He called himself a cowboy poet,
and he performed wearing an old straw hat.
It had been awhile since he rode a horse,
but he never really mentioned that.
He knew the smell of wet hay, of course,
but it’d been years since he scraped dung off his boots.
It’s true he missed being out in the fresh air,
but he didn’t miss seeing all the redneck brutes.
He still remembered seeing the cow’s fear
when some were taken off to auction,
and his memory still brought a silent tear
at the thought of a mother cow’s grief-induced exhaustion.
When pressed, he could still carry on a cowboy’s prattle,
but it was undeniably true he was all hat and no cattle.
sonnet
Sonnet 35: You’re My All, You Bastard (#poem)
You don’t have to feel so special.
We’ve all done some stuff. Lord,
If you knew half the things I did,
You’d wonder why I’m not in jail.
You can just forget about what
You done, ’cause God knows
I’d let you get away with just
About anything. It’s my weakness.
I can’t blame you for being tempted.
You’re young an horny as a rabbit.
I’m just a rickety old fool, pulled
This way and that by anger and lust.
I mean, I’m the person you done
It to, but I can’t stay mad at you.
The Distinct Challenges of Hyperfocus (#poem #NaPoWriMo)
Straddling a life between town and country,
I remember you once stood on a snake.
You never saw it as we were shouting,
Until you moved and it slithered away.
Once you walked into a concrete column,
As I told you to hurry and catch up.
But you were focused and a little solemn,
Just searching for green anoles close up.
So many times you fell into a pond,
And I had to pull you out of the mud.
You were just looking to find what’s beyond.
You were happy to risk bruises and blood.
But I wonder now if you see my life.
As only pixels tell me of your strife.