Poems

Testosterone Restored

In my empty and quiet house, hot sun crosses my face.
No reason to open my eyes or rise has entered my mind because
though another day has arrived, I’m wondering why I’m alive.

I still survive and feeling good has moved beyond my reach. I retain the desire to love, to live, and know it’s not your fault that I’m over forty. My testosterone has gone and I’ve shifted into low and am ready to stall. I believe with you gone, I’ll never ball, and a smile will never break the discontent covering my face.

I paid the price for committing a crime by loving you more than all the rest, and wondered why when you left it was like a hornet’s nest, until my thoughts came through my unconscious mind, and I knew, my testosterone was low and the best part of me was gone.

If I changed and gained by smoking reefer and making young girls sniff cocaine. Then drank whiskey and smoked cigarettes without regrets. Music and my life wouldn’t have ended my friend, or stopped like a sudden drop when you wouldn’t let me fuck you all night long.

With an empty tank, I wondered why, why did I still exist? Was I here to fill a void or to satisfy a whim of someone or something far more perverted than me? Smoking reefer, making young girls sniff cocaine and drinking whiskey is still a lot of fun, and now I know, I don’t want to die.

So when I heard the radio say, Testosterone restored for $40 a month, I let the gas bill go and bought pills that made my heart run cold. My veins, ready or not, got refilled with testosterone, and any love I ever had was ready for a rerun.

I went back to the mountains where it all began and though I became a young man again, I knew it was the last I’d ever see. I lay back on a rock to watch the darkening sky that would soon be filled with sparkling stars, and moonbeams streaming through the sky lighting the night. What a beautiful sight

Happiness came because I’d been alive and allowed to enjoy so many natural things. But past years have turned on me. Now I know how wrong I was when testosterone ruled and I saw my babies born, flowers grown, girls transformed into women and I even loved a few.

To live, to enjoy, to be worry free while appreciating the show going on around me. The sun or moon with stars sprinkling light throughout the sky are only a few of the wonders I’d seen in between. I imagined I existed for eternity and had only heard, but never seen the marvels filling my world, a river, a waterfall, or people who gave love, kindness and hope to those less fortunate than them and shared affection with dogs and cats and horses.

So you see my friend, I lay under the sky to watch the sun go down, and say, “I’m sorry it had to be you that emptied my testosterone sack and wouldn’t give it back.”

I’m happy now as I watched the moonrise amongst the stars, and stopped to think of the opportunities freely given me by you. This is the perfect time and place to die, and though I may never live again, I’m thinking of you on my 99th birthday. There’s a smile on my face and a woody in my hand as I go out with thoughts of you in my heart.

Choices

Live the life you believe in and begin

to sin, because if you don’t you’ll

die full of regrets and without cigarettes

despite the health threats.

 

Though gaunt you’ll never go for a jaunt

when muses haunt and you try to resist not

to make the choice you know is right. Rejoice,

or pay the price. To suffice, that won’t be nice.

 

Choices are hard to make when you’re

half awake and not sure if it’s poor or

maybe premature, but take a chance

even if you’re in a trance go ahead and dance

 

if it feels right or suffer for the rest of your life.

Memories of the choices you didn’t make will

be of concern if you didn’t learn the trouble you

made when you didn’t choose right, and you sang.

 

If you were wrong you knew all along you’d sing

your last song, so be strong, nothing is worse than to

live and not be alive because you were scared

to make a choice and couldn’t rejoice

 

for choosing  to  live  the life given to you

 

Cement Face

Sunlight crosses my face

in my empty house where

feeling good has moved

beyond my reach and

 

no reason to rise has

entered my mind or to

open my eyes because

the day has arrived.

 

I’m wondering why I’m alive

When I’ll never regain the

desire to love or to live

like I had when you let me

 

love you night and day.

With you gone a smile

can never break the

cement covering my face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I write every day and never get paid!

 

Addicted

 

Just a little I thought,

and then a little more

now I know

 

it has me in its grip

promising me what I need

there’s no letting go.

 

blinded by claims of fame

and in pain I believe

what I have done

 

is okay to even try

to fill my needs

my desire takes money

 

and eager to please I

don’t need any drugs

to work but know

 

I shouldn’t have become

blinded by fame

and girls

 

everything I need

to even try to  fill

my needs came and

 

there was no letting go

when stupid and getting

screwed went together

 

and a book with.

my name on the

cover said addicted

.

and dopes will suffer

when they discover

they’ll never get paid

the end

 

I wasn’t alive until I hit sixty-five.

Born without food a diaper or a bed of straw,

I wanted to know who did this to me, but

couldn’t display pain to the makers. I swore

someday I’d make them pay for what they did to me.

Until then, I paid the price like everyone else.

 

All through the years, I wracked my brain

while I sweated and worked the only way

I knew how. No skills were bestowed upon

me by the architects. I couldn’t sing, color,

or draw, but to think, I could think, and

 

that ability became a great gift, and I thought

how to make the powers who gave me a

life of worry and work to pay for what they

did. The world they made is dog eat dog,

but if it became nirvana for everyone who

lived, those up above would lose everyone

 

of the prayers sent to them. Petitions to make life

better for the oppressed, the sick, the weak, the poor.

Without the mental energy created by those begging

for help from the Deities, they’d lose clout when people

realized prayers sent up above were turned into

energy that the Gods ate to stay alive. As devotions died,

so did the weaker Gods, and with so few prayers

 

the surviving Gods turned into dogs and had to act

like humans and heaven became a dog eat dog place,

just like Earth. Without a paradise to offer, the immortals

lost it all and became mere men who had to work as I

did. I became boss, and every surviving Idol worked for me.

I was as kind to them as they were to me and didn’t mind if

they didn’t eat or keep warm when I sent them out

in the cold to shovel snow even though they were old.

 

At sixty five I became like a God,

and those that once were divine

tried to fight back with threats

and curses,  but they didn’t

have a prayer because they

were just too damn drained

from eating requests for years

and never responding.

 

 

 

Testosterone Listening to Pandora I hear ads for this every few minutes.

“If you’re over forty, it’s not your fault that

your testosterone is low and you’ve shifted

into low and are ready to stall. You’re not

alone you know, and can still change gears

 

by smoking reefer and making young girls

sniff cocaine. Drink some whiskey and have

some fun, cause it’s all going to end, when,

no one knows, but it will, so enjoy

what you can,

 

while you can, because, once time has passed by,

you’ll wish you had and all you’ll have is dreams

that you’ll wish were real and not something that

happened yesterday.

 

When your music and your life comes to an end,

you’ll have no regrets if you’ve smoked, drank and

gave cocaine to girls who always gave something

in return.

 

It’s too late now. Too late to change your mind

if you haven’t drank whiskey and loved a lot of

women who sang and sometimes screamed when you

gave them plenty of pleasure.

 

You inherit a whiskey store and the women

come back for more, so you hate it when

your testosterone gets low and you’re ready

to stall and you’ve paid the price for living life

 

like you committed a crime by loving a woman

more than all the rest and when she left, you wondered

how she could, but inside you knew, your testosterone

ran low.

 

Past years have turned on you, because now you

know how wrong you were when testosterone ruled

the actions you took, but when you hear the radio say,

Testosterone restored for $40 a month,

 

you let the gas bill go and buy the pills that make

your heart run cold and any love you have is ready

for a rerun and melts in your veins that are being

refilled

 

with the hormone needed to function as a young man.

Smoking reefer, making young girls sniff cocaine

and drinking whiskey is still a lot of fun, and now you know

there’s no end until you die

 

and then there’ll be a smile on your face

when at 99 you go,

with a woody in your hand

 

It’s the birthday of the poet W.D. (William DeWitt) Snodgrass born in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania (1926)

He was studying poetry at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the early 1950s when his marriage began to fall apart, and he began writing about it in his poems. He showed some of these personal poems to his teacher, the poet Robert Lowell, but Lowell didn’t like them. He said, “You’ve got a brain; you can’t write this kind of tear-jerking stuff.”

Lowell later recanted and helped Snodgrass get his poetry collection, Heart’s Needle, published in 1959. It was Snodgrass’s first book, and it won the Pulitzer Prize. Lowell called it “a breakthrough for modern poetry.”

Snodgrass’s work helped inspire a whole new school of poetry in which American poets began to write openly about their personal lives for the first time in decades. Snodgrass has since been called one of the founders of confessional poetry, but he said, “The term confessional seems to imply either that I’m concerned with religious matters (I am not) or that I’m writing some sort of bedroom memoir (I hope I’m not).”

But in defense of writing personal poems, Snodgrass said: “The only reality which [a poet] can ever surely know is that self he cannot help being . . . If he pretties it up, if he changes its meaning, if he gives it the voice of any borrowed authority, if in short he rejects this reality, his mind will be less than alive. So will his words.”

reposted from Writer’s Allmanac.

That’s The Way

I sit under the sun coming from the East,

but will never again. It goes over the mountains

out West, so I lay back on a mountain rock

to easily see

 

the darkening sky that’ll soon be

filled with sparkling stars,

lighting the night, and soon

moon beams will be sent

to make my night bright.

 

What a beautiful scene, and though it’s

the last I’ll ever see, happiness fills me,

because I’ve been alive and allowed to

enjoy so many natural things.

 

Stars, sun and moon are only a few

of the wonders I’ve seen.

I watched babies born, flowers grow

girls transformed into women and have

even loved a few,

 

These are answers I give when asked why,

why do we even exist? Are we here to fill

a void or to satisfy a whim of someone or

something far greater than we?

 

To live, to enjoy, to be worry free while

appreciating the show going on around us.

We may never live again, but stop to think

my friend, of the opportunity freely given us

 

to participate in marvels filling our world.

Imagine if you can, never having seen a river,

waterfall, or the sun or moon with stars sprinkling

light throughout the sky.

 

Or watched people give love, kindness and hope to

those less fortunate than them and share affection

with dogs and cats and horses and more. Imagine if

you exist for eternity and have only heard, but never seen?

 

That’s why I’ve pinned this note to my chest for you to read.

I’m sorry it had to be you that found me laying here on a

beautiful rock that I laid on to die. But now that the best

part of me is gone,

 

I beseech you to bury what remains right here where

I laid under the sky to watch the sun go down, and the

moon rise amongst the stars, the perfect time and

place to die. So you see my friend, I’m happy now!

 

 

 

A Bottle of Booze Will Do

Being sober fills the inside

of my head and scrapes

the back of my eyes with

unjust images and words,

like incest, spousal abuse,

and kids so hungry they eat

their own.

 

I can’t be without booze

obliterating the wounds

society has assigned to me

 

Well you can say goodbye,

but please don’t be blue

my bottle is empty so

bring me my running shoes.

 

I may be considered low down

and a dirty fool, but that doesn’t

mean I don’t love you.

 

Don’t be sad, because when

I get a bit of booze, I’ll go

to a place where injuries

aren’t allowed to exist.

 

A world where striking colors

and flowerily fragrances mix

with luminosity, integrity and

honesty, spreading compassion

to anyone existing there.

 

This utopia where I go

after I drink a little alcohol

heals my tortured soul.

 

Well, you can say goodbye,

but I won’t be blue, cause I’ll

have what I need to enter

a world of my own,

 

Poetry at work!