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!!

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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.

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.