13.0k · Jun 4
40 acres of sorrow
Woody Jun 4
I still dream of my father
crossing the pastures
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sorrow
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
turning one last time as
if to say: so long my son
there’s going to be days
of sunshine and plenty
more of rain as he went
along his way, and my
sadness waved back like
grain in fields of long past
summers and summers
before that, so long a time
ago I can remember only
on lonely nights of heat
lightning and the low
rumble of distant thunder.
A nice surprise on this Monday evening.  Thank you all very much for your reading and very nice comments. Please know that I appreciate all of you and your kind words. Thank you.

* To Ravinder Kumar Soni: Opinion entitled to and noted. Thanks for taking the time to read.
10.0k · Aug 9
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 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
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
8.8k · Jun 2017
O, white boat
Woody Jun 2017
O**,white boat
of moonrise
sailing my way
I'll give up on sorrow
tonight if you'll take
tomorrow's away.
O, thank you, poets.
#o
Woody Dec 2017
My dreams are
darker than the holler
on a moonless night
and deeper
than the water
in the creek that flows
so cold
inside of me

I need that girl
from Doe Valley
the one called Sally
that I used to see
along the road
the other side
of Iron Mountain
to lie warm beside of me

The one who made me smile
for a little while
and kissed me on my lips
when her Pop was on a trip
selling his crops
while her Mom shopped
over in Mountain City

But those days are gone
and the holler's still long
and dark most nights
when the creek is quiet
and the cold cuts through
my coat when the moon
forgets to shine on Doe Valley.
Thanks, y'all.
7.7k · Nov 2016
Lost dreams
Woody Nov 2016
On a black night
one cold November
the lost Buffalo Soldier
came back to his home
and found his family
dead and gone, white
people were living
in his house with chickens
even though his name
was still scratched on
the prow of the mailbox,
so he unbuttoned his shirt
and waited in the fields
until the moon came up
and shined in the shaving mirror
nailed to a post on the porch
while he smoked remembering
all you have to do is dream
the old king had told him.
Alt-right ain't alright.
6.9k · Jun 2016
No good boots
Woody Jun 2016
Nobody knows how to love
the pain of a poet

Their melancholy grows
on trees and on stones

Forever is tomorrow
and never ever shines

We choke on their sorrow
one bone at a time

Where they come from
hurt and desire burn like fire

They walk through a field of briars
all quiet and aloof

Too proud and too poor
to buy good boots.
Thank you all. 6/17/16
6.5k · Jan 2016
Arborglyphs
Woody Jan 2016
She left me love notes
carved on the aspens

Writing was her passion
and her letters long lasting

leaving traces of jasmine in the air

Her family was Basque
and she wrote her notes in Euskara

I'd find them in the fall
and trace the xs with my fingers

Sometimes I'd linger
hoping to meet her

The daughter of a shepherd
who loved me.
Thanks all.  I appreciate the hearts and nice comments. 1/7/16
4.9k · Apr 2016
Cooking
Woody Apr 2016
I saw you looking
at my hair when I
was busy cooking
and you were drinking
rye whiskey with me
while I wondered
if you were pondering
fifty shades of gray
because of the way
your breathing quickened
when I said *sit down now.
;)
Woody Jan 10
It feels like rain
and I'm dreaming
again, my feet in
your soft lap
listening to
the tappity-tap
of our song on
your tin roof
while you're darning,
sweet darling
the holes in my socks
that I'm still wearing
I swear, your touch
is gentle as the drops
raining down on me
love, don't ever stop
raining down on me.
2.9k · Feb 2016
Blue saxophone of the wind
Woody Feb 2016
Out over the bay
I can hear the moon
in his black beret
playing a dark tune
on the blue saxophone
of the wind as the rain
cries down my window.
In honor of james' black beret.

http://hellopoetry.com/Imrie/
2.8k · Mar 2016
Gethsemane
Woody Mar 2016
When I can't write
I feel like a block of stone
dreaming alone of nothing

A boat without eyes
for the oars
and no horizon

A deaf man without ears
for the birdsong

Like a beggar in the garden
of Gethsemane holding up
an empty cup; just sayin

In anguish; where art thou?
My words
have betrayed me.
Empty cup.
2.7k · Dec 2015
Shrapnel
Woody Dec 2015
I left
a piece
of me with you

a wound
within a wound
barbed and hot-wired

wound 'round and 'round
cauterizin' and baptizin'
with fire

can you feel me?
2.7k · Feb 2016
Whiskey
Woody Feb 2016
I saw his face through my glass.
A shaman's mask with ice cubed
teeth whispering cold death. His
whiskey breath a drunken fog
rolling over my head. Lost in the
depth of his eyes when the bone
moon fell from the sky, I woke
to the thunder of a thousand lies.
For Jo.
2.6k · Jan 2016
Cricket
Woody Jan 2016
Night is a black cricket.
A stranger passing by
like the moon. Shadow
of a hat at your window.
Dark seeping into your room.
A black suit laid out before
you. Shiny black shoes.
Black belly of a guitar
playing a blind man's blues.
Woody Apr 22
If only I could
cleanse you of your sadness,
clear it like the dirt
from a grave diggers fingernails
after a day spent singing
to the bones laid still.

Steal from you this sorrow,
rob it like the gold coins
rattling in the old chests;
spill it in the streets
and watch poor men rejoice.

I could be the thief of untold
heartache, and the water
needed to wash it clean.

I could be the bones that sing
back from the dirt unsettled,
the light shining from the cleansed
side of the gold buried deep
inside the heart of your earth.
Woody Apr 2016
I said
Baby, do you think I should change
the picture on my profile

It's been awhile

She said
You mean the pretentious one

I said
That's not pretentious, baby
That's photogenic
Kind of...Kardashian

She said
I know, suga
It's hard to hide your badass
when it sticks out like a sore thumb.
2.4k · Jul 2016
A place for winter
Woody Jul 2016
Her body was a garden
of subdued light,
a place for winter
to begin, a place
for getting to know her,
the sloped edges of her eyes
shaped by the moon,
entries and curves,
a sad calamity,
dogwood blossoms
falling on her hair
like another woman
lost and cold in the snow.
2.4k · May 2017
The slow boogie
Woody May 2017
Death is fond of the double entendre

I for one am reminded of butterflies
and snow blowing off pines

Death controls the journey

the fare and itinerary
surrounding you
like a lock and dam

so don't let Death catch you
listening to the ground,  even
a place that sounds like home

It could be Death

holding a quitclaim deed
a quiet title
to the land your loved ones walked

Death, for instance,  was looking
to coldcock my brother
who thought he could pull a fast one
not drinking whiskey or raising ****

Death dances a slow boogie

even the awkward can follow
where He leads
if you try to forget

Death ties a string around your finger

regrets come as a surprise
if you don't know what's cooking
when Death's bread rises
out of its grave

That tradewind called Death

gentle as children in night clothes
fighting with pillows so quiet
not a soul is wakend

even if you listen you won't hear
the thunder coming like a train on a track
though He may signal ahead

Death is a fast one, his time flies

so that half-dollar you brought to flatten
lifted from your dead father's eyes
ain't worth a nickel when Death happens
to catch you by surprise.
2.4k · Mar 11
Night lights
Woody Mar 11
A ***** standing
on a corner
blowing smoke
in the dark

The undertaker
waiting on the headlights
turning up the drive
a drink with ice
rattling in his hands

Someone turns a light on
in a house down the road
it must be a man
going over all the words
he ever spoke
all the fields he ever left
on his way to open a door

Away from our homes
and on roads
we thought we knew
holding a light for a stranger

A woman in the moonlight
wading a river
raising her dress
above her white thighs
but the gully is dry
it hasn't rained in forty nights.
2.4k · May 2016
Indigo dragonfly
Woody May 2016
Night comes on fast
like a black man tap-
tap dancing, like a woman
in tight jeans that last
and last, like an indigo
dragonfly in the spring
with its *** curled up high
as the moon in a blue-black sky.
2.4k · Oct 2016
Seed
Woody Oct 2016
I think of simple things
of the spirit, the last rites
we all know as lovers
who go to bed having a child
in mind, waking when it is over,
and if I forget my vagueness
while describing the rose
and happen to bring it to ruin,
I will not cling like a vine
or be a burden like a stone,
a crow on the horizon,
nor the calligraphy of seed
carved by the knife of my need,
I will not sing a sad song
to that son for whom I bleed.
2.3k · Jan 2016
Silk
Woody Jan 2016
She brings me rain
to cool my brow.
And every now and then
she'll spin around
like a ceiling fan.
I like the little dance
she moves to. Like wind
through my window
lifting a white silk curtain.
2.3k · Mar 2016
Absolut(ion)
Woody Mar 2016
When death comes looking
for you, a man doesn't hide
away in the night or wait
for the moon to throw knives
at the heart of his shadow.

He dresses in a clean white shirt,
a dark suit and black shoes
and walks the long walk
to the far bar for a short shot
of Absolut(e) truth with a toast
chased by a stale *******
that tastes like the holy ghost.

He shuts his eyes and speaks
of younger days, wayward ways,
and a daughter who sleeps
the deep sleep of blue water.

Then a man wades into the sea
to see what death has to say
to a man who never gave
a good ******* anyway.
Woody Oct 2016
Some sleepy mornings
riding that yellow bus
on my way to school
I would daydream
of my grandfather
I never knew, Macchu Picchu,
who lived in a stone hut
way up in the mountains of Peru,
and I would wave to him
as he passed by on the back
of an alpaca, or a llama
or something like that
on his way to work,
and he would wave, too,
smiling like my momma
used to smile when I told her
I saw grandpa this morning.
2.3k · Jan 2016
The potter
Woody Jan 2016
One look, a thousand words
Her eyes a manifesto
A deep, deep ocean blue

Her lips sing silver liquid fire
Songbirds stop and listen
Songs of love and intuition

Her fingers trace and shape with grace
And from the earth her stories told
Touching hands, hard yet soft like gold

That hold and mold,
and wash my clay.
2.2k · Mar 2017
Wild pony
Woody Mar 2017
Standing alone
dragging on
a cigarette
for a pen
writing
sad poems
to the moon
and the smoke
makes nice Os
and lassoes
a lone star
like a wild pony
I wanted
to ride hard
and fast once
across the dark
deserted desert
of your heart.
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.
2.2k · Jul 27
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.
2.2k · Jan 2016
Ghost breath
Woody Jan 2016
It's hard not to think of death in the winter
when you see ghosts in every breath and bitter
winds pierce your center like icy splinters.

I started a fire burning bridges on the pyre
of last year's desires but cold hard facts don't expire
and the outlook is dire according to the town crier.

It's not my aim to hold my feet to the flame
if it's all the same cold dismal place name
we claim at the end of the waiting game

as I blow ghost breath on a cold winter's morning.
2.2k · May 2016
Who buries the elephant?
Woody May 2016
The stranger,
the undertaker
smoothing your clothes
taken from the trunk
at the cemetery of regrets
asking, who will bury
the elephant in the room
when last requests means
nothing to death, making
a fuss with his broom,
putting up such a stink.
2.1k · Mar 2016
Sea Rose
Woody Mar 2016
Some nights my heart
toils in the black soil

A flower grows
then dies from the cold

Tonight my heart floats
like the moon in a dark cove

Like a boat
named for a dead Rose.
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.
2.1k · Dec 2015
Polyglot
Woody Dec 2015
She spoke her mind in six languages
her mother tongue Athabascan
her father's Uto-Aztecan

with a touch of tobascan
and a knife in her boot.

She sang in Mescalero
when I came to visit
by the light of a Jicarilla moon.
2.1k · Mar 2017
The Lyin' King
Woody Mar 2017
Instead of a roar
he tweets like a bird
early in the morn
his bedhead orangely
absurd cloaked in a golden
bathrobe his mouthpiece
says he doesn't own
as he twitters away
while sitting on the throne
wiping his ****
with one hand
while thumbing his iPhone
with the other
the lyin' king Trump
that *******
spending his weekends
in his south Florida castle
taking care of his business
instead of the peoples'
in the White House
that he doesn't deserve.
2.0k · Jan 2016
Mustang
Woody Jan 2016
I get all tangled up in your hopes
and roped to your expectations

Some hosses need breaking
for working and staking
but not for *******

I know we've spoken about this notion
but I'm feeling ******* to your hogan
and broken still feels broken

So if you really loved me
you'd slap this Pawnee
and let me run free.
2.0k · Feb 2016
Moth
Woody Feb 2016
Face against the screen
breathing cool air
like the bottom of my pillow
like an Icelandic well
like a Nietzsche abyss
like a black leather glove
like a moth on my nose
singing shiny happy people.
REM
Woody Mar 2016
Night is nothing
but the small shadow
a tired man casts
when he bends down
to take off his boots

As you can see
I have the blues

I believe the farmer
who stays awake all night
sacking his mind like oats
for a name for a new colt
is more a poet than most

It's about time the white men
get wise to the blue guitars
of the dark night

I've been called a two-timer
and a drifter, a singer of sad songs
so I won't ask you to stay long

I don't want anyone else to get
two steps too close to my blues

If we have to meet, then
let us meet like smoke,
yes, let us chop the kindling
of our childhood once more

But those days are gone
for better or worse

So if we meet at all,
whoever you are, let us
meet like two horses
smelling one another out
before they mate.
Woody Mar 2017
I was slow
at knowing
that the times
we can bat
our eyelids
are not infinite
and I remember
quite well
the way that I felt
on the day
that my brother
passed on
there was a mirage
of sound
late one evening
when the blind
eye of the moon
welled up
as I laced my boots
with sinew
and walked through
the darkness
to let the stars shine
on the blade
of my knife that cut
deep along
my lifeline
and the blood
from my palms
read like
the Psalms
of comfort that could
not find its way
through the hay
of the high
pasture
on that long night
not so
very long ago.
2.0k · Apr 2016
Kismet
Woody Apr 2016
Death doesn't **** around
when she comes to visit.
Her kiss is a dark kismet,
and her pale lips go well
behind her black veil.
She whispers her secrets
in a dead language now
vanquished from the living.
She's an unforgiving mistress;
an artist who draws
your last breath. Death
can paint the town red
or sneak down the dark
alley of your quiet bed.
2.0k · Aug 13
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.
2.0k · Sep 2016
Death of a namesake
Woody Sep 2016
He walks in the dark by himself
as the wind rose
like the rivers of Ohio
that broke the levees of his heart
and the moon was a blue piano

A daughter stood on the front porch
holding her apron over her eyes
because she didn't want to watch
the witches scatter their straw
over her father's frozen fields

And his wife, who had new snow
in her heart held on to a comforter
speaking to the feathers right low
hoping her words would be heard
by the bible salesman up the road

There were footsteps in the graveyard
and hair being combed by a stranger
as the neighbors sat around stoves
holding their only sons real close
stammering and warm, about to cry.
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?
2.0k · Feb 2016
Map
Woody Feb 2016
Map
Dreaming
of new territories

unexplored islands
rainforests, native girls

and wild lands, undiscovered
languages of lovers

when she pulled back the covers
and let me unfold the map.
2.0k · Feb 2016
February
Woody Feb 2016
It was unseasonably warm
for a February morning

I was dreaming of a girl
and blue western skies

- a faded bedsheet
sideways in the breeze
on an old clothes line -

I was dreaming
she was mine.
2.0k · Jul 2017
A lamp of claps of thunder
Woody Jul 2017
The night, the child, the moon,
the drunken sailor, the woman
in tight Levis and a wedding ring,
the blind black man who taught me
how to play the blue strings
when I was sixteen, the look you
gave me the other day, whoever
you are, the brave and the lonely,
the animals that see us a long time
before we shoot them, the drifter,
the African crossing the savanna
with his arms raised, all of us
drink from the same pool, so,
when we meet let's float down
together, sane, ******, drunk,
whatever, like a lamp of claps
of thunder, the echo and the answer.
1.9k · May 2016
Cold baths
Woody May 2016
Some nights
I see the lights
that burn
on the water
like the eyes
of the haunted,
the hunted, the old
missing fishermen
whose daughters
and widows
still draw them
a hot bath waiting
until they grow cold.
Woody Jun 2016
I hold out my hands
trying to warm them
on campfires long gone,
flames might as well have
been snow, I looked down
the ***** of those days
when the hay needed cutting,
I had some things to say
but now they are forgotten.
1.9k · Apr 2016
Catching the bus
Woody Apr 2016
Some ride out fast
like a bullet
out of panic,
not the slow slide
into the cold
like the Titanic.

Some plan ahead
and shop for the best
price of a ticket with a
Tor guide of the deep web,
a dark duvet, a seconal
laced rest for their head.

I'll catch the bus
when it runs on my time
and not a second before
I'm ready to ride
that grey-hounding *****
to the end of the line.
Tor: The Onion Browser used by some to search the deep and dark webs for illegal drugs purchased to assist in painless suicide.
1.8k · Jan 2016
Barren
Woody Jan 2016
I watch her hang her sheets.
A clothespin between her teeth
like she's holding up the sky.

They dry fast in this dry heat,
like a young widow without
a man on a hard acre of land.

The heart can be a barren place.
A badland; a glaring empty space.
Open to nothing but the pain
of another day alone again.

If I could only make it rain
in sheets
of light blue cotton.
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