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Woody May 2017
I dreamed
The moon through my window
Light, like the first snow
Like wood smoke in the rafters
My mother's laughter
Tickling my toes.
Dreams from another life.
Woody Dec 2016
Last night
along about midnight
I left the house
with a wheelbarrow
and a song I made up
as I pushed it along
with my alter boy
robe on
and the moon said
how are you
I said fine
how do you do
and by dawn
I had picked 1000
black-eyed Susans
I started at the church
and made a path
of flowers
all the way to our porch
so that my sister
who lost her shoes who
I know might not
be as pretty as yours
could walk to
the service barefoot.
Rudbeckia hirta
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.
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 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.
Woody Mar 2016
I like how my lips
fit that hollow
by your collar bone.

I could sing an anthem there
or whisper sweet
sweet nothings.
Like water from the Creek.
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.
Woody Mar 2016
Death is a dark knife
that cuts the light
through the window.
A black car in the night.
A burning cigarette
bursting on the highway.
A fire going out.
A gypsy with whiskey
breath shaking
a black tambourine.
r Feb 2016
Deserts are the color of her hair
Gold and bronze her skin

Silver veined salty rains
Tears a color never named

The ocean tries to please her eyes
Reflecting blue onto the skies

Or grays as gray
As the coldest days

To ever grace my way.
An old Creeker pome, god rest his badass soul.

— The End —