Author Archives

OdinsBard

Writer, author, Navy vet, musician, intermittent mystic, old soul and practicing poet

Comes The Night

Comes the night
when my sight
will no longer serve me
mere ashes blowing across
the earth
so if I find any beauty
in the moon and stars
up there
it will do no harm at all
to stare
to spare
a few extra moments
in silent awe
to imprint them
upon my soul

Death By Tech

All the hobby shops have departed
packed up and absconded with the
mom and pop hardware stores to a
deserted isle where they have laid
miles of HO track and deep thinkers
play complex board games neath
palm shade in neat little huts they
built with their own creative hands
A nice land to visit if you
get the chance but who can
find the time? Maybe they
are online

Tuesday Morning

The willow oak is
still holding many
dead leaves
A grieving mother
unwilling
to release
from her clutches
those lost children
whose winter has come
and in the background
Ustad Vilayat Khan’s
Raag Bhairavi alap
sings from his sitar
and I hear her tears
in each sweet meend

 

Mother

Love was the absence of pain
The belt withheld for paying obeisance
if the grades were good
depending on her mood
she might be lenient
a roof food clothes bed
nuff said
she the ramrod of this
orphanage equivalent
and no permission for
opinions
self
nurturing
allowed

Behind the Pen

I’m a rhythm writer primarily
My rhymes internal
Often merely implied
Subjects diverse
Some themes universal
Unrehearsed
Unlearned
A style cobbled from
an amalgam of great
poetic minds that
I imbibe without shame
If I am better today
than yesterday then
osmosis is alive
and well

Stain of Youth

When I was eleven or twelve
we lived in a house on
Grove Lane
The grove was
noticeably absent
but we did have a huge
black walnut tree and
boy did she produce
big aluminum trashcans
full we gathered and
dragged to the garage
until the green husks
began to fall off
The rest was up to us
and they stained
anything and everything
they touched
hands
clothes
whatever
but I don’t recall
what became of them
or who ate them
I never really
cared for walnuts

Poetry Slave

A poem!
A poem!
screamed the damnable wretches
as if I could open my hand and
one would fall out like candy
A poem!
Their words tore at me
determined as they were
to force my soul out
drop by inky drop
What could I do, a
poor slave to the masses
so I tossed them this –
and it passed

Dad

Up early
instant coffee
cigarettes
to work
hard work
cigarettes, Winstons
home
dinner
cigarettes
Korean war vet
bit of TV
to bed by eight
repeat
weekends
to the
library and
the dump
sneaking a few Schlitz
on the trip
to avoid mom’s angry fits
listen to the race on AM
fall asleep on the couch

That was dad