An Understanding

Rarities inscribed with scribbles

Nothing new here,

Nothing to see

Early dusk was the worst time,

To view his work

The same work I could never,

Fully understand

I was accompanied by a lady,

Who wore her blond hair,

Long and straight

She wore sunglasses,

Which were too big,

For such a stunning face

She look at all the works

She gazed in such awe

I saw none of what she did

I was too bored,

In need of a cocktail,

And just overly unamused

She claims to see,

Every bit of the beauty,

Hidden within these pieces

I only see the lines

Line which were not perfectly straight,

Not equally thick,

And with no meaning to me at all

But, it’s all good

Different strokes for different folks

Some like to write,

Useless lines,

Which often only make sense,

To the author

And others like to construct lines,

Lines drawn with shaky hands,

Originally seen through,

Faded eyes

The same eyes I don’t look through,

Somethings are better left unexplained,


Or completely ignored

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

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

What A Way To Go

They said he was a great writer,

In his day

And they said he drank constantly,

And wrote continuously,

While getting in trouble with the law,

With the men,

And with the women

Basically, he was an asshole,

And not the type of company,

Anyone wants around

So, in the later years,

He became recluse

And no one found his body,

For three days,

After he shot himself

So full of those writing,

And so full of those drinks,

In the end,

They said he was great

But no one wanted him around,

And this seemingly great man

Died completely alone

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Kafka, Bukowski And Me

Kafka turned to Bukowski and said,

“You var an arsehole”

Bukowski took a swig of his wine,

And answered

“It takes one to know one, baby”

Then we just sat there

In silence

Not one of the three of us spoke

I watched the flame of a candle

The only light to this room

After a while,

Kafka shot a confused glare,

Straight at Henry

Hank responded by pounding the glass of red wine

I just continued to sit there


Without words to say

Taking it all in

Basking in their pissing contest,

But too small to interrupt

And let’s face it —

No one was sure

Just how I got here

And although none of us admitted to it

We all knew the answer

I held the slightest chance,

Of getting out alive

© 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 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


In Only A Day

He told me how he didn’t do it all in one day

Just the same as Rome wasn’t built in one day

Of course, he said, it took a lot of his time

Of course, I said back

He loved to hear himself talk

To ramble on, back and forth, about all he did

I tell him that he has great stories

He asks if I want another

Nope, I’m full

He seemed confused and downright pissed

As if no other person has ever dared to turn him down

He also likes to repeat himself

As if in doing so the point will stick a little deeper

He tells me again, how Rome wasn’t built in a day

Now I’ve grown well past listening to him

I feel the need for him to leave

So I tell him the first thing which comes to mind

How I heard him

How Rome wasn’t built in just a day

How I didn’t want to listen to him talk anymore

Sometimes it only takes one

A special kind of asshole

Someone, like me

To remind people like him

That although Rome wasn’t built in just one day

It certainly burned in just one

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


One For Us All

_____ led the battle cry

And we all fell in line

Waiting, with patients and grace

To be mowed down in masses

_____ led the charge

And we all followed suit

Charging, with vigor and verve

To be stopped at the gates, with a bone crushing thud

_____ led the eulogy

One for us all

All summed up in one

And we’re still waiting instruction

Still listening for that battle cry

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


How The Famous Seem To Go

________ shot the hills

________ burned Paris to the ground

The moon is big, tonight

Nights like this are made for long walks

And thoughts about why

Why ______ hung himself in a closet

Why ______ died so alone

What ever became of you all?

Where did you end up?

What have you made of yourselves, now?

These walks create the questions

Never ending

Never answered

But the moon is big, tonight

And the endless walk is divine

Even though

I never find the answers

© Dicky J Loweman 2015