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)

 

Knots

Thursday,
Yes, I'm back with LOTS of new poetry. Sorry that I've been away. But I am back now nd I do have quite a few new poems. Started reading my work in public. Did it once at least about two weeks ago. Not sure how it went over. Very young crowd. But I am going back . . . better rehearsed than the first time. Anyway, here's something new.

Knots

Unraveling the thick knots
that thinking often creates.
A mess to clean-up.
Even thicker fingers don’t help,
they often add to the confusion,
to the menial task of sorting things out,
what to keep, what not.
A bitter crow will bite the hand
that tries to pet it. But an old thought
will knife you . . . if given the chance.
Better to wad it all up, all of it,
toss it overhand, watch it sail
across the room . . . more than likely
missing the stoic garbage can,
smacking it's misshapen head
against the bland kitchen wall.
I should do something festive
with that wall. One of those
kitty cat clocks with the big black eyes,
and the blacker tall that swishes
the seconds away as they slowly,
lazily beat the night down.
I don’t understand 3:15
in the morning, not a bit.
It’s a ponderous time of day,
a laborer working at a job it hates.
rrw o2-o5-14

Short Stuff

 Friday
I've got a lot of stuff to post. I thought I'd start with this one. Written in November and revised yesterday and today.

Short Stuff

1

I'm taking my dreams, my tiny dreams
rolling them up in loose knit balls,
placing them quite carefully beneath
my pillow . . . so, when I fall asleep,
my dreaming mind can easily find them.
My shoes too, my dream walking shoes
placed on the floor next to the bed
my subconscious feet can slip inside them
without disturbing my comatose flesh.
I for sure need to rest but that other me,
the dreaming me loves to stay up all night.

2

The sky too blue for me,
I miss the stormy touch
of threatening rain,
the angry rumble
of undigested thunder,
the black and white faces
spring clouds make
when they're ready to cry.

Winter is too subtle at times for me,
too cold and calculating,
too sure of itself.
No, need for theatrical tricks,
it just tortures us with
its blistering look,
a quick quiet lick of frost
along the windowpane.

3

She has an extremely long neck, giraffe like.
I'm not complaining. I love kissing it
from the collarbone all the way up
to her finely pointed chin
and then back down again.

4

The old Elm is feeling its age today.
Most of its hair is gone, the sun
has thoughtlessly turned his back
on her or him or . . . Funny.
I Don't know the gender of a tree
that I have known for years.
Perhaps, I don't know "it"
at all! So, how do I dare say
a thing for or against
its existence and the troubles
that it shares with the rest
of Nature's world?

5

I think it must be terribly difficult
to try and imagine nothing.
Much more difficult than trying
to imagine . . . something.
The moment you think of nothing
it transforms into something . . .
and something  always becomes nothing
when you think of it  too long, AND
on the subject of thinking . . .
some people do too little of it . . .
others . . . far too much.

6

Laundry day tomorrow . . . a Sunday.
Cleansing the spirit as well as the tube socks,
underwear, the t-shirts and jeans . . .
God does nothing on Sundays,
but the angels it seems
wash their clothes too,
their robes and wings.
They polish their sandals
and sing Sunday hymns.
I like hanging out with the angels...
and gossiping about . . . Him
and the things He did or did not do all week,
the promises He made but didn't keep.

7

I don't smile as much as I use to.
Gravity, I think, is such a grave thing
when you get older, when the body
begins the hunt . . . the long, steady hunt
for ground, for dirt, for motherly Earth.
Leafs, we often say we're leafs in autumn, in winter.
But some of us believe we are merely flesh colored
clouds that drift about, shed our rain and then
slowly dissipate until there's nothing left of us
but a faded, sober memory or two.
I don't like the idea of dying, I refuse to do so.

8

I'm allergic to rain, early morning in the rain
as I try drumming up customers for our
game day parking business.

Each drop of cold wet
like a spear driving itself
through my red and blue,

wool Spider-Man cap,
through my skull and penetrating my brain,
accumulating inside my left ear
when the wind shoots sideways
forming tiny lakes in my ear canal.

I'm a sickly person these days.
The weather doesn't care for me these days.
And I can say,

I don't give much of a damn for it.
rrw 11-21-13 (revised, o1-o2-14)

NYE, January o2, 2o14

Thursday,

   Yes, yes, I know too well . . . been a ghost on my poetry page. But I have risen as a new year has risen from the cold, plotting footsteps of 2013. So, forgive me? Be kind enough to read me, and puzzle, as I puzzle, over the words I present to you this early, yawning morning.

NYE

Folding this year up into a nice, neat square.

I'll place it in the closet on top the brown
moving boxes I've stored there.
Perhaps . . . I'll sneak a peek at it
as the month of January yawns on.
Yes, separation anxiety will surely saddle up,
gallop insanely through the blue waters
forming 'round my eyes
as the thoughts birthed in 2013 fight
for their God given right to continue to exist.

And, yes, I'll remember you, the sweet, wet,

drunken kiss of you in the garage, your hands
clinging catlike to the back of my greasy head,
the bumble bee mumbling of those words
you recited each and every New Year's Eve,

"I'll love you forever."

Hmmm. I won't pack that one away.

I'll sentence it to solitary confinement,
take it out once in a while for a walk
down the block to the Duck Pond,
toss it a stick, play with it . . .

 "That's a good boy!"

 

. . . as the months of 2014
busy themselves, creating
their own subconscious regrets
to regret on the next New Year's Eve.
rrw 12-31-13

 

 

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