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Robert Ray Poem
On a game field of the greenest grass
We’d touch, I’d run, and you’d pass.
I’d gain ground and you’d intercept.
Every game, we leapt and swept
Into the end zone to a climatic end;
Nothing left to defend or offend,
Too many touchdowns to surmount,
No personal injuries or fouls to recount.
Then, offsides, false start, taunting?
Your penalty flags left me wanting,
Challenging every yellow thong thrown;
Then ejected, exiled to the Friend Zone!
Copyright © Robert Ray | Year Posted 2018
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Details |
Robert Ray Poem
An imperfect Mona Lisa crumpled on cold tile,
Splatters from a deviant brush, a wall gooey red;
A hideous portrait, haunting, her vanishing smile.
She had a pretty face, I thought, mind twisted.
Her lover, the wicked artist on foot; me soon in pursuit,
Pistol out, radio squawking, feet and heart thumping.
Out of sight, in sight, front site---shoot or don’t shoot?
She had a pretty face, I thought, blood hot, pumping.
Silver shields on blue uniting, shouting, sirens wailing.
Here, gone, barricaded, cowered in a random shack.
She had a pretty face, I thought, kneeling and waiting
His surrender---stained hands chained behind his back.
She had a pretty face, I thought in the dark, crying;
A young man with a gold badge, still new to dying.
Copyright © Robert Ray | Year Posted 2018
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Details |
Robert Ray Poem
Midnight to dawn, our instruments work;
Exploratory surgery on heart and mind;
Sharpened words slicing skin and nerve;
Poking, prodding, invading, always bleeding.
Tissue splits, guts spill, the heart hemorrhages;
The most vulnerable specialists, we are terminal;
In dark corners, we write our eulogies in rhymes,
Red neon on silver canvas, ancient marquee signs.
We welcome strangers and friends into our dens,
An impetuous invitation to a desperate bloodletting,
Or for the most morose poet, a public disembowelment;
Our pretty pen dancing, piercing a hemorrhaging heart.
Copyright © Robert Ray | Year Posted 2018
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