A New Toy Poem

Like a kid with a new toy
I launched a poem
from a harbor of thoughts.
It sailed the waves of louvered blinds,
quietly on the stain of a Mahogany sea.

It disappeared in a valence fog,
reappeared upside down
navigating the stipples of artic ceiling.
I feared the letters without arms and legs
might fall in my eye and never be seen again.

It flipped without incident
came straight down the wall, only to
run aground at three on the snag of a clock.
Fifteen ticks later it slid freed at six, and
digitally anchored in this e-cove screen.

Squirrelly Beat

Its tiny little feet
beat across the top of the fence
like claw hammers
playing a slat-key xylophone.

Murphy’s paws sped
to an Aussie’s four-four time,
but the critters tune
was an octave too high.

Ring Tone Number Four

I heard the competition
bellied-up like a Chinese carp;
a sweet and sour rumor
caddish tongues couldn't wait to take out.

If true,
my phone will sing itself hoarse;
ring tone number four on the menu.

A Walk In The Light

Stepping stones of sunlight,
with hardwood cracks between,
led from the bay window blinds
to the marble masked fireplace.

I stepped on each,
tip toeing
back and forth,

looking for enlightenment
to shoot up my bones, and
jolt my cluttered cranium
into organized order and solace.

But, all I got was a path of swept floor
and a pair of dirty socks.

Better Times

The moon trudged
across the night sky
like a bag-lady dressed
in dirty, stringy rags.
Her rusty wire cart
left a trail of faded stars;
wheels eerily squealing
from ghosts of better times.

Pushing The Wall

I’ve never mastered poetry,
though I’ve written hundreds.
The keys click, click again
like a street mime pushing,
pushing, pushing the wall
and then some more.

There’s resolution,
even initial satisfaction, but
the wall is still there, and
the stones of the last poem
turn to dust and blow away.

Single Ply Truth

It happened.
Surprised the fire out of me
when she said I googled you.

Why would she do that?
I spend my days sucking
acid reduced breakfast, lunch and dinner,
exposing the delicious smell of bacon frying
as the poopological con it really is.

I have mostly gray hair, and
a belly the size of a prize winning watermelon.
I do have all my teeth, and
some really sexy sunglasses.

Regardless her reasons
the odiferous truth is there,
my words are full of boaters good eats and drinks.
I am a shit poet.

Unroll a few lines of this single ply poem,
and wipe the grin off your face.

Work

Thanks for being missed. I have been working my "poop" business and haven't had time to write or visit. Tis the season for boating, and boaters are faithful worshippers at the ceramic alter of party necessities disposal. I'm open and operating 7 days a week and haven't had too many days off since 5/30. But that's good. Hope to be back blogging soon.

Ashes Of Ghosts

Words can be empty
even when full.

You can tie them together
like garlic in panty hose,

hang them from
the toe of a lost poet’s dream;

they’re still just words,
empty when full,

ashes of ghosts howling
in the period after goodbye.

Even Though

i woke up this morning
with my bones melting
pooling in the soles of my feet

i squished
when i walked to the bathroom
sloshed when i stopped

yeah though i walk
through the valley
of the shadow …

I still fear!
leaving puddle-prints
of skeletal slush

Thanks for all the comments. I've been very busy trying to start a new business: Pumping poop on Lake Lanier. I hope to have the boat rigged out and EPD/Corps of Engineers approval this week and working next week. In the construction business I've taken enough crap to build a mountain range, it will be nice to get paid for taking it. Hope to be posting and visiting all of y'all soon.

MySpace

Adrift in MySpace
where distance has evolved into sacred chambers,
hidden places,
and thoughts adorn silicon-chip walls,
as photographs,
skewed from whispers of illusory digital mache.

Bacterial Stones

The doctor called it a skin infection,
cellulitis to give it a proper medical name.
I thought it was the shepherd David
slinging missiles of bacterial stones.

There was a whoosh and whoosh windup--
which I didn’t see, but
the pain to my lower left shin
was Goliath as I ever felt.

Three thousand years of being dead
played havoc with the psalmist’s aim;
for this I “make a joyful noise”
and give praise unto the Lord.

Bouncing Off The Walls

There’s no sun today
arcing high like a basketball
floating down
through the steel ring of afternoon
disappearing in the nylon strings of night.

Only thunder clouds that cover,
like a robber’s mask,
with a muffled voice rumbling
to hand over my joy,
especially the stash
I keep hidden in the dog‘s leash.

I understand why
we won’t be playing outside today,
but Murphy-- my Aussie--
could care less about basketball,
and the only thief he’ll be barking at is me.

Light One Up

Are stars the flickering tips of cigarettes
being smoked by fallen angels that never sleep?
The sun, a fat smelly stogie burning down
to the last puff this world will ever know?

Paper rolling postulation?
Unfilterd thoughts of fantasy?

At the very least a musing
lighting up a smoke of imagination.

Something I Said

Words fall,
like soldiers on a field
of someone else’s choosing,

fatally wounded
in the trigger pull
of sound proof ears.

A Song Too Far

A mocking bird's song
skips like smooth stone-notes
across the lake
in a descending breezy scale.

In flight, or
water lips kissing,
momentarily,
whistled seductions,
the end is near:

a fading ripple dying
on sand and shell,
an unanswered inquiry
floating, floating down,
falling short the desire
of a waiting Spring dream.

All To Do With Temperature

I’m proud of my southern heritage:
“y’all” gliding from ear to ear
like a lazy-winged heron
piggybacked on a warm Georgia breeze;
wobbly-legged, centuries old oaks
with sparse patches of moss whiskers
pointing down to their sprawling root feet.

I have nothing against the North,
even know some “Yankees” I like.
It’s the bitter cold and gray of Winter,
and snow that won’t melt butter
like a bowl of hot Jim Dandy® grits.

Cleaning Required (Or Not)

You said I was looking down your blouse;
it was your pony tail,
that flopped from the back to the front,
when you bent over to get something from your bag.

It looked like a tilted fountain of hair
streaming strands in a carefree circle,
suspended
on filaments of shadows and light.

Of course when you questioned my gaze
I couldn’t believe I’d let such an opportunity pass.
I’ll promise you this: if your shirt should be
so risqué again,
my eyes will be tracking in dirt from my mind,
hope it won’t be too hard to clean.

Last One Out Lock The Door

Death is like a door in a room.
We paint over it, even the knob,
so, it’s inconspicuous as can be.
If we can’t see the handle
we surely won’t open it by mistake.

We can nail boards from jamb to jamb,
add sophisticated locks that require a key,
a combination, and a dead bolt with hardened steel.
Security measures make us feel safe, except
in the pit of our stomach we know
it opens from the other side, locked or unlocked.

Goodbye

The Sun fell from the sky two days ago
I thought he would bounce several times,
maybe longer; all balls bounce even low on air.

Instead, he formed into a spirit with a white straw hat,
and slipped quietly through the air conditioner vents,
and ceiling tiles until he reached the roof:

a last look at the construction next door,
the tears, the folded hands and sighs.
He hopped on the back of a saddled prayer,
rode due West to the edge of the world,
turned, and left the sunset as goodbye.

for Benny
goodbye my friend goodbye.

A World Of Fleas

Have you ever wondered what a flea would think
on the back of an elephant?
It would have to crawl and bite
every square inch of rough, dusty hide;
a world traveler, a sophisticated “insectellectual”
with a million frequent parasitical miles.

I can see it theorizing, when the trunk
blows back a snout full of water and dust,
a storm of biblical significance occurred,
and somehow the population of wingless flies
brought down the climatological wrath of God.

Of course, we know, maybe like Angels in heaven,
it’s just the sleepy-eyed giants way
of protecting its sparse-haired skin from the sun.

Hypoathlechondriac

Where’s the guy with the hurt toe?
His toe is in his head
kicking echoes like soccer balls
with a very small audience of thoughts.

I don’t mean to be cruel,
it’s the simile I like.
Can’t you see two thoughts on one side
whispering and drinking diet cokes;
another, on the other side, top row
laying flat, sound asleep.

All the while a skinny little toe,
booting sounds from ear to ear,
creates echoes of its own.

Above The Law

Silent as rain drops sliding down glass
fibrosis and inflammation are stealing his breath.
It’s not like he could put locks on his lungs to keep
them from burning and scarring all they touched.

They’ve been scanned and shot at with steroids,
alarms went off with shortness of breath;
no way to haul their butts to jail, they haven’t
committed any infraction of law to issue a warrant.

I sit here drinking a beer, and writing a poem,
he lays there sucking life from a hose.

Inside Out

God squeezed the clouds
like over soaked wash rags,
dripping drops of crystal heaven
on the cracked cries of thirsty dirt.

It’s the best rain we’ve had
since Noah’s ghost passed through
sometime last year,
maybe, the year before.

The trees shook like wet dogs,
some patches of grass
drank so much
they were inside out with water.

Thanks!

My grandson said to tell all of you he appreciated all your comments. His grandfather does too!! He's 13. Andrew you are right, I can't be that old!!

Untitled

Here are two poems by my grandson Aaron Stallman. A proud offering by a proud grandfather!!


Those who live in times of was,
and those who live in trophies or honors.
Those who see not life,
they are blind with vision dark as night,
for they see just their past.

Listen advice as old as time itself,
see the day,
live the future,
forget the Past.
Keep marching forward,
your battle is not over.

By Aaron Stallman


Everytime I hear sir names,
I see their faces.
Wonder who they were,
why they were,
and when.

Everytime I hear sir names,
the faces of past I see.
This gift I bear,
I know not how,
why, I cannot say.
One thing I know,
this gift I'll bear always.

By Aaron Stallman

Stroke By Stroke

The fog is muscled-up thick
preventing me from finding shore.
Every direction I turn
I’m head-locked tighter in dilemma.

I can’t just sit in its grip,
there must be a way to slip free.
I’ll stab its muddy-bottom feet,
with the long pole I hold,
until, it lifts them out of the water.

Line Up Of Three

I’ve narrowed the search to three suspects
in the crime of my disappearing poems.

My stumble fat-fingers that press
two or more keys more often than one,
refusing to follow to the letter
all instructions from the brain.

Murphy, our Australian Sheppard
that has his own poem, is the least likely:
he’s the number one pet,
the only time he touches the keyboard
is to remind me of his daily date with his ladies
on their sniff, walk, and pee, and
their sniff, walk and ______.

Now, to the feline of “bitch” fame.
She always wears black, and
mischievousily roams the house.
I’ve interrogated her thoroughly, but
she refused to confess with a kiss-my-ass hiss!!

What happened????????????

I lost February's poems.

Took My Breath Away

I’ve struggled with men over a football, struck
dimpled balls on fairways and greens into a hole,
flirted my ass off turning “NO” into yes, Yes, YES!!
Won or lost, it was the challenge I loved most.

But, with this breath-stealing, snot river cold,
there’s no line to cross, no holes to enter,
nothing I can finesse into a positive score.

Suck on these, swallow two gel caps,
sleep for hours, and wake up the same.
Of course, it’s not my first,
I was deflowered as a child (perverted little viral beast).

It’ll have its way with me a few more days, until,
this mucus lusting lothario takes another's breath.

Bare Limbs

The trees outside are bare,
with limbs swirling around their trunks.
I’m not a fan of Winter, but
nakedness I advocate all the time.
There’s been many a pole
I’ve watched bare limbs twirl around;
doling out green leaf after green leaf,
making sure the covering wouldn't return.

Favorite Time Of Day

I walk Murphy, my Australian Sheppard mix,
most days, but, with the wind chill being 14
he’s just going to have to bark, whine,
growl--under his breath, and bounce off the walls.

A rescue we got back in June, that didn’t know
how to play with toys, people, nor other dogs.
He was scared to death of men, but, never me,
which I thought was very strange.

All of the above has favorably changed:
he scatters his toys all over the house, and
some things that cause us disdain. We walk
with a regular group of four, or five bitches--
all their owners are female too. It is our favorite
time of day, I hope my long johns can be found.

When The Well Is Dry

What’s the point of writing, just to write?
The well is dry, there’s no words left
hiding in the mortared walls of my creativity.
I look at the snow, snow we rarely get,
and see just that, instead, of an invasion
of white hedonistic flies procreating on dead grass;
eventually, leaving the slush of their sin
to stain our soles going out for the mail.
I drop my thoughts down the dark shaft,
again and again, hoping for lines to fill
the empty strapped slats of a page.

A Fool And His Gold

The sun races through her hair
like fire-angels playing tag.
The sparkle in her eyes is probably fool’s gold
but, I’m addicted to the glitter of that dream.
I definitely know better having sluiced
many streams and creeks the same.
All I need is one, and maybe this one's mine.

From Fog To Fog

The fog on the lake New Years Eve
was smooth and silky, seductive and mysterious.
The fog in my head New Years day
was neither seductive, nor mysterious:
it had the fury of a woman scorned,
the fiery quills of a porcupine cornered.
Thankfully, though, the memories
will fade into myths and legends, since
the batteries in the video camera were dead.