The Bar

Gravel roads
hunker down
between
row crops
and drainage
ditches lined
with cattails
and Pabst Blue Ribbon
beer cans
rusty at the tops.

Strange birds
run like chore boy
bandits away
from their nests.

The Bar,
an old share-cropper
bungalow,
sits hunched over
from the weight
of the years
and the memories.

The patrons
work for someone else
or draw a check
and spend days
drinking dollar cans
of bootleg beer.

A hand written
sign reads
"No Pot Smokin
or sellin",
but it is
okay if you
do it out by
the truck.

Gallon glass
jars offer
pigs feet or
pickled eggs,
and some days
The Bar
smells of charred
meat
cooked on a grill
made from a
30 gallon drum.

Manuscript

I have asked before, but I would like your help again, let me know your three favorite poems so that I can try and include them in the next book.

cool list

Rita Dove’s List of Young Poets to Watch | BillMoyers.com

Even

The rain begins
it's sexy
snare drum
dance on the
sleeping bag.
Too late
to find a
better  spot,
too early
to get up
I drag bedroll
and backpack
and smelly yellow
construction boots
into a doorway.
Sleeping as a
question mark
curled in it's
too small space
for a little
while more.
What kind
of person am
I
that I would
choose this?
Only a moment
later
the crazies
begin cursing,
singing,
and praising
GOD.
Good God
won't they
shut up?
My socks
scum stuck
to my feet,
shit stained drawers,
my bottle empty,
and pipe busted
I start the day
even.
When you
live the streets
you just got
to make it
happen.

like a little girl

the ghost of us
is the only thing
older than the
red and yellow
thai take-out
containers

spilling over

and around

the garbage can

with its living line

of ants

that separate

living room from

kitchen

the stereo

that i found

on the side

of the road

in sherwood

plays a

van morrison cover
and even though

your eyes were blue
it seems
dead on


the drink
in my hand
gone
and the ice
too far away
so i pour
straight from
the bottle
and sink farther
into the past

drinking
alone
to  be with you

Another Poem for my Birthday

That's right, remarkably I got a second poem for my birthday. This one written by Betty Heidelberger, a wonderfully dear friend and writer.


Message to a Homeless Poet

You should not waste your power or your gift
Let poems explode like thunder from the skies.
Reserve the right to talk about your life
The trailer parks, the hookers, and the wine.
You have the touch, as addicts often do.
Remember Poe, his Raven and his pipe
The madman dreams, distraught, he wrote them down
these were his soul, the rudder for his life.
You are a poet, wear your badge with pride
No matter what bad choices you have made.
It hurts my heart to see you often down
Don't give your power to a phantom dream
We have all sinned and guilt is just a crutch
To break to cinders in a violent wind.

When I think

When I think
about my childhood
I think of
Saturday mornings
and The Super Friends
and three channels
that we changed
with a pair of pliers,
because the knob
had come off
the television
and got lost.

When I think
of my Mom
I think of
tucking in
hugs and kisses
and french toast
for six kids
made with
an entire loaf of
Wonders.

When I think
of my Dad
I think about
the trips down
gravel roads and
Whistle Bridge
and learning to
shoot guns with
open sights.

When I remember my
brothers and sisters
I smile
and recall
freeze tag,
and softball
and all of us playing
together in the yard.

When I think
of you,
when I drink
too much,
I can only recall
the sadness
of losing
you.

What this old thing?

I shoplifted this suit,
not lately,
maybe a couple of years ago.

I went into a Goodwill store
and saw it and thought
"Someday I'll need a suit,
if anyone ever wants to hear
me read, I'll need it."

So I shoplifted this suit,
from Goodwill.

I was broke and hungry,
on my way to shoplift
something to eat
at Kroger.

I somehow got distracted,
by the dream of having
something to say-
of being a writer,
a poet who reads
his words
to enamored crowds
and wins them forever over
with wit and charm,
and deep thoughts-

so I shoplifted this suit.

Teen Redheads and Better Days

Walking the dozen
or so
blocks between
breakfast and
coffee,
killing the day
that comes
before the
library opens it's
loving arms,
I search the faces
in windshields
and those that
frown and hurry
down cement paths.

Looking for
the poem.

Swollen mother clouds
just for a moment
open up and allow
a late winter sun
to peek as well,
and that is when I see you.
It is not you,
of course,
this girl is only
beginning life,
all of her happiness
and heartache,
still just beyond
the tips of her
teen age fingers.
But her red hair
ablaze
in the morning light,
and untamed smile
remind me of you
and the carefree
days of spring.

Passing her by
I stop and look
at my reflection
in a window;
no more punk
haircuts,
or parachute pants.

Just a middle age man,
with unquenchable
memories of days
when my greatest
fears and follies
lay just out of reach.

Birthday Poem

When I logged onto facebook this morning, an old friend had sent me this. He wrote it on his phone so it may have a couple of typos.

 

 

Some say you were a troubled youth,

 then a troubled man.

The darkness that you've travelled through,

 none of us can understand.

 But as we read your inner thoughts,

 your limericks put to page.

 We realize how much you've fought

 and the mileage of your age.

A fight that most would never want

and more could never handle.

 But your a beacon in the night.

 A flame from lifes own candle.

 From city streets and winos;

 to ladies of the night.

You make us see our own defeat;

of when we've not done right.

So as you pass another sign

on this street thats much to true.

As one voice from your distant past;

 a birthday wish to you.

I hope your climb is eased and any wants are met.

When your reach your destiny you've let go of your regrets.

////// Happy Birthday Brother. Whether you realize it or not you are an inspiration.