Day: March 23, 2025

He came from Looneyville, Texas,
and he damn sure lived up to its name,
traveled all over the country doing crazy things.
He got drunk and kissed cars in Punta Gorda, Fla,
thrown in the pokey for public intoxication.
Somersaulted off a train in Little Rock, Ak,
broke an arm and nearly died.
Howled at the moon in San Fran, Ca,
got arrested for disturbing the peace.
Last I heard he moved to Odd, Wv,
felt it was a place where he could fit in,
marry a like minded wife and raise
a family of sixteen crazy kids.

Bob Boyd

On a trek through a nearby forest
spied Bigfoot sitting on a boulder
reading a book of my poems.
Having seen Bigfoot a number of
times before, I wasn’t surprised.

I was surprised seeing him
reading with eyeglasses on.
I didn’t know he needed eyeglasses
for reading, and I wondered where
he got the prescription for them.

I was more surprised to see him
reading a book of poems by me
since I’ve never published a book
of my poems and don’t care to.

I could only speculate somehow he
took the unauthorized liberty of
publishing them himself.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s
absurd to think of that hairy beast
having the ability to print a book.

To which I must retort, you have
no idea of the magical things that
Bigfoot can do, and, by the way,
he’s not just a hairy beast.

Just as I was about to ask him
where the hell did he get a book
of poems I’d never published,
a portal appeared. Bigfoot laughed,
waved, and disappeared into it.

I tried to follow him to catch that
rascal, but the portal evaporated
just as I tried to enter it.

And the mystery of how Bigfoot
was reading a book of my poems
I never had published perplexed me
for a few weeks.

After pondering the anomaly
extensively day and night, now
my guess is with his paranormal
powers he probably psychically
manifested the book just to,
per usual, play a prank on me.

Bob Boyd

a little sugar does a soul right
a little sweetness does no harm
delights the senses
feeds the soul
enlivens the mind
a dose of pleasure
the sweetness
the sugar
in a romantic kiss

bob boyd

Twice I thought I’d found the love of my life.
Number one when I was a troubled teenager
(but with a heart that was true and a
gentleman to women)
who lived in New Jersey and I lived in Mass.

After about a year, she cheated on me with
a college guy, broke my heart, and ended
my feelings, my love, for her forever.

Number two was a social worker when I was past
middle age and felt our true love was forever.

It lasted six years until she was diagnosed
with a host of health problems, and like a
martyr decided she didn’t want to be a burden
on me despite my wanting to care for her and
love her no matter the medicals, no matter what.

Now I wish and hope, probably foolishly, that
number three and the real one will be
the love of my life in my afterlife.

I don’t see or seek any move loves of a lifetime
in my waning earthly life, even if I live to be 100.

Bob Boyd

Too many women are murdered in this world
45,817 between 1996 and 2020 in the USA
mostly by men they knew or had loved.

God Almighty, why does this have to be,
and how can any man be so evil and so
cowardly as to kill the gentler, fairer sex?

I don’t believe in a hell, but this makes me
wish there is one to send these monsters to.

And I hope all the women they murdered
automatically go to a place like a heaven
regardless of what kind of lives they led.

And if they go to such a blissful paradise
instantly when murdered, I hope and pray
that the way they died won’t even matter,
will be an insignificant memory in a world
of unending happiness and eternal peace.

Bob Boyd

Gypsy woman how you mesmerized me.
Lured me away from home and friends.
Captured my soul. Stole my heart
And isolated me with your magic.

When you tired of me.
Tried to have me murdered
By your new next fool
Who only wounded me.

You underestimated
My payback capabilities,
Did some magic on you.

Misfortune followed
When you and your fool
Were sent to prison.

And you died there
Ironically by a gypsy woman
For offending her gypsy heritage
By pretending to be a gypsy.

Bob Boyd