morbid

Purpose

Rolling up in a black limousine

Tallying all the fortunate little ones

With the big minds and tired, drab ideas

Sucking the very soul out of life

Fight on, but only with a purpose

Like floating the waves,

In the calm, after a scathing storm

The pieces will fall,

Laying and crying at your feet,

Begging to be stepped on,

Screaming for the hurt

But in this dismal time,

There is sometimes tucked a flower,

With the beauty of a smile,

Like that from some past lover

A smile you’d go to battle for,

Climb mountains to get to,

And give your last nickel,

Just to see once more

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Miller’s Problem, Not Mine

Push against the wind,

The wild flowers,

The rains,

The sea, the sun,

And all those who get in the way

Stare down the barrel of a gun,

And smile wide,

Just like you would do for the camera

This is all that’s left, my friend

The good times,

Jumped ship,

And I’m thinking,

You should, too

But make sure to go out with a bang

Make sure they remember you

Who cares if they ever knew your name

But make sure your face,

Is forever seared onto their brains

Stick to it,

Like dog shit to a shoe

Make it good,

Make it count

Then go and count your blessing,

Lick your wounds,

And cry to all the nameless faces,

You stored away,

And hoped would stay locked up,

For all of time,

For good.

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Hitchhiker

The news paper article,

Say the body was found,

On a particularly hot,

Monday morning

An unsuspecting jogger who was

A sophomore at the university,

Was the first to see him

Bloated, rotting

And taking on a good suntan

The paper said he was a

Hitchhiker

From the Boston area

The local authorities didn’t

Have a clue as to why

He was here

Apparently his wallet,

His cash and ID

Were missing

He had nothing

Of major value to

Anyone else

Except for a map

With the small town,

Of Asheville, N.C.,

Circled in red

Of course, this had police baffled

Not because of the robbery,

Not because of the killing,

Only because he was so far off

And there wasn’t anyone

In Asheville

Who was looking for him

Or, at least

Wanted to claim him

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Public Service Announcement

As the killing season gets into full swing

The poets are becoming oh so more aggressive

Here’s what the literary behemoths want you to know

A simple set of rules to avoid becoming a victim

–This very season brings out the nastiness from the writing artist

–This timely increase is not an isolated affair

–It is certainly not confined to a specific geographical area

This has been a public service announcement

Thought you’d like to know

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Number 3 from Scourge

No Sunshine

There isn’t anything left for us

We accomplished all we set out to do

We turned on the days

Just to have the nights

But what did that get us?

Soon we were sick

Sick of the darkness and the never-ending plights

Fires we burned always turned to ash

So boredom takes its place

And with a little bit of willingness

She will roll us into the grave

The final resting place

Where the dirt is piled so high

And we will be the reasons for the flowers above us

But, then again, we asked for this

Prayed for this

Begged for it

Until our mouths rotted and what was left of our souls

Dried up and drifted in the chilly nighttime winds

This is what we wanted

We planned it out, we played it over

Over and over again, nightly

Never skipping a step

Never missing a beat

No sunshine

Just ash

And cold

And darkness

No sunshine

Just the night

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Sick Puppy

I spent two days straight in bed

Sick as a dog, knocking on death’s door

My shotgun trip to New York was the cause for all of this love

My 102 degree fever

My sweats and shivers

My aching muscles and panicked stumbles to the bathroom

I’m just like most men

I don’t handle being sick very well

I live with the constant thoughts that

‘This must be the end’

‘This is how I’m going to go’

The fact is

Even a small cold and case of the flue

Is enough to turn me into a small scared child

Who just curls up in bed

And waits, patiently

For death to come and collect the winnings

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Machine Of No Thoughts

Some days I sit in front of this machine

I wait for a miracle

I wait for the writing to start

Sometimes nothing comes

And I’m left sitting here

With what I imagine to be a dumb look on my face

These aren’t the good times

In fact, these can be some of the worst

Board, dumb-looking, without a thought to write

I think I’ll fix a drink

I hope these times are short

© Dicky J Loweman 2014