Poems by Bob Boyd

after his wife left him
because she thought
he’d gone crazy
her minister ex-husband
went a lot crazier
from his raised up pulpit
he said he had attained
mystical union with God
and attained many powers
said he could affect world events
could control the winds
and the weather
could change nights into days
could communicate telepathically
with animals and insects
his worst delusion was
when he thought he could fly
to heaven and jumped
off a skyscraper
flapped his arms and
dive bombed to his death

Bob Boyd

He was told to go to the ER
something about blood platelets

He thinks he’ll be in an out
after a six hour wait

The doctors have different ideas
and admit him

He can’t believe he’s being
confined to a hospital bed

But he quickly adapts to it
and wonders what’s next

After a few days and a
series of tests

He’s released with a
blood cancer diagnosis

He had thought
he’d never
get cancer

He thought he was safe
and didn’t have to
worry about it

He didn’t smoke, drink,
do drugs, or eat red meat
and had no cancer in
his family

But cancer didn’t care
about all that

It claimed him anyway
and tried to take
his life

Weeks and months
of blood tests and
transfusions

Not a problem for him
surprisingly
maybe, miraculously,
he just didn’t care

He didn’t worry about
it killing him

He accepted
his possible
termination
like an even-minded
unfazed stoic

And maybe the cancer
gave up on him
because his indifference

Took the joy, the fun,
and the steam out of
trying to kill him

The reaper
dressed in his
flowing
black hooded robe

Reluctantly
lowered
his scythe
and said I’ll
be back another day

Bob Boyd

She said my name was written in her heart
And had been from the day she was born.
I liked the sound of that but didn’t believing it,
An impossible but such a sweet claim.

And her love for me was uncompromising.
To her dying day she remained faithfully true.
And right before she breathed her last breath,
As she lay dying in that hospital bed
I saw my name glowing out of her heart,
As if she took it with her to heaven.

Bob Boyd

Rolling Down a lonely Highway
In my old beat up pick up truck
Hearing the whine of the wheels
And trying to forget about you
Ten hours away from what
Became an old worn out love
Now I’m alone and speeding
On a thousand miles of road
Wondering what I’ll do
Where I’ll go
Without you
Maybe when I get to Tulsa
I’ll stop at a Mickey D’s
Grab a Burger with fries
And on the front of a napkin
Write a one last chance letter to you
But it probably won’t do no good
We had a rocky road romance
Down a one way hectic highway
With a lot of wrong turns
And dead end streets
And there ain’t no turning back

Bob Boyd

In his misspent, wasted youth
Sitting, profiling, in a pool hall,
Hard eyes, looking tough to fit in.
Often skipped days of school,
Had no time for education
In a small city in Massachusetts.

Inhaling a Lucky Strike cigarette,
Exhaling smoky circles in the air
Unfiltered, only manly way to go,
Greaser haircut, thought he was cool,
Thought he was super tough.

Cue ball breaking a rack to pieces,
Clatter of numbered balls
Speeding all over the pool table
Bouncing off the banks
Thudding sounds erupting
Some high and low balls
Dropping into the table pockets.

Cigarettes thrown in spittoons.
Hissing sounds when hitting the water.
Guys swearing over missed shots,
Losing serious betting money,
Some gangsters in the making.

Like Lucky Hall, 6’6” lean machine
Gangster mean and crazy as hell,
Always dressed in black.

Strolled over to him and
As he was taking a drag
On his unfiltered cigarette,
Lucky stuck a gun in his face.
He sat casually in a chair,
Pool stick in hand, unfazed,
Guns rarely seen back then.

He smiled and reached for the gun,
And said to Lucky, “Is that real?”
Not out of bravely was he unafraid,
Couldn’t believe the gun was real.

His nonchalance didn’t get the result
Lucky was looking for.
Lucky turned away, his black trench coat
Swirling in the smoky air,
Lucky looking gangster cool,
Dangerous, and genuine.

Two years later Lucky’s luck ran out.
Shot to death in faraway Alabama.
Probably put his gun in the wrong guy’s face.

Bob Boyd

Saw a sign, Free Krishna Feast With The Hare Krishnas

Didn’t care for their movement, the Hindu trappings, the way they dressed, the continuous chanting in the streets, selling incense in airports, a bit much though the chanting effective. It worked.

A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, founder of the movement, real deal holy man, seemed to live a pristine holy life.

Attended the dinner with three seeker friends, like me back then always interested in various approaches to the Absolute.

Appreciated the devotees – good people, fun to hang with, impressively devoted to their spiritual path.

But …

Krishna fundamentalism served up first and second course, the actual food exotic, holy, tasty treats.

If not with Krishna, wrong way, off course highway to nowhere.

Only way, correct way, true destination – Krishnaloka Heaven.

Then a Krishna devotional ceremony, well done, sacred.

Devotees precise, scrupulously respectful in their practice, the atmosphere reverberating with their chants, myself and my friends lit up with bliss.

After the chants and the highs, one of my friends vanished for awhile, where he went I didn’t know.

He returned with one of the Krishnas, two white tilaka marks painted on his forehead. Damn!

They got him! Like a scene from the movie The Body Snatchers. But my friend smiled, and I knew he was just going with the experience, entertained by it, having fun. Inwardly, I laughed.

Thanked the cordial Krishna hosts, bid them goodbye, walked into a warm Cambridge, Mass evening enriched from insightful and enjoyable dinner, our souls unsnatched.

Bob Boyd

Demonized in movies
Omens of Evil
Big loud birds
Pests to some
Scary to others
Raiders of nests
But I love crows
Love the raven black color
Love the piercing caws
Love the high intelligence
Love watching the flocks
Gliding in the skies.

Bob Boyd

Pounding drums
Songful chants
Sacred circle
Sacred fire
Swirling dancers
Whirling tassels
Headdresses
Feathered
Most noble
Traditional
Native
American
Dancers
Powwow

Bob Boyd

He saw her photo in the news
just twenty-two and dead
in an auto accident.
Something about her
attracted him to her,
even though she was dead.

He found the location of her grave,
brought a bouquet of flowers
he placed there tenderly.

He felt compelled to keep visiting her.
He had a crazy infatuation that
was impossible to go anywhere.
Thoughts about her were always on his mind,
and he wondered if he was going a little crazy
with his feelings for her that kept
growing stronger and stronger as he kept
visiting her gravesite and talking to her
in his head, hoping somehow his thoughts
would reach her heart in the afterlife.

Two months later, surprisingly,
she began appearing in his dreams
smiling and looking more beautiful than
her photo in the news.

Every night became a dream date
with kisses and hugs he could feel
that were more real than the
happenings in his day to day life.

Now he knows for sure
he’ll be with her when he dies

Bob Boyd

Now that I’m old, people only see a hag.
To them I’m just an annoying old nobody
when I take too long at the store checkouts.
I have become as irrelevant as a old broken bell,
a worn out, decrepit crone with no history.

But in my youth I had a wonderful full life
when I was beautiful and a theater actress
who performed in America and Europe.
I spoke French, Italian, and Spanish fluently
and climbed to the top of the Alps once.

I married a famous artist who was the love of my life.
We traveled all over the world and met famous people.
We lived in a villa in Italy and a chalet in France.
I read novels in three languages and wrote one myself.
My husband died while climbing the Alps. I almost did too.

But now I’m just an old throw away hag that people ignore,
an ancient wrinkled woman nobody cares about,
just a blank old body without a hint of a rich history,
an old gray-haired ancient relic that hobbles on a cane.
But I don’t give a damn. I lived a full life, and I have my memories.

Bob Boyd