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Best Poems Written by Robert Boyd

Below are the all-time best Robert Boyd poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Slither

Slither
me slips me beasty heart
beneath a piece of guise,
and pens some page of wisdoms
to place before they's eyes,
and with they's gaze diverted, 
me dons me cloak of thief's,
and slithers in and steals they's love,
and leaves thems only griefs.

me slimeys up the way theys moves
about they's drudgy lifes,
and causes thems to kicks like bugs,
all caught in stuffs and strifes.
me sees this murky-mucky,
and glees it close to  breast;
me knows me must continue thus,
or becomes like alls the rest.

but me sorrowfuls am becoming,
as guise weighs heart likes lead;
it darkens up me seeings in,
and fouls insides me head.

now me greeny eyes does leakings
with only leastest nudge,
and from me slitty portals
comes oozing weeps of sludge.

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To Vegan Or Not To Vegan

I ate the steak, it was quite yummy. 
It tasted great and filled my tummy.
But my doctor says it’s best
that I eat more beans and suffer gas.

rb 2020

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Villanelle

Villanelle 
 
That which  brings joy bears grief beneath its wings. 
The ground of all our prayers is strewn with seeds. 
We’ve bid our grief come with the songs we sing. 
 
Grief is the old mistress of breathing things. 
We have sired and saddled our hope-winged steeds. 
That which brings joy bears grief beneath its wings. 
 
He who beckons joy, certain of its stings, 
The old mistress tricks on a bed of needs. 
We’ve bid our grief come with the songs we sing.  
  
The old mistress sleeps with paupers and kings; 
The seeds bear fruit upon which our hope feeds. 
That which brings joy bears grief beneath its wings. 
 
On our winged steeds we pray the death-knell rings 
Loudly  the loss of mistress and her deeds.  
We’ve bid our grief come with the songs we sing. 
 
Our needs sire our prayers, it is this, which brings 
Old mistress.  That which heals is that which bleeds. 
That which bears joy brings grief beneath its wings: 
We’ve bid our joy come by the songs we sing.

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A Tale of Supply and Demand

Tale of Supply and Demand 
  
Some sloppy light has fallen down, 
Where checkered mice drive kittens mad, 
And all the cheese is owned by dogs 
Who ride all night on giant slugs. 
 
Into this pool of sloppy light 
There slips a merman, small and slick, 
Whose only flaw is eating toads 
(He likes them raw and eats them whole). 
 
The word is out, the toads lie low; 
A crunching sound rewards the bold. 
And when the merman’s had his fill, 
He belches warts and slaps his tail. 
 
Now toads make cheese that dogs must have 
To keep the checkered mice enslaved 
So they will drive the kittens mad 
(This gives cats flavor slugs demand). 
 
Unhappy slugs are not good mounts 
And a walking dog’s a nasty grouch. 
A plan was hatched among the mice; 
They’d snag the merman late at night. 
 
They greased a toad with tadpole jam 
And placed him near the merman’s den. 
The bait was swallowed hook and line; 
The catch was scaled and poached in wine. 
 
It’s fine for dogs to ride their slugs 
And mice to drive the kittens nuts, 
Just so we keep the truth at hand; 
“The wise invest in tadpole jam”.

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Elegy

Elegy

this cryptic heart,
           
          vault of dissident scrolls,
          hemorrhagically inked,
          sacraments of savage lymphs
          and vicious tears, infested
          with luminescent worms
          that never blink
          in the sleepless black,
          feeding on the excrement
                                                 of nightmares

is chained in the Cavern of Septic Waters:
          
            the Communion of Arachnids is upon us
            (I see them breaking bread,
            a thousand swollen tongues
            licking the ruptured abdomen
                                                               of flies);

            i come apart screaming,
            i struggle between the razor-lips of time,
            i relinquish my right to thirst,  
            i languish in the putrid mud 
                                                             of corpses.


the metamorphosis is nearly complete.

                      swarms of leather-winged demons,
                      drone from thick hymnal of fear,
                      chant the liturgies of decay, 
                      cursing the nexus of light
                      that rapidly flee now these orbs
                                                                    of sight.


i have grown weary of the sanctions of breath:

                      Wherein heaves the orchestra of despair,
                      wherein lies the many hope-riddled carcasses,
                      wherein breeds the gift of fatted maggots,
                      Wherein moans the lonely incantations
                                                                             of endings.

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Passage

Passage  
 
Young boys prepare to slaughter chickens 
     they’ve pampered and hand-fed for weeks
     now, first killing for both. 
The same stump where they learned to split 
     kindling for a snug fit in the belly 
     of the old cook range: 
The axe honed to a feather’s edge. 
 
White carcasses bleeding under a blank sky, 
     lined up in single file according to terms 
     laid down by those who came before. 
The reasons given are sound, it’s how things 
     are done, the ground littered with feathers 
     and entrails, the stump red, 
The stolid harvest noted in sheepish grins.

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Poem

Poetry comes from the body, all of it, transmitted with marks on stone, scratches on paper, is kept alive to transcend time and space, reflects the rhythms of flesh and natural life, is intimate, is cold, is a message in a bottle, offends, comforts, and terrorizes with its blade, dispels falsehoods, guides the self to deep and personal interiors, makes music out of air and tongue, lights a single candle in the cavern, strips away the skin, bleaches the bones white, tells the true and untold stories of the heart, and for a moment, liberates that which we cannot define.

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And For Some the Abstract Is Real

And For Some The Abstract Is Real

 

It may be that the concrete image of a milkmaid’s stool,

It’s splintered and worn-shiny wood grain, gray-brown,

Three legs supporting a two inch thick oak round,

Twelve inches across, even in the mind of a fool

Can evoke a poetic response, the thought near-real;

A Germanic root is more oomph-palpable than a Latinate,

Yes, and it’s smoother, easier to say “the cat that ate”

Than “the felus catus that consumed its meal.”

But those of us lost in a verbose cerebral vector,

(Excuse me, I mean a too-wordy place)

Intoxicate ourselves with the oblique andobscure nectar,

(Er, uh, get drunk on the sweet drink, whose meaning is not plain)

Distilled from the idiomatic remnants of an ancient Roman lector.

(Oh, you know, brewed from pieces

Of language  with a Latin stain).

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Flag

flag

a train runs over me and mine
indifferent to our
cries its moguls feed without blinking are incredulous
masses going to swell to occasion grace is it
to be sheep suckled on milks of 
savage pride while honey-blessed malnourished
legions no longer bleat they howl with mutant
alchemy grey towers conjure only
more foul-magic talismans to throw dogs empty
bones will not satisfy even sparrows consume themselves in famine
they'll have to kill me i'll not taint myself in
their unholy rag i've seen them eat their children and pimp
their own to strangers
he began to weep rivers of flame and bleed armies of rage
too late to quench tiger-fire soon will femur 
trumpets wail chod-rite cymbals crash all urns of sin spill forth
lava-like consuming marionette and masters in
ancient ways known to all

rb '90

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To An Odious Orange One

To An Odious Orange One:

Oh enfant terrible, tiny hands clutching at the flag, 
Weaned from Mother's nipple too soon,
The nurse fed you caviar with a long silver spoon,
Saw your Father and the butler together,  dancing in drag,
Confused, now you look to Kim and Vlad, for the approval
 you never really had. Or did you have it , served on  ice? 
There's an empty abyss you've tried to fill with a golden shovel,
And no one dare say No to the very Stable Genius, 
Unless they are  willing to pay the price,
Heaved into the abyss, screwed, but not kissed. 
And if she were not his daughter, he'd be all over her, 
He and the late Jeff Epstein, pulling it together. 
Well, the great golden Canary, now in the coal mine,
In November will tell us if there's gas, or all is fine.
Some will drink the Fool Aid, some will decline.

So will the  Stars and Stripes  rally and wave, or curl and  sag? 
Vote, vote, vote, and vote, and oust the fat gas bag!