Free verse poetry, mostly fiction, some nonfiction
He grew to dislike the peopled world,
Too many crowds of noisy humans,
Too much motion and commotion.
He preferred the quiet, solitary life
Never a bothersome interruption.
Never any tensions or arguments.
Reading and writing many poems,
Passing his days in total tranquility.
Bob Boyd
The couple dismissed the foolish warnings
About the folklore named Forbidden Forest,
Which was only a peaceful, national park.
Supposedly if you went in. You wouldn’t get out
They knew others had hiked it without incident.
They knew they could trek it with comfortable ease.
They’d hiked more challenging trails many times.
They set out in August of nineteen seventy two
And ventured deep into the welcoming wilderness
And never returned from the Forbidden Forest.
Search parties ensued. Rangers, helicopters,
Trackers, search dogs, hundreds of volunteers.
All that was found of them were their hiking shoes.
Bob Boyd
The roars of dandelions cannot be heard,
Except by sensitives who hear hidden sounds:
Growing pains of freshly cut grass –
Seeds bursting through the ground –
Groans of trees withstanding furious winds –
Screams of dandelions beheaded by killer mowers.
Bob Boyd