Poems by Bob Boyd

Like a werewolf, Phil went crazy on full moon nights seeking fights. He prowled bars, hard-eyeing male patrons, goading them into anything-goes fistfights, which he always won, as if the powered-up moonbeams made him unstoppable, like a lycanthropic creature of the night.

Foolishly, a humped-back old man, bent with age, picked a fight with Phil, who told the foolish, probably drunk geezer he’d get killed fighting him, a younger, stronger man who never lost a fight. The old man, insanely confident or with a death wish, called Phil a lowlife coward. With that insult, Phil had no choice but to set the old fogey straight and show him the folly of fighting an unbeatable foe half his age.

The cocky old man set the terms; in the alley behind the bar, they were to fight under the moon’s full, bright light. Seconds after they strode into the alley, an unmanly scream shrieked through the night, preceding an eerie silence. Then an unholy howl, sounding like something out of hell, echoed in the alley and shattered the silence, terrifying all who heard it. And Phil never made it out of that alley, his corpse bloodied and in shreds.

Bob Boyd

I don’t know who she was,
but she looked like a composite
of dark-haired women I’ve been
with in my life.

I only knew her for a minute,
but oh, what a minute it was.

In that beautiful minute,
she kissed me four times.

And her kisses were the
sweetest kisses I ever had,
and I knew she loved me
as much as I loved her.

All in a mere minute in
a wonderful dream.

If only it could have
been more than a dream,

If only those kisses
could have lasted longer
than a minute.

Bob Boyd

I remember in high school
A galaxy away
When a high school girl
Would secretly harbor a crush
On a high school boy
And he’d be oblivious
Unfortunately.
I know I missed out on
Some of those sweet
High School girl crushes.
I remember being told
So and so had a
Wicked crush on me
After the fact and
After she had a
Lucky boyfriend.
If only I’d known.

Bob Boyd

Some people get old too fast;
They should have fun while they last;
Far too soon will their days pass.
Happy times they should amass
Before Death knocks at their doors,
And they vanish like vapors.
 
Bob Boyd

Body wearing down, arthritis setting in, joints and muscles straining.
Balance out of whack, muscles weakening, wrinkling.
Skin screwed, wrinkles and ugly aging spots everywhere.
If you’re lucky, you’ll still have your hair and your teeth.
Senior discounts only serve to validate what may not be clear to you.
Sleep, waking in the night, risks of falls if meandering to the bathroom.
Blood tests show many problems; a godawful cancer might be one of them.
Examined and poked by gerontologists like a nonentity lab specimen.
More doctors than ever, appointment after appointment after appointment.
The memory firing on only five cylinders, days of senior moments, maybe dementia.
The voice sounds weak or hoarse unless you’re lucky or genetically blessed.
Once youthful looks, often pretty, now lost; new roles as nondescript grannies.
Once handsome young men, now like Paradise Lost, looks gone forever.
Friends and generational icons dying, depressing reminders that nothing lasts.
You wonder when you’ll be next, your immortality forsaken, your mortality waning.
If unbearably sick, or in unbearable pain, or dying in a nursing home…
You might pray you are next.

Bob Boyd

The largest witch trials in Sweden by godly men, 1675 in Torsaker, Sweden. Thanks to the dark arts of these zealous men of God, 71 innocent Swedes—65 women, 6 men—were accused of witchcraft.

But the fun had just begun. Shortly after the trial, the 71 were beheaded and burned on the stake, a banner day for the Lord’s work in the twisted minds of men more Satanic than godly, more sadistic than holy.

A blight upon religion, to be sure. No angels, no saints, no infinite God intervened. The falsely accused went up in the fiery smoke, headless and betrayed by the leaders of their flocks, a fine day for dark forces, if they exist.

Were I the Supreme Being back then, I would have smitten the religious desecrators of the faith with a thousand lightning bolts and maybe some locusts and plagues, just to smite them more. And I would have welcomed the 71 into heaven evermore.

Bob Boyd

Ben dabbled in the paranormal, Ouija boards,
tarot cards, seances, divining et cetera.

He claimed he became a medium and was
conversant with spirits in the ether.

People came to Ben for messages from the dead;
he told them all sorts of phony tales.

A black magic witch, incognito, visited him and asked
him to contact her dead son named Amon.

When Ben began his fake spirits contact ritual, his face
turned ashen, blood poured out of his eyes and ears.

The witch cackled, and Ben fell to the floor stone dead
with his face frozen stiff in horror.

Bob Boyd

I see in you more
than the stars in the sky
more than the planets
spinning in the cosmos
I see in you
everything I’ve
always wanted
always needed

Bob Boyd

Presumably you have more brains than a fly,
and unlike a fly, you can read and write,
talk, sing, and do many things a fly cannot,
except stick to and walk up walls and fly.

But maybe when you breath you last breath
all those superior advantages will slip away
when your heart stops beating, and you die
just like a fly and become as insignificant.

Bob Boyd

I’ve been living so long that I no longer fear dying.
I see it as the awakening of a lifetime or, maybe

better, the relocation of a lifetime with perks like
seeing and hearing a Jimmy Buffet concert for free,

or perpetual peace and bliss in an ethereal paradise
with the soulmate I never found in this life like

the elusive forever afters the fairy tales held the
promise of but never delivered for me.

At the very least, I’ve lived long enough, sucked
enough life out of this existence, and I long to

see and experience what I see as the mysteries
and the wonders of the great beyond.

How about you, reader wearing blue?

Bob Boyd