Saturday, April 27, 2013

Two for the Money



                               TWO FOR THE MONEY

I swear to God, no need to lie, I'll try with all my might.
to write a poem, by and by, whose content isn't such a fright.

A worthy thing, a skill to grow, spit out in verse that's free
of excess rules, but don't you know, it's always rhymes that come to me.

The deer graze upon the lawn while Grandma sips her tea and watches from the porch unfazed by Iran's yellow cake uranium and Grandpa sneaking up behind her with malice aforethought.

So there it is, a poem's start, that's lacking rhyme or reason.
I sincerely wish, with all my heart, to scribble blank verse nice and pleasin'.

You see me now, I'm deep in thought, of an end not mean or dreary,
but to write it out, what muse has wrought, I'm told is just a freakin' theory.

Grandpa slips silently by Grandma and takes dead aim.  A dog barks a warning in the distance and before Grandpa can pull the trigger the deer have scattered.
"Serves you right," says Grandma.

So there it is, my promised verse, as a poet I'm now anointed.
You must admit, it could be worse, at least my poem's double pointed.


Doc Walton  April 2013






SHUT EYES



                                           SHUT EYES

The part of waking in the morn
I find I most regret
is not the shaking off of sleep
or dreams I have not finished yet.

It's not a fear of dealing with
the unexpecteds of the day,
the dread of have-tos always there,
the choices I most need to weigh.

It's not about the what-will-come,
but rather about the now.
I lie in darkness all around
as blissful as a content cow.

My lids are shut and begging me
to not go to the light.
Morning waits to stun my eyes
Reality is oh so bright.

So I'll lie here but a moment more,
enjoying shut eye's grey.
There's nothing there of substance
to interrupt my stay.

The moment that I ope my eyes
in darkness or in light,
the wakened world will slither in
and chase away the night.

Bummer.

Doc Walton  April 2013























Tuesday, April 16, 2013

WILD SIDE



                             THE WILD SIDE
                                   By Doc Walton

I've walked on the wild side,
but never for long.
I'm cursed by a conscience
that says, "This is wrong."

I'll call it a curse,
but just for this minute,
while I ponder the "Big Fun"
that won't find me in it.

'Cause I'm drawn to the low,
the base and the bad.
It's all so damn tempting
the things I ain't had.

All those high painted women
with their come hither glances,
their promise of dark treats
imagination enhances.

Should I mention the drugs,
come get high come get low,
that will take me to places
I so want to go.

And the booze that keeps flowing
long into the night
and weakens the resolve
to keep doing right.

(Forget stealing and dealing
and violence and such
they’re ruled out completely
but not always by much.)

Sure I’ve leaned in aplenty
To taste wild’s fare
but my cranky old conscience
won't let me stay there.

It yanks me right back
when I near the brink
of leaving the good life
to go join the stink.

So it's really a blessing
I'm talking about
my aforesaid conscience
that keeps "wild" out.

Now I’m raising my shot glass
in a heartfelt salute
to my disciplined conscience
so clearly astute.

It’s telling me now
I should put down my glass
‘cause tequilla’s a vice
I should willingly pass.

There are times I won’t kid you
(Watch me throw back my shot)
when my uptight old conscience’s
completely forgot.

Cheers!


























 




Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Enough With Poem


ENOUGH WITH DOE EYES AND DAFFODILS!
                             By Doc Walton

Why are the poets COMPELLED so to write
Of Spring and bright flowers and subjects so light?
Why MUST they all pose the glories of Summer?
And deaden my mind like a boring harp strummer.

And why IS IT a must that we cherish the Fall?
Why do they write it so maudlin and all?
To poets harsh Winter's not cold and displeasing.
They WAX on about pure white snow, not the freezing.

Give me a poem 'bout the man in the gutter,
Who smells of stale vomit and's been known to mutter
Of women and bosses and life's unfair tosses,
Of setbacks and heartaches and deeply felt losses.

Or maybe a lyric about nature's raw side,
Of predators, prey, and life's downward slide.
Or give me a line that delivers a chuckle,
A deep belly laugh that'll make my knees buckle.
Or even a sad note that brings tear to eye,
Something moving, dramatic that makes my heart cry.

So enough of soft doe eyes and peace doves in flight,
And enough of bright flowers and your love's delight.
Enough with the singing of Spring and Fall's praises,
Enough with the mooning o'er all Seasons phases.

Just give me the gritty, the hearty and deep,
And give me the poems that rob me of sleep.
I'm looking for substance not sweet saccharine,
So give me a poem that draws my soul in.


Doc Walton April 2013