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Best Poems Written by Donny Rodgers

Below are the all-time best Donny Rodgers poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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As the Crow Flies

As the crow flies

I died. No child under nipple. No child under bib.
I died. Without ever having loved or been in love.
I died as the crow flies. Straight and placid.
I died. unmanned, in holster, uninhabited.
I died coralled up in moments, to tangeled to give an inch.
I died as the white birch tree lives.
I died in the desert. A sponge for the sun.
I died in a boat capsized in the ocean.
To small for the August Grunion run.
I died as the pen dries,
leaving letters undone.
I died up in fetters.
Rusted tension.
I died never forgiving my father, or mother, or anyone.
I died never apologizing to my sister,
the one they didnt want.
I died wrapped up in blankets
frozen to the ground. 
I died not crying for help, no telegram, no telephone.
I died never sending a single postcard home. 
I died never knowing my name or names of my friends.
Oh, i died, and i died
as if never have lived.

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Vilomah

I died
so the child in me
could live

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Cowboy Denim Blues

There is but one moment,
 in a lifetime of moments
That I would not trade for any other
When the fringe of the sky shone
Flushed with flesh pink
Like the tissue around a fresh wound
Before bleeding and spotting
The knees of some cowboy denim blue
Together, But separate
They were each color competing for dominance over the other
I was able to love them each individually and completely 
and with my whole enveloping love
To call each by its right name
It was a moment that required all senses
And while the payment was large
It rewarded me handsomely 
And before the crickets call came
 and chewed time off the clock
I took it in like medicine
To heal my cracked and spidering heart

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Friend

"I have been a bad friend." I don't say this to you now, as a friend, but rather, as the narrator. The hand inside the glove, so to speak. A lover to another lover, but the way lovers are supposed to be. Better lovers than I have ever been. But this is just a footnote. A mere disclaimer. A small dent in the greater entire wreckage. What you really need to know is this, I don't believe in love. I don't believe in passion. It's all an endless incessant clawing and scratching until release, until completion, until sleep. Now, I don't write this as an apology, or for pity, or sympathy. I write this in the hopes that I can read what I have written and scare myself to death. Or scare myself to life, that is. "I have been a bad friend. I have been a bad friend I have been a bad friend I have been a bad friend I have been a bad friend I have been a bad friend." And so on...

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Romance

I romanticized everything 
Because I loved absolutely 
Nothing

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The Bull and the Fighter

The sun has become a burden 
The way it rises and sets
Rises and sets
And rises and sets
Like the timepiece from my father
From his father
And his father
Like the pen from uncle joe
With the bull and the fighter
You tip to one end and the bull charges forward
Tip back and he's back again
Oh, how I drew such wondrous things with that pen!
Mountains, never ending
Fountains, never drying
Days, never dying
I drew till my hands bled
Tightly gripping my favorite pen
And when the ink finally dried 
And the pen had no use
I kept it
Just to tip the bull back and forth
Again and again
The bull never tired
The fighter never aged
It taught me more about life
Than life ever would
And taught me more about death
Than death ever could.

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In the Brush

I myself have gone hungry for more than a day or two. And the energy lost in searching could never be regained in locating. The only way to live in the brush is hand to mouth and then hand to mouth over and over again.
When the cupboard is full
The stomach is bare and the back aches.
When the cupboard is bare however
The stomach is full the back is loose
And movement is free.
Free to race the fools who thought preserving meant something. Free to beat them easily and get first pick of the fruits of winning.
When finally the fools do arrive
You'll be laying down atop your laurels 
A devilish grin a stomach full a rested spine.

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Rained Out 1

Rained out. The clouds seep through the mountains like a ghost reclaiming its land. Seeping through every inch every cavern every crack. Between your legs under your belly the small of your back If only to whisp across the organs keys again. If only to rustle the curtains again. If only to breeze through her blonde beautiful hair once again. To say, "Oh, I am here Evelyn".

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Rained Out 2

What moves in the rain 
Is infinitely stranger 
Than what moves in the darkness