SAY HIS NAME

dVerse Poets Pub

He is heading out

for open road,

 big rig humming.

Thanksgiving morning.

The day is crisp and clear.

He will eat his holiday dinner

at some truck stop,

where his banter with the waitress--

a kindred spirit--

will be about keeping the world running

while the rest of 'em

spend the day gettin' fat and happy.

In a while,

he will put in a call to Janie and the kids.

They'll be over at mom's today.

In their pre-meal prayer,

they will say his name.

And yes, he is thankful.

Hell...lucky to have a job at all

the way things are going.

The road snakes on to somewhere

anywhere

nowhere.

And the holiday travelers

blow past him,

just another obstacle

in the way

on the way

to their overindulgence.

He remembers how,

in the beginning,

he thought this would be

a romantic kind of life.

But as he looks out now,

across the endless expanse,

he is struck by the thought

that it's kinda like

gazing at the moon

in daylight.

AFTERWORD

He's just a nondescript dude
 more polite than most
 no need for posturing
at this stage of the game

The one he's not playing

Saw him at the theater
saw him at the school
saw him at the cafe
in the booth
so calm and cool

Think you're a tough guy
and he looks like a pushover
maybe have a little fun
maybe heap some abuse
but you've just drawn to
the worst hand of your life
with the one you never should choose

Talkin bout the man with nothing to lose

Your woman
your job
your booze
will keep you playing the game
by somebody else's rules
and you'll always stop short
of the things he might choose

That man with nothing to lose

Who knows when
the proverbial straw
came into play
suffice it to say
that life has been exposed
as a game for fools
and he is no longer playing
by anyone's rules

When life's no longer
what it seems
you walk along in a dream
a slow motion movie
where there is no sound
and people's eyes appear
to be screaming
and you wonder
in a curious way
if it has anything to do
with you

Saw him at the theater
saw him at the school
saw him at the cafe
in the booth
so calm and cool

And afterward
the afterword
is how did we fail him
but that's easy because
day by day
and each and every day
we shuffle along in a dream
where we wanted to reach out
we had it in our minds
to reach out
we had it on our agenda
to reach out
we had it on our calendar
to reach out
but somehow
we just didn't
and so it's easy to discern
just where we went wrong
my friend
cuz day after day
and each and every day
we
have
all
failed
to
love

JUST VAMPING

Bats roll

buzzards troll

freaks plague

your tormented soul

and we are waiting.

We dance by day

we dance by night

here to give you

such a fright

and we are waiting.

Brothers and sisters

we are waiting.

mothers and fathers

we are waiting.

sons and daughters

we are waiting.

sons of bitches

we are waiting.

Angels and whores trade places

in a moonlit masquerade.

Zombies dance

without any pants.

And we are waiting...

for THE NIGHT !

THE WINDS OF CHANGE BLEND WITH AUTUMN ZEPHYRS SIGHING (collaborative poem from Sanaa Rizvi and Timoteo)

HE IS CREAM...SHE IS CHEESE...
WHAT A SPECTACULAR COMBINATION!

Sanaa and I began talking a few weeks ago and seemed to really hit it off. We discovered that we share the love of autumn, and so the poem before you quickly began to unfold. We hope you enjoy it and look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments.

When the gales of November come early

I’m a total wreck 

wind knocked out of my sails

but I’ve set a course for 

The Sea Of Tranquility

and I’ll be there 

when that big moon 

sweeps these storms from my heart.

Now these clouds

cold, mean and gray sideways rain

point toward the dark road 

my mind is travelling in,

the bruising of November 

teaches one about existence, its brevity 

I wonder if the moon knows time

and course, as leaves curl in colors of Fall.

There is a melancholy vibe 

this time of year--

I can feel it in the forced gaiety 

beginning to build 

as I swim through the crowd, rudderless,

like a paper boat adrift on the breeze,

and for small moments

I will succumb to the mass hypnosis

With wild berries clinging for support,

I observe the breeze, 

an unseen one act nearly farce

painstakingly scrape to leave a patch of stillness

uncovered for a short while,

my lips are stained with the thought of woe

prevalent

hauling one to a place where light cannot reach.

But I’ve had it with these subterranean homesick blues.

I shall emerge from these depths--

the mole in your midst 

burrowing to the sun.

The world is fraught with overt boogeymen.

They cannot frighten survivors

who’ve been to scarier places in their own minds 

than your sardonic smile could ever intimate. 

Let this be the end 

as air’s imbued with wet leaves and contemplation

is a swirl of mist;

a sliver of dark orange disseminating doldrums.

My faith akin to myriad of stones 

that become the shade of highway that lies 

unruffled behind them-- 

I witness the break of day and run forth to embrace.  

Springs and autumns flash by in an instant.

I make a wish and the universe 

rains its poetry down upon me.

To embrace both the darkness and

the light within us is the way of understanding.

November brings the winds of change.

I stand in the awe-filled silence

waiting to feel its sharp graze against my cheek.

I could watch them a while, this feeling that blends 

with fall foliage

for when struck with the right note of sobriety 

even the most dismal of life’s turns are rendered facile. 

The hour smiles and extends its hand to me,

as rain conjures a delicate pattern 

upon my skin 

and the winds of change blend with autumn zephyrs sighing. 

GOD BLESS

3 a.m. on a Sunday
and I'm tradin' sleep for a poem

thinking 'bout all the folks
who will don their Sunday finery
to hang out in a pew
with you and you and you
and you
still don't get it
that your soul is immortal
and not in need of savin'

but sure
I get it
it's a sense of comm
unity
we gather together to ask 
the Lord's blessing

and even though I'm fallin' apart
in my decrepitude
I'm good to go with all of that
don't feel the need
cuz a coupla peeps singing loudly off key
on either side of me
isn't exactly what I call "inspirational"

having said all that
I'll admit I've prayed before
but it's always been 
a white-knuckled
get me out of this freakin' jam
kinda thing 
and by god 
somehow...
somehow...

so let me say that if you don't feel 
a connection
with something larger than
your own ego
whatever you wanna call it
then I have to wonder about ya
as in how did you miss it?
(ah--your head was buried in your phone!)

goddamn

my pen is running out of ink
so I guess I'll close for now
but it's been nice chatting with you
and if you don't mind 
I'd rather not ruin my rep
as heathen in good standing
so let's just keep all this stuff
between you and me

God bless

GROUNDED

For Wild Friday at Poets United. Inspired by James Wright (1927-1980) and his poetry collection: Shall We Gather At The River.

A sense of place is a good thing.
A grounding thing.
A sense of time and place means
You remember things that
Have touched you deeply.

Deeply enough to lay 
The groundwork for a poem.

He was rooted in time and place
Like no one I ever read.
Out of the way places.
Lonely places. 

Daybreak beginning to fall on Idaho.

A discontinued railroad station
In Fargo, North Dakota.

The oldest whorehouse 
In Wheeling, West Virginia.

(No mention if they were the oldest whores.)

He understood the poet's mission 
was to take what has stirred 
(or maybe shaken) you,
And pay it forward.
Poignant and plain spoken, he came
from a time and a place
where some things still made sense.

Some still remember. 

LITTLE BOX

For Sanaa's prompt on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads --inspired by Pink's "Hurts 2B Human"

It's getting harder
to be human
when to leave my comment
on your poem
I must prove
I'm not a robot

No easy feat
these days
when it's come down to
a set of rules 
a set of laws
not divine laws
(and not your in-laws)
but decrees laid down
by mortals
often with dubious aims
and dark agendas
but by god now they're set in stone
and we will follow them
to the letter
as we chant

Send them back!
Send them back!

Just like what you want me
to prove that I'm not 
and though it walks
and talks
and seems almost like a person
the human element
(unfortunately)
could not be programmed in
so before you check 
that little box 
look deep inside your heart
take a moment 
and ask yourself...

Where is the proof  
that I'm not a robot?

MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

dVerse Poetry Pub

Used to sometimes drop into
The Maverick Bar
just for the hell of it--
back in the day
it was the premier country-western 
spot in town for two steppers
and two timers lookin' to hook up.

One night as I was leavin' there
sitting in my car
these two drunk chicks
came stumbling out.
They were lookin' for a ride
and I would have obliged them
in one way or another.

One of them poked her head 
with all that teased blonde hair 
inside my open passenger side window
and got a bead on me,
sizing me up as best she could
for the state she was in (Arizona).

And then she said to her friend:
Why hell, Betty Sue...
he ain't even a COWBOY!

And as they tottered off in search
of a big Stetson hat
and whatever else might come 
along with that package 
I said to myself:

No, pardner...
you sure ain't no cowboy.

At least you got that goin' for ya.

THREE'S A CROWD

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--dVerse Poets Pub

Went to the supermarket 
and you can't even turn around 
without bumping into some body...

Fuken people!

they're everywhere

and the source of all our grief.

Cuz if it were just you and me

there'd be no worry about the economy

we'd barter straight up

one to one

no need for tariffs 

as we'd know each other better 

than anyone else in the world and

trust that we weren't trying

to screw each other over.

If it were just you and me

the skies would be clear 
and the oceans would be clean

and all the methane gas that goes into the 

atmosphere from all the cows and everyone

else farting up a storm wouldn't exist

we'd eat from nature's bounty

brimming on the trees and the vines.

And the murder rate would be way down

no assault weapons

cuz nobody to assault

I could bonk you over the head

with my club if you got really out of line

but you'd be okay.

No white supremacists cuz

having originated from 

somewhere over there in Africa

you and I would be

brown as berries 

(and just as juicy I might add).

Don't dismiss these words out of hand cuz

all the world's major problems

can be traced back to too many 

fuken people

but there's nothing to be done about it now

'cept try to be civil

and don't turn around abruptly in the market

and bump into some old lady

who'll give you the nastiest look

like she thinks you shouldn't even exist.

THE ONLY CONCRETE THINGS IN LIFE

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--dVerse Poets Pub

An encore presentation from about three years back. I know that some of you haven't seen it. 

Sidewalks speak
of cig butts and spittle,
old women in door stoops,
poetry cafes and musty smelling bookshops--
the clack of high heels,
the cadence of raindrops,
and children running.

Sidewalks speak
of jackhammers, sirens, and horns--
of just before,
and the moment after,
the corner store
and the ring of laughter.

Sidewalks speak
of dog shit, baby carriages, and
ice cream cones melting in the sun.
Of epithets hurled, flags unfurled,
five o'clock shadows, gutters,
teenagers on the run.

Sidewalks speak
of swirling lights
painted faces
and tango dancers.
Sidewalks speak...
but no one answers.

Sidewalks caution:
WATCH YOUR STEP!
for the road twists and bends.

Life is a nameless corner
where the sidewalk ends.