Category: Poems

Some people like easy money and criminal risk,
occasionally even police officers.

One such police officer was involved with
other police officers in a drug smuggling enterprise.

Planes, trunks, airports, distributors, customers
and probably more money in a week as a

drug outlaw than he could have made in a
year as a police officer.

But the easy money and the thrills were short-lived
a few years later.

Jumped out of a plane he manned, had drugs
strapped to him, landed in a driveway,

his body smashed to pieces, his parachute
failed to work.

Bob Boyd

I hear a rumbling sound outside my apartment.
I wake up. It’s 2 AM in the morning.
What the hell, I wonder? I feel a little fear,
uncertain what the sound portends.
Then I wake up more and realize it’s just
one of those trains that occasionally rumble
loudly on tracks not far from my apartment.
And I go back to sleep and dream of riding
in a train into eternity.

Bob Boyd

A wealthy man shoots his wife in the chest
and shoots a relative, both live.

The cops are called. Eventually they find the
wealthy man and arrest him.

At the court proceedings, the wife is made to
look like a bad woman who deserved to get shot.

Screwy as that sounds and was, people were
buying into it.

The wealthy man became a celeb, people asked
for his autograph.

I still can’t figure out how, but he got away with
shooting his wife and a relative.

Correction: Money talks.

Bob Boyd

Married twenty years, both bored, unhappy.
Each dreamed of escaping, but neither
wanted to take the risk of being alone.
Better miserable together than the
dreadful fear of being alone and lonely.

Bob Boyd

I been with more than enough women to know none of them
were perfect for me, and I wasn’t perfect for them.

Which is why I hate that romantic love is random.
Maybe you’re okay with that, good with the luck of the draw.

But I’d like to have better odds with love instead of having
to settle for the randomness of it.

It’s sweet and euphoric at first when in the throes of new love,
the rose blooming, you don’t see any imperfections.

You don’t see the signs that you really aren’t in love with a
person who is ideal for you.

You close your eyes to faults. You suffer incompatibilities
until either you just do nothing about them or break up.

God! How I hate that romantic love is so random. If there’s
romantic love in the afterlife, I hope it’s precise and perfect.

But, of course, that’s probably foolish thinking, and maybe
the afterlife is just the me I identify with buried in the ground.

And romantic love is no more.

Bob Boyd

He had tons of money
and a knack for making it.
But he was so miserly
that he clung to it like
a drowning man at sea
clinging to a lifebuoy.

Instead he was drowning
in greed and avarice. So
much that when his wife
asked for a divorce, he
tried to hire a hitman to
kill her so she wouldn’t
get any of his millions.

But the hitman was an
undercover cop, and now
he sits in a jail cell for
fifteen to twenty years,
probably crying and
bemoaning all the money
he used to have that his
wife has now, his wife
who left him because when
he had a bad day and
didn’t make enough money,
he physically abused her.

Hopefully in prison he’ll
learn there’s more to life
than being mercenary,
murderous and a miserly
monster to a woman.

Bob Boyd

How I love fauvism art.
I love it even more when I make it
with an AI Image Generator.
Beautiful colors. Magnificent results.
Breathtaking landscapes. Beautiful seascapes.
Incredible cityscapes.
Orange skies, purple seas, pink houses,
any color combinations that I want.
Fun to experiment. More fun seeing
the results. And I love seeing what famous
artists did with fauvism, the wild beasts,
les fauves, the breakaway artists from
the same old norms. And O how I wish I
even had an iota of artistic talent to
paint fauvist art myself. But, alas,either
you have it or you don’t. At least I can
admire it, write this poem about it, and
create it with an AI Image Generator.

Bob Boyd

Despite living in the world, I’m a monk at heart,
but my heart won’t let me be one.

Even though I’m an old man now and know
nothing lasts, even wondrous romantic love,

once in a while I find myself yearning to have
a woman in my solitary life.

Once in a while I find myself thinking about
a woman’s comforting, sweet ways,

though I know sometimes those ways are not
sweet and comforting and can be heartbreaking.

I’m about to try to find a way to deprogram my
unceasing appreciation of women, and my

occasional feelings of how nice it would be
to have one in my life again.

Maybe like exorcising demons, a priest could
expunge these feelings from my possessed heart,

but, alas, I know I’m just kidding my foolish
self writing that nonsense.

And, to be realistic and perfectly honest,
I know I could never be a monk.

Bob Boyd

The tree huggers hugged the pine tree.
They said it had the best vibes. One
of them said it helped heal her cancer.
Who am I to say it didn’t help? Another
one said it took away her depression.
I knew her, and she did look happier.
It made me wonder if the pine tree
was more than just a tree. If it had
some kind of awareness and really
was able to help and heal people.
I tried hugging it, hoping it would
bring me true love. So far no luck.
Maybe I’m not enough of a believer

Bob Boyd

It’s a full moon night.
She hears the howls
and knows what that
means.

And it’s just what she’s
out on that full moon
night for.

The werewolf sneaks up
on her, and much to his
surprise, he’s smitten
by her looks.

She’s a werewolf too.

Bob Boyd