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OdinsBard

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

Me I Am

a dislocated shoulder
in society’s strait jacket
of arcane ideas of
who I should be
painfully extricating
from erstwhile expectations
and moth eaten misconceptions
Me I am and
me I’ll be
wriggling free
from institutionalized
lies and manufactured
rigidity

Only Me

I shall write like
Jane Kenyon!
I decided emphatically
as I set her collected
works aside duly inspired
I put pen to paper
to write
and write I did!
but once again I find
only me
only me
and it’s
only Wednesday

It’s decided

that I shall plant a
Victory garden to
celebrate . . .
what?
Nothing shocks me anymore
Is being numb a win?
A grey garden with
Giant Silver Mullein
and
Mexican Ghost Plants
in a bed of
jagged
shattered
slate
only gazed at on
cloudy days
as befits one sedated
by man’s hatred

The Eagle and I

Driving to Sperryville today
to score more raw honey
for the pantry
wipers squeaking maddeningly
on this drear winter day
I met an eagle along the way
perched midway up a small
dead tree looking decidedly
indignant
Crestfallen
not to be soaring high
through a clear blue sky
and for a moment we
were the same
He and I

Pull Up A Chair

Nothingness
has a nice
ring to it
when drowning in
somethingness
but I suspect it
doesn’t ring or
do anything at all
You wouldn’t know
you were there
So pull up a chair
Write another poem
Nothingness
will catch you
soon enough
Unaware
Mid sentence
if you’re lucky

Maybe, Not Today

I ought to learn
another language
Maybe Hindi
or Indonesian
Farsi perhaps
Maybe I should commit
to learning
something
ANYTHING
beyond just survival
completely
Abandon my hermit lifestyle
Get out of this fucking house
Maybe
Perhaps
Probably not today

Faded

The old barn still stands
A weathered trawler sailing
on undulating waves of
fescue gone to seed
faded like the halcyon
halcyon summer days of
small family farms
Faded
like the
Mail Pouch Tobacco
sign once so bright
on its slatted sides
Faded
as the days I
ran and played
oblivious
to age

You Must

It is you who must care
for no one else will
Waiting for a congratulatory
hand on your shoulder
you’ll be waiting still
when the earth consumes
your abandoned frame
Hear me, artists!
Ye small gods of creation
Though none may approve
you must do what you do
and unburden your soul

Most Every Night

In my dreams I rage
a vicious
devouring
rage the enemy
right in my face and
I warn him seething
eyes ablaze that I will
snap his fucking neck
He retreats a pace but
won’t go away and
I awaken chest aching
from the strain
Pull the heating pad
over my heart
Try to breathe
most every night

Brazen

The grey squirrel is careful
in his approach but no
more than that
Not a surreptitious bone
in his lithe rodent body
hanging on the feeder
gorging on the bounty
intended for the finches
and their assorted friends
lined along the deck rail
helplessly