friends

Hold To Grace

You hold to grace,

Like a bull in a china shop

You teeter from side to side,

Like a rudderless ship

If you told me you were dancing,

I’d have to believe you

There’s a certain art to you,

A style soaked in you

This can’t be duplicated,

Can’t be imitated

But somehow,

You manage to pull it off

And I know the walk home,

Will be interesting,

And filled with hundreds of extra,

And dizzying side steps,

And circles

Got to smile

You have it all worked out,

Down to a science,

And perfected,

And done so without shame,

Or care,

Or regret

Like a small child,

I guess you just don’t know,

Any better,

Any other way

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

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A Gaggle Of Poets

Scott couldn’t keep his hands off the pretty ladies

So now he pays $1,500.00 a month in alimony

The rest he blows on his rent and booze

Pete killed a man in Kansas, back in ’68

Now he wakes to nightmares, almost every night

Sleep doesn’t come easy to him

Harry made millions in the stock market

Lost all of it there, too

Now he buys his meals on a government card

As for me, you should know my story by now

No further explanation needed

The four of us make up “The Gang”

Four useless and mainly talentless writers,

But so full of big ideas,

Of which so little makes it down on paper,

So little actually gets written

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

A Not So Well Thought Out Plan

I arrived around 2:00pm

I caught two different busses

Making my way,

Counting city blocks,

Until I reached the end

The end of the line

The beautiful Atlantic

That brilliant, blue ocean

I had never been in this town before

And although I was here for the ocean,

I was hardly finished with my travels

I had two friends meeting me

They had sailed up the coast

To pick me up

And carry us all

Out into the blue abyss

I knew them from my travels past,

Meeting one in Florida,

And traveling all over Colorado

With the other

We were a crafty group

Known for trouble

And always looking for more

But reliability

hasn’t always been our greatest strength

And we had failed to work out a plan

Of exactly how

This pick-up would go down

So now I wait on a park bench,

Just staring out at the ocean inlet

I write short poems to pass the time

But time seems to have forgotten me

Maybe it just got lost,

Like my friends

So I’m just sitting here, looking out

Humming an old Bob Dylan tune,

And ‘waiting for my ship to come in’

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

1%

Sometime I think

If 90% of all the people in the world

Were to suddenly disappear,

There would still be about 9%

Too many

I know, I know

I’m a glass half-full kind of guy

Look at me,

Mr. Positive

Wishing most of you away

I’m going to get hate mail for this one

I can’t wait

To hear from you soon,

But that goes

Only for the 1%

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Stealing Away The Block

I meet for lunch, with a couple of writers

About ever other week

We usually talk sports

And size up the women around us

Eventually we get to our writing

Sometimes we share our notes

Passing them back and forth

While waiting for criticism or praise

We always mention how much writing we have been doing

We talk about endless nights of our ideas

Sometimes I scribble some ideas down

Ideas I, or the others, have mentioned

With intentions of using it later

I have in the past, seen my friends jotting notes, too

And I get a good laugh

Because I can see what they’re doing

I can read their minds

They’re telling the table

“I HAVE THE BLOCK!”

“I ACTUALLY HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO WRITE ANYTHING GOOD IN DAYS!”

I laugh, because I’m the same

But writers are proud

Or stupid

Or both

So we sit at the table

And talk about how great we all are

All our endless ideas

Lying to each other, with big smiles on our faces

And we’d all like to wrap the lunch up

Go home and try again

To write something that we’re proud of

Something that kills the block

Something filled with the ideas

We stole from our friends

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Advice For Her

Life will have its ups and downs

We will see the best of days

And burn in the fires of the worst

We will breathe in the fresh air

And exhale the smog and grime

But never forget the good days

Keep those thoughts close to your heart

Protect them with hellfire and brimstone

For when the days do go to hell

And all looks hopeless

You can slip back to when the times were good

When we were in good company

In good hands

Safe from the winds

And the howls of all the evil we see

Nothing lasts forever

Nothing except the memories we keep

So dear, please remember

Keep only the good ones

And leave the rest behind

For no one needs that extra baggage

And it can serve a good purpose

Leave it behind

And let it be stumbling blocks

For your personal Mephistopheles

Who is grabbing for your heels

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Paul And The Bird

Paul and I sat on a park bench

Drinking whisky from clear plastic cups, which we took from a fast food restaurant

It was a beautiful day and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky

As he poured us another shot, he looked anxiously to the sky

I saw him do this more than a couple of times

“Hey man, what are you looking up there for?”, I asked

“Birds”, he answered. “Those god damned creatures are everywhere these days.”

“Listen, Paul.  We live in Florida.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we have birds here.”

“Yeah, well, not usually this many.  Did you know I counted more than twenty of them in my backyard, yesterday?  They’ve been shitting everywhere.  I got so pissed off, than I grabbed a pellet gun and killed one of them.”

“Why would you do something like that,” I demanded, “What if I unexpectedly shot you, the next time you were in my backyard?”

“You probably would” he said, “I’ll drink to that.”

So Paul poured two more

This time he poured them deep

They were taller than doubles

“Here’s to you, shooting me”

“Here, here”

And I drank the whisky back

Faster than the pellet which killed that bird

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

A Visit From Stephanie

Stephanie stopped by, the other day

She drank what was left of my rum

Then she was on to the vodka

The traveler she brought herself

She talked about her latest guy

The one with the muscles and the red sports car

I pretended to be interested

But I didn’t do a very good job

“Are you even listening to me?”, she asked

“No, sorry.  I wasn’t.”

She considers this rude

Never mind that this is my house

Never mind that she polished off my liquor

Never mind that she wasted my time

Well, by this time she had finished her traveler of vodka

She was frantically rummaging through my cupboards

“There’s wine here, somewhere.  Where is it?”

I told her I had a case in the garage

It wasn’t expensive

And she wouldn’t have cared anyhow

© Dicky J Loweman 2015