Days like this I lose my way Poetry

Mr. Poe on Twitter

The dark side of the moon always sucks.
No one goes there, and no one follows
the writer there, who is combing the rocks
for inspiration, and clutches at handfuls
of sweet, mad galactic dust.

Old Jacky

Old Jacky sits on his balcony
coughing up his lungs
to his absent god.
The sun beats in his face.
He squints like a fallen angel,
his face pale white, not red.
If there is a heaven, Old Jacky
will go there, in spite of it all.

Wild blueberries

The daughter hated the blueberry bushes.
She told her mother to tear them out. The mother refused.
The daughter aged. The mother died. The blueberries thrived.
After years and years, you couldn’t see her house
for the tangle of blueberry bushes gone wild.

 

On the stick

Who writes with a Bic stick?
That’s all I have, so here I go.
The poet beside me scratches
through her many bags
looking for something of value
a true writing instrument.

Jealousy

A man flies by me, smelling of bread.
He’s with a woman reeking of coconut.
I smell my old shirt. Yesterday and me.
I’m so jealous, I move away
To another mountain top.
Family crisis

Mother had dementia
She unable to speak or peck
her family during crisis
after crisis, every day a new crisis.
She was there but gone.
We couldn’t function
without her brutality.

 

Old lover

This morning I’m lonely.
I’m running my finger
over the fatal crack
in the coffee cup she gave me.
I don’t remember why
she gave me such a silly cup
or what her face
really looked like.

Aging

I don’t care if the wool
scratches my old skin.
My warmed-up heart
is ready for the storms
that make people shiver.

 

I haven’t smoked in years

But I found a twisted cig
in the toe of a shoe.
It’s my day to sit by the river
grumbling about sore knees.
The wrinkles shooting like arrows
from the corners of my mouth
don’t matter like they did
before they were there.

Rabblerouser

there a riot left in me,
after years of couch behavior
years of breaking books spines
of sweeping up pet hair
of drinking from only one cup?

The stars

Two aged stargazers.
She doesn’t understand
what stars are anymore.
We stare at them together
until tears crack open my eyes.