Woody Oct 26
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 23 · 174
Holding fast to her mane
Woody Oct 23
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 23
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 15
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.
Woody Oct 12
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 10 · 398
Woody Oct 10
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 7
Oh, what
a splendid
rabid rabbit
Men and Women
have given US
too late to
skin it.
What a long lasting travesty.  But still, we must Resist or be complicit.
Woody Oct 4
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 29 · 652
Soshi in paradise
Woody Sep 29
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
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 23 · 1.2k
The best of intentions
Woody Sep 23
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 22 · 527
Woody Sep 22
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.

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

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
Italics **Birds, by Neil Young
From the album After the Gold Rush

Woody Sep 20
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.
Woody Sep 16
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.
Woody Sep 16
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.
Sep 14 · 662
After the storm
Woody Sep 14
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.
Woody Sep 7
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 4
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 1
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.
Woody Aug 30
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
Aug 27 · 1.0k
Sleepless and dreaming
Woody Aug 27
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 24 · 861
Old dog, Sorrow
Woody Aug 24
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 15
A caw-
ing of birds
with blunt
-ed beaks
and clip-
ped wings
that can’t fly
or sing
worth a lick
-ety split
ing and peck
-ing a-way
at the best
ing inside
a chest
-full of
ing Blue
felt art
songs in-
of sing
-ing along
ing they
know better
-   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,
Aug 13 · 2.0k
Storming precisely
Woody Aug 13
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 9 · 10.0k
Flight of the bone moth
Woody Aug 9
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 7
Donald J. Trump,
Poor us.
Apologies to Master Poet Neruda.

The Resistance
Aug 5 · 560
A Hungerin’
Woody Aug 5
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 2 · 1.2k
An absence of light
Woody Aug 2
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.
Woody Aug 1
The unnatural light
on this last dusk of July
sends the grackles
into the cedars
rattling their wings
in the evergreens
making a sound
like Ishmael did
casting his bones
around the deck
of Ahab’s ship.
Jul 31 · 249
Stomping mean
Woody Jul 31
A sour ****, too
old to be wearing
dark mascara
and fishnet hose,
got out of a car at a fair
somewhere she didn’t know
and swatted a firefly
right out of the air,
stomped it to death,
mean old *****,
you could tell
she wasn't from ‘round
here, I know,
I was there,
what a wretched
old witch she is
wherever she be by now,
stomping mean
and dark as a hole
below an outhouse.
Jul 27 · 2.2k
The weight of regrets
Woody Jul 27
I was somewhere
in Tennessee,
a much younger me,
it was there I didn’t hear
someone trying to say
I love you, please don’t leave me here,
but I was packing for a journey
in great haste, as always,
never having time to spare,
leaving behind me
all the weight I could not carry,
I was on my way, you see,
drums and trumpets calling,
my world was thunder
and lightning, my eyes fixed
on a far off place, but my progress
has been discouraging of late,
my backpack heavy with regrets,
perhaps I should turn back,
not the clock, too late for that,
I think I know the way,
and if not, well, time will tell,
maybe the stars will help,
or the river, a stone may
have someting to say to me,
hopefully, I’ll hear that voice
again and will not tarry,
now that I know what it is
that I should leave behind here
in this *** forsaken place,
and what it was like back then
and there from which I never
should have ever strayed
or stayed away for so long a time,
I can’t even remember
the sorrow I left on her face.
Woody Jul 25
I’m old enough to remember when
coyotes all lived west of Memphis,
Tennessee, and the sheep ranchers in
Skull Valley, Utah, still paid a twenty
dollar bounty for a perfectly matched
pair of ears, not that I ever shot at any
of the gods’ four-legged creatures, but
by ***, those two-legged primates with opposable thumbs that shot at me, I sure as **** shot back, (although counting
coup by taking two ears that walked on two legs was frowned upon, even then,
as far back as I went, by Generals and
the public in general, I think), anyway,
the point I was trying to make is just this: just when and why and how(l) did the coyotes decide to cross the mighty Mississipp into Memphis as I mentioned sometime back before I digressed about the opposable thumbs and guns and counting coup and such ridiculousness, but still, the question remains and I’m quite perplexed about the spread of four-legged varmints more-so than the two-
legged illegal aliens in search of safer harbors and their children, caged up like so much vermin and varmints that Trump
and his angry too much Mussolini in his heart and hair, his hateful MAGA red-hatted, conceal-carry permitted redneck backers, Putin and his Russian hackers, and here I go again, oh boy, I swear I only wanted to know if coyotes spread so far east to howl at a new moon rising out of the Atlantic, and if they sought asylum, would Trump separate the pups from their Moms and Pops or build a wall along the Arkansas side of the mighty Mississippi, while I listen to those dreaming coyotes howl and call out to a new moon rising
up and out of my Atlantic like a welcoming sign for all coyotes to come and sit high on the dunes waiting and watching for a compassionate new moon shining free?
Oh, ccome on. Even if you’re totally ambivalent, or gods forbid, for Trump, can’t y’all at lest find some humor in these not so harmonious times?
Jul 24 · 417
Time, that old drifter
Woody Jul 24
My days are in
the yellow leaves,
you know what I mean,
and I mean to do
some serious drinking
down by the river
that never runs dry,
like time, that old drifter,
thinking about some things
I still don’t know about,
maybe sing some
songs sung in echoes
that lie in the dark cave
of fate, until the great
long pain of winter comes
with his cold winds
to carry me
down to ride on
the endless waves of time.
Jul 22 · 277
Choctaw dreams
Woody Jul 22
There once were wagons
crossing the plains
cutting ruts in the earth,
crushing the tallgrass prarie
stems the buffalo ate,
a Choctaw woman dreamt
in a tent of her warrior
riding hard in the morning
never to return, I know this
to be true, why the sky is blue,
and the dove forever mourning.
Woody Jul 21
I hear nothing but the rain
tonight, the moon
is hiding away in the great
catacombs of the sky,
that old hangman,
trying to tie a black cloth
over my eyes, blocking
out any starlight that might
slip through his noose, I
think I’ll just sleep and dream
of strong limbs on women
and a short wet sycamore tree.
Woody Jul 20
Some nights I see her
all wet from the moon
wearing dew in her hair
damp and quiet, standing
back in the shadows
like despair, a bird sick
of its tree, a dark cigarette
in her lips, staring down
from the bridge, she is
a reflection of her own misery,
alone with the river, and me
dreaming of a blue, blue sea.
Woody Jul 17
Lost glove found - I wonder whose hand?

Remember, one line poems only; ergo, uni - verse.
Jul 16 · 367
Woody Jul 16
I think of her
every now and again
the dark haired woman
in the choir
from my father’s church
who wore a red robe
and seduced me
at a tender young age
but what I remember most
was how her eyebrows rose
blue eyes flashing
beneath a cross of ashes
and how she sang oh
so very well.
Jul 16 · 401
Unmade bed
Woody Jul 16
If I had a fifth I’d drink it
or felt your guilt
I’d plead it
and I’ll take the blame
if it’s all the same
to you for locking myself
away in this cell with a bed
that you unmade and left
that way for me to straighten
out whatever this is
all about, I’ll be ******
if I know, ****** if I do
and ****** if I don’t.
Woody Jul 15
I've peered through a glass
or two that with a slight twirl
made visible the swirl
that makes life feel all glasnosty
and toasty when you're tanked,
and thank you to Boris
for showing us the power
of Stolichnaya now
that the cold war is over
and we're all stuck with Trump,
it just goes to show you
we should choose our poison
well, comrades, before we drink
from Putin’s cup and sell
out our country for a wild night
in the Presidential Suite
of a swanky Moscow hotel.
Notes from The Resistance.

(I hope they changed the sheets.)
Jul 14 · 419
Silver spoon
Woody Jul 14
A dark cloud covers the moon
like Black Sea caviar on a *******
that soon will lie on your tongue
- a host, a silver spoon, a toast -
a litre of Stolichnaya spilled cold
onto your lap, like crying children
taken from their mothers, scared -
scarred, forgotten, but history will
remember to spit upon your name.
Angry orange hair - Too much Mussolini
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