold.
My writing continues, though. Lately, I've
been practicing my typos and punctuation
errors. Getting good at it. Almost up to par
with my spelling and grammar mistakes.
Believe me, it's difficult to maintain
the purity of an illiterate mind.

 

Four (Bicycle Built for One)

I am painfully aware of your absence. So’s

my bicycle. It sits in the corner bleeding air
from its tires, and weeping sprocket-grease
tears on the carpet. If its spokes could speak,
they'd ask me about you. I’d refuse to comment,
pleading a fifth of Jack Daniels to incriminate myself.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll take my bike on a long trip.

Maybe he'll forget (for a while) that you
use to ride on the handlebars and laugh
as I peddled the three of us up that long,
deep grade near the Duck Pond.

 

I remember a summer’s day, warm but

not unpleasant. A Devil’s Head thorn
carved its way into the front tire,
the tube gasped then went flat. You
always blamed yourself… “I shouldn’t
ride on the handlebars, I’m too fat.” But
you weren’t. No heavier than a leaf, 
a rebellious, spring leaf that always found
a path to the pond water, or landing on
the back of some transient duck that just
stopped by for a cooling splash.

 

I won’t go by way of the pond  tomorrow.

Too many memories for my Mountain Trek.
You know how he gets when his wheels
start turning in the wrong direction. We’d
be out there all day… looking for you.
—rrw o6-o4-13