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!!

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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.