Poems by Bob Boyd

Even though he didn’t know what
imamorate meant,
he had one.

It lasted for seven unlucky years
with her and him
driving each other crazy
until his inamorata left him
and he became her
persona non grata.

Bob Boyd

The kids in high school laughed at her clueless
questions in all her classes.
They said she was stupid for asking so many
dumb questions for things, which
should have been easily obvious.
They stopped the laughing and the ridicule
when she got all A’s in all her classes
and became the class valedictorian.

Bob Boyd

he never did anything of value,
drank too much and always screwed up.
never could hold a job or a woman.
spent his final days homeless
living in homeless shelters
and on the stone cold streets
drunk and begging for money.
bemoaned living a worthless life,
regretted having wasted his
years in drunkenness and failure
until he found some redemption
when he overcame his drinking,
when he became like a saint
helping legions of homeless people
get out of the streets and
quit their debilitating addictions
and get help for their physical
and/or mental health conditions
and lead better, happier lives.

when he died, a thousand people
attended his funeral and felt sure
he’d found a place in heaven.

Bob Boyd

Don’t feed the trolls, people say.
They’re just meanspirited people
hungering for some attention.
Imagine if you could push a button
and zap the troll’s computers
and cell phones into oblivion.
Imagine if you could shut them off
forever and ever from the Internet
and just have decent and polite
people engaging in friendly chats.

Bob Boyd

He never got over
the death of his
beautiful wife
of over 30
wonderful years.

Even ten years
later, his eyes
still tear up
when he holds
one of her dresses
and thinks of her.

When he holds one
of her dresses,
he imagines her
still in it and sighs.

Then he comes out
of his reverie
and awakens
to the
painful reality
that she is never
going to be in
that dress again.

And torrents of tears
fall from his eyes.

Bob Boyd

You are old,
pushing 80.
You are alone
without love
and you think
you’d like to
find a woman
to cherish and
love.

But try as much
as you will
to hide the fact
the sword of
Democoles
hangs over any
old couples love
you could find,
even if you
could find any
love, pushing 80,

You know that
death will be
racing toward
both of you
with misery
on its heels
for one of you.

Bob Boyd

I hear the leaves running on the street beside me
as I walk along the sidewalk.
At least that’s the way it appears, courtesy
of the rambling wind tonight.
It surprises me that in the near end of my life
my senses seem to have evolved
into a higher perception of the world around me.
It’s as if I’ve been given unexpected sense
along with the wisdom of aging.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll hear and understand
the whisperings of the wind and
the murmurers of the leaves.

Bob Boyd

Maria Marten (1801-1827)
suffered a tragic life.
An attractive woman
she just wanted love
and a caring husband.
Had children with 2 suitors
Both refused to wed her.

At 24, she met William Condor,
who seemed a gentleman.
He promised to marry her
instead he shot her to death
in the infamous Red Barn
and fled to another city
pretending to her family
that she was with him and well.

Maria’s family got suspicious
when she hadn’t written them
Cordor kept making excuses
for her lack of correspondence
until Maria’s mother saw Maria
in a dream saying she was dead
and her body was in the Red Barn.

Sadly, the dream proved true
and Maria’s body was found,
as was William Condor who
was captured and hung on
the gallows, August 11, 1824.

Bob Boyd

He wasn’t prepared
for the death of his wife.
He thought their love
would last on earth
forever and ever.

He forgot or didn’t
want to face the fact
that love and lovers
die sooner or later
in this fleeting life.

Now he spends his
days crying streams
of salty tears and
having imaginary
heartrending
conversations
with his dead wife

and sends prayers
to the highest heavens
with the tearful hope
he’ll see her again
when he follows her
into the Great Unknown.

Bob Boyd

When the birds stop singing
and the bugs go silent
get the hell out of the woods.

Bob Boyd