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Paul Ruth Poem
Hanging out, a smoked
filled bar: waiting for the dime
Jukebox, my one song.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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Paul Ruth Poem
me
the dog
detroit
defiant
radical
rascal
searching
you
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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Paul Ruth Poem
The planets seem to fall
when I cry.
But it is only the wind drying out my contacts.
It seems so small,
my soul, sitting in silence
Just waiting for my justification
of existence. The clouds give me reason.
Still, though, it may be pointless.
Religion may be wrong.
Often times I hear them question it.
In a room speaking of
Michelangelo.
Should we wait? for a time?
When all the planets align?
or islands to move?
No, says the optimist!
Maybe says the pessimist.
As for me, it does not matter
anymore, like a lost teen.
(Doing drugs desperately)
Suicide or death, or even life.
Makes no difference.
Planets only seem to fall
when I cry.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2010
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Paul Ruth Poem
Life is a baseball out
of bounds.
When grounded in foul
actions, words, or thoughts
it becomes a strike,
but can't get you out.
Line driven into 3rd base seats
may hurt somebody, but usually
causes amusement.
Over swinging makes a big mistake,
for when someone catches you,
you look stupid.
But at times
you guess right
(she really does love you, "c" was the right answer, that promotions was waiting
willfully for you, the kiss of a marriage was true)
and the crowd stands in awe.
The silence screaming,
and the ball just barely leaps over the fence.
All, everything in the world seems happy,
or content.
Unless, you catch a sight
of the pitcher.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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Paul Ruth Poem
A shooting today-
a southern technical school.
14 dead.
A young man leaving
the safe place he built.
22 dead.
A community terrorized-
a single lone gunman.
31 dead.
A storming tragic event
leaving questions, asking answers.
33 dead.
33 Dead.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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Paul Ruth Poem
Somewhere, someplace,
someone is playing a guitar.
Sitting alone,
in a room, in an unromantic city.
Somewhere, someplace,
someone truly honest, sublime
birth of a phoenix
renaissance of hope
where the snow piles up
and the sun becomes a clouded pimple.
Somewhere, someplace,
someone is alone
in an unromantic room.
Believing that no one hears,
or cares.
Never caring, never hoping,
someone is playing six strings
to the beat of the oversoul.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2009
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Paul Ruth Poem
Old yellow light buzz
like a fly by your ear,
a mummer in the corner
of someone's distant future.
And old yellow light sit
behind the lamp shade,
behind hidden like a criminal
robbing mother earth.
So old yellow light stay alive
while I write this poem,
hold on a little bit longer
while I try
try, and capture the 20th century.
Don't let me forget.
Don't let it go yellow light,
you're our only hope to hold heavy
the lesson's of the past
and the innocence of what we thought was
to come
Old yellow light buzz
just while I finish this poem.
While some still read,
some still hope,
some still think and learn
from the past.
Let it not be humanity's last.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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Paul Ruth Poem
Time, cool
moving through patience.
On the edge of suddenly,
on the brink of death.
Waiting to be born,
hedging off of expected.
The cage bird sings,
an exile to hope,
a child waits for Christmas
mornings sitting with joy.
How does your seesaw balance?
Which way does wind blow west?
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2009
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Paul Ruth Poem
I saw myself hanging
yesterday, from a tree branch.
A cold face
and heavy arms and legs;
a paleness to my skin,
which did not arise from the cold winter evening.
The tree was asleep,
ready to crack, the ice weighing it down.
I saw myself hanging yesterday,
from a tree by a noose.
And today, I see myself
laying on the bathroom floor,
spilling the blood from my
wrist, waiting for the pain to cease my life.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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Paul Ruth Poem
Who has heard the voice?
Who knows the verse,
on a quiet Sunday that waits
silently? No one has seen.
Who has learned
of the champion from Detroit,
the laureate of America,
the subtle poet of history
pacing the halls of the black mind?
What has been the pride
of a near blind man,
who took the bus, and doesn’t drive
to work everyday,
but who saw life’s light?
Who has heard the voice?
No one has seen.
Who does not ignore
the poetry of the 1st laureate
of a culture versatile?
Robert Hayden.
Students might never see.
Copyright © Paul Ruth | Year Posted 2008
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