Nov 2018 · 258
The Quiet Cove
Woody Nov 2018
I walked in and ordered a drink
in a bar called the Quiet Cove
I heard an old Neil Young song
in the background, so I asked the girl
in dark hose if she’d turn up the radio
there was a deaf man playing solitaire
by the stove when a gull flew into
the window, he jumped up right quick
with the King of Hearts in his hand
one eye shut, he said over my dead body.
Woody Oct 2018
In Tennessee where the liquor’s
tax free, the pool halls never close
except on Sundays, until one or so
and you don’t have to look too hard
for a tavern where the music wears sharp
knuckles, and the dancers all dance in
sharp toed boots, you know, I’ll never
leave here where the Creek flows so cold
and sings solo to the chalk-white moon
so full and low, it makes me want to break a rack and shoot without a scratch, an
Eight Ball in my right side pocket, my cue
a rolled up tight Ben Franklin or two. Yo.
;)
Oct 2018 · 198
Holding fast to her mane
Woody Oct 2018
Days, they plod
slowly, like a white horse
leading a dark coach
a hearse down a long road.

Evenings pass by
quickly, I hold fast to her mane
the night sky an appaloosa
given free reign.
Woody Oct 2018
I know that I’m not the only
one who knows how hard it is
to nail down a single heart
black as a roof shingle

But, tomorrow when you beat
the quilt on the bed we once shared
remember the down in the sunlight
because I no longer sleep there

Like I remember those 4 a.m. mornings
promising myself I wouldn’t be mad
until I hear a door slam, bare feet slipping
through the gravel, a truck double clutching tires screeching, the driver laughing

Take a smoke out of his lips flipping it
out the window as I watch it go
all to pieces all over the road.
Woody Oct 2018
Like the snowy white egret
standing alone on one leg
so that you can’t see it
before flashing its reflection
on a mirrored blue pond
after a storm’s come and gone
leaving the condemned
the abandoned shipwrecks
of life, love and misery
one day of silence, two days
of silence, dreams
shattered unprotected
the more you wonder
the more you'll suffer.
Oct 2018 · 518
Where blue tarps go to die
Woody Oct 2018
Munkh Khukh Tengri
The Eternal Blue Sky
as the great Kublai Khan
might have said once upon a time.

No offense intended, mind you
but I sure saw a whole mess of them
go flying by today on their way to
wherever it is that those free cheap
FEMA blue tarps go to die.

You know, the ones they gave away
to poor folks after Hurricane Florence
paid us a visit, oh, maybe a month or so
ago to this very day, to cover the holes
in the tops of their homes while waiting
for that great hope, the check in the mail.

It sure was a cool sight, on such a gray day
all that blue taking flight, like a flock of...
what?  Are there any blue birds that flock?
I’m not sure, not the big Blue Jay, the Big
Blue of the Egret family, nor the Blue Bird
that sometimes sings inside a poet’s heart
or the Indigo Bunting, not even the Blue Gross Beaks that I see at my feeders
occasionally, so, no, not like a flock of
anything that I can think of, OK?

Oh, those pretty blue tarps flying so high
up into The Eternal Blue Sky where they
go when they die, and I know the great
Kublai Khan would have smiled today
and shouted Munkh Khukh Tengri.
Oct 2018 · 430
Ambush
Woody Oct 2018
Night is behind me
reading everything
I’m writing through
a hole in her building
whispering things she
thinks I should be
thinking, but when
I look over my shoulder
all I see is a star shining
through a hole in the screen
making a sound like a hush
but I know Night is still
around here somewhere
watching and waiting
taunting and tempting
like a woman, an ambush.
Woody Oct 2018
Oh, what
a splendid
rabid rabbit
esteemed
Men and Women
have given US
too late to
skin it.
What a long lasting travesty.  But still, we must Resist or be complicit.
Oct 2018 · 1.0k
Like the river comes to love
Woody Oct 2018
I fall in love with you
in my dreams
like the river comes
to love its journey
waking up wet with fog
trying to put my arms
around you, you
who feels like moonlight
abiding in a dark lake
soft as deep water
the empty pillow
beside me like an ache.
Sep 2018 · 826
Soshi in paradise
Woody Sep 2018
So, she said
Baby, don’t feel so alone
you know
one night somebody
gonna come along
strike a match
on a tombstone
and read your name

I laughed so hard
I nearly cried; I really try
not to let it bother me
you know, this feeling
inside, so cold

I remember the deed
she gave me, to
two hills and a cave
paved with gold
it seemed
like  paradise
that warmed me
to the bone

Oh, that girl
Soshi
with black hair
who could balance the moon
on her toes when she
lifted her legs in the air

Holy, holy, holy
Lord *** Almighty
how I miss her eyes
dark as night
when my dreams
are like bark
peeled by lightning.
Sep 2018 · 1.9k
The best of intentions
Woody Sep 2018
Today began with the best
of intentions, I made a list
of all that needs doing:

Sort out receipts for
those things FEMA
will assist with, but hope
is a check in the mail, Yo.

Faith I gave up
a long time ago,
and evaporated milk
in coffee still *****.

(Any if y’all have a cow for sell?
There’s no dairy products or produce
to be found in The Ferry, but plenty
of smokes, alcohol and dope. Go figure)

I YouTube’d how to
replace roof shingles
and now I’ve changed
my resume to Hammer
and Tacs, but No Sycles:
Will Work for Freedom
and Women for Free
Room and Back Rubs
Hot Tubs, Soft Beds,
No Board required.

(Those of a certain sort
of persuasion, of course.) ;)

I even posted online
for work in Amsterdam
or any **** place but here.

(And here is a big **** place.)

****, I’ll even go back to Afghanistan
and repair those errant holes on stone
statues  and clay homes; I’m also quite handy with a trowel and shovel, you know, though I don’t dig hats like Indiana Jones;  no,
no hat man here, me, you see.

(Particularly those tacky red MAGA hats
that remind me how great America once was, and the check’s in the mail, Dreamas)
Yo. A bit of a lightheated post. My best of choring intentions drained out somewhere between Harris Teeter and the pub where I stopped for a cold beer. Tomorrow is Mundy, after all.

It’s Thursdy now and I’m thirsty.  My local pub Blackbeard’s is mostly gone. The Riverview lost her fish house and all shuttered up. McDs doesn’t serve the kind of beverage I need. Still no milk to be found in the Ferry. FEMA came for an inspection of my place. Ha!  10 minutes and on his way. You good, bro, he say. Yo.
Sep 2018 · 712
Birds
Woody Sep 2018
The wind took the song

—along with the birds
and lost them both—

they are too far apart
to play the chords—

I woke to each morning

—now on my back porch
dreaming and smoking—

I’m watching the old seed
in my cedar feeders

—slowly molding
now that it’s Autumn—

in a quiet kind of calm.


Lover
There will be another one
Who'll hover
Over you beneath the sun
Tomorrow
See the things
That never come
Today

When you see me
Fly away without you
Shadow on the things you know
Feathers fall around you
And show you the way to go
It’s over it’s over
NY
Italics **Birds, by Neil Young
From the album After the Gold Rush
1970

https://g.co/kgs/sw31nQ
Woody Sep 2018
Does it matter
the tree the table
is made of?

No, the able carpenter
knows this,
just as the master gardener
has no need to perfume the roses.

It is the quality of the yield
that matters most.

If you see a shadow in the field
with real moonlight shining
on a black crowbar, shhh, be still.

It’s only a poet trying to till;
prying stumps from the ground
on the coldest of dark nights,
listening for the best sound,
eyes glistening, frozen all bright.
Sep 2018 · 2.2k
Like an origami waterspout
Woody Sep 2018
I can see you, woman
in wading
boots, where the moon
comes up right
over there,
while I dream a sleep
with you, like a slow
swim, two vessels afloat
in water that broke
the levees but never
your spell, I swear,
I could stare
at the river that rose
singing songs about flowers
that spilled from your lips
until I wanted to cut out
my heart to sail your way
like an origami waterspout.
Sep 2018 · 486
There’s more to the point
Woody Sep 2018
My tongue is so free, so
silent when I’m drinking
- thinking of all the misery
and swiftly sinking things
of my country, - ‘tis of thee
I am singing even on nights
like these, the moon I keep
with me always, you see, in
my Mother’s locket wrapped
tight in a beautiful Bountiful
white paper towel I stuffed
way down deep in a pocket
of my holey jeans so I can see
those dark clouds up ahead, I
who am always walking through
them with you it seems, children
of the Dream, knowing there is so
much more to the point of a rose
than the blood on his hands, oh,
Bootblack, you know who you are,
you sorry no good *******,
you and your evil momma’s boy
Prence, the night I meet you, I’ll
quit spit-shining boots for a living
forever, resisting your kind of un-
holy blindness in these, our darkest
of days that, you know, lie, ahead.
Resist!
Sep 2018 · 811
After the storm
Woody Sep 2018
After the storm
had crossed
over the coastlands
I found a glove
wondering whose hand
and a child's shoe
with blue laces
still tied
and small, silent
smiley faces.
Holed up in a hotel inland for now waiting Florence out.
Sep 2018 · 2.9k
Stinking up our government
Woody Sep 2018
How they can lie so
still in bed at night
beside their wives,
their husbands, or
lovers or alone, still
sleeping the sleep
of innocence long
gone stinking like
a baby needing a
diaper changing,
don’t ask me, I’ll
be ****** if I know,
I’m not the one
having to hold
my nose closed
trying to sleep
beside one of those
who walk the halls
of pale buildings
the color of bone
that smell like
democracy rotting
away, replaced by
a mad despot sitting
on a porcelain throne
wiping his *** with
our constitution daily
using the same hand
that tweets on his phone?
The Resistance.
Woody Sep 2018
I am a student of night
my teacher, I call her Sleep
she goes by Dreams, too
with closed eyes I memorize
the winding course of the Creek
maps etched on the shed skin
of my silent cousins, the water
moccasins, counting days by
the light of a mesmerizing moon
so as to know the difference
between a field full of headstones
for learning to read names and dates
of old friends engraved, and a wall
of fieldstone for keeping new ones
you make, or just rock for propping
up the corners of a sagging front porch
for shooting the ****, sharing a smoke
or a drink of some cold hard lemonade.
Woody Sep 2018
Tonight, eyes dry as a bone
I went out on the dock alone
and spit at the dark by myself
until the wind broke like a river
in Kansas, that flows through
my heart, still, you know who you are
and the moon came out and played
a tune on its white piano, about you
as the clouds flew by beginning to cry
and the wind blew that spit into my eyes.
For lecomps, where ever you be; be happy and well.
Aug 2018 · 441
O, Moon, you big bonehead
Woody Aug 2018
I’ve been in
the dark woods
for so long
it’s time I
make light
of the moon
so, so long
dead leaves
dying trees
I got to keep
moooving.
Aug 2018 · 1.2k
Sleepless and dreaming
Woody Aug 2018
It is stark outside
through my blinds
and I can feel night’s
fingers going over my letters
like a fortune teller
of sinister signs who is
wooing the fullness
of the coastland’s moon
braiding the wind through
my window letting in
the cold palms of darkness
while I am lying here awake
in wait for you whoever
you are, casting your shadow
beneath the dying light
of a fairly good star.
0333, 27 August 2018
Aug 2018 · 948
Old dog, Sorrow
Woody Aug 2018
Tonight, just listening,
leaning up against
an old fence post,
watching tbe moon roll
down the dark road
slow as a sadness
that’s been in bed
for twenty centuries
while old sorrow,
that sick yellow dog,
keeps the grass chewed
down low around
a young boy’s head stone.
Woody Aug 2018
A caw-
ing of birds
with blunt
-ed beaks
and clip-
ped wings
that can’t fly
or sing
worth a lick
-ety split
always
pick-
ing and peck
-ing a-way
at the best
chirp-
ing inside
a chest
-full of
beat-
ing Blue
-birds'
heart-
felt art
-tistic
songs in-
stead
of sing
-ing along
think-
ing they
know better
than
-   the rest?
This in response to the deletion of a great and true HP Poet’s account tonight as a result of constant harassment by at last count 13 *******, iealous, couldn’t write a decent poem if the male har-***-ers tripped over their ****** ****** and the idiotic wagging female tongues who all took part in this. You know who you are. This harassment was reported to HP and to Eliot directly without the courtesy of a reaponse, and without action to curb it. The creation of monitors was a total waste of time. Many of you know her as Vicki. I’m sick of this kind of **** done by supposed adults, and sickened most of all by HP’s allowing this to continue even after multiple messages. As far as I’m concerned, the Guidelines and the so-called monitors aren’t worth a ******* dime. Which is exactly 10 cents more than I’ll ever again contribute to HP.  Go ahead and lock me ip, put me in the corner for awhile, or expel me. I don’t care. Maybe  we will see if the monitors are paying attention at all, or just another silly myth. If you’re a monitor and reading this, I would like to hear your thoughts after you wake the **** up.
Most Sincerely,
Me
Aug 2018 · 2.3k
Storming precisely
Woody Aug 2018
The clock struck something
deep in the Creek, my brother
said it’s nothing, keep dreaming,
he didn’t notice the hour for
the lamp-smoke, our power
was out, you see, and all
I could hear was the roiling
water of the storm, the unsettling
wind on the roof, like kettles
filled with boiling red men,
they were all grinning
and talking precisely, like
the foot of a newborn, or
stripes on a snake, marveling
at the grace, the ***** form
of my father’s guitar playing
the blues like only the dark
clouds before morning can do.
Aug 2018 · 12.7k
Flight of the bone moth
Woody Aug 2018
Do not listen to hunting dogs
baying in dark woods, or the black
flies buzzing around in your head
remembering long dead friends

Poets have done this before
and they’ve wandered off
alone and unheard of to bury
the caul of their own stillborn

Every time I open a bottle
of red wine, the bad Moon
dowses blood from the ******’s
stone thighs and I think I am
handsome, young and drunk
again, eternal as a ****

Poets have made love and gathered
at the cheap joints, cutting their fingers
toasting one another, curse words
hidden deep beneath low breaths
and the noise of a singer’s raspy voice

They’ve gotten cold feet
at the crucial moments when
left alone with the student
that had the saddest blue eyes

Poets have done this before,
I assure you, my friends

Every time I see a young man
tucking a gun in the back of his pants
I want to say forget it and drink
or have a seat, my brother, let’s rap

Poets have done this before,
I seen it behind dark eyes at night

We are but dust under the hooves
of horses running side by side
with the fog, thinking all that moves
us to write is something new, like light
that shines for the lonely bone moth

Poets have done this before

I know it like the cigarette holes
she burned through my tablecloth
on those cold nights she spent writing,
like her cough I could hear, so long
a time ago, I’d rather not remember.
interesting. Those disappearing downward thumbs skurrying away like rats.
Woody Aug 2018
Donald J. Trump,
POTUS.
Poor us.
Apologies to Master Poet Neruda.

The Resistance
Aug 2018 · 601
A Hungerin’
Woody Aug 2018
The dark skinned tenant farmer
sleepless, hungry, yawning
rocking on a rickety porch
near midnight staring wide-
eyed at the sky and full moon
thinking not dreaming of a black
dinner bell, a large bright white
house, like an empty china plate
with no supper laid out, loud
skinny dog growling at the sour
smell of a certain kind of fate
carried on a southerly wind
just enough to make tired old
cotton picking men feel cold
and full of a poor man’s hate.
Aug 2018 · 1.2k
An absence of light
Woody Aug 2018
When I go out at night
and the light is gone,
the moon waiting to take me
home has eclipsed all, and
all that I am left with are these
empty hands and no direction,
when I was only hoping
for a prayer, here by the ocean,
alone with the lowing tide,
where all I find is absence,
a sadness, no substance, no
sustenance, no alms, no raised
palms, only a calm kind of
a quiet sort of nothingness.
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