She told him she was a white witch,
no black magic, no evil spells.

A child of nature, incapable of evil,
only white magic, benevolent spells.

But when he left her for another woman
he lost his hair, and his teeth fell out.

Bob Boyd

If I had the brain of an ant,
I’d have no cares about politics,

corrupt politicians, open borders,
ceaseless crime, the cost of living,

the threat of health problems,
insufferable people, break ups,

divorces, random mass murders,
looming wars, and far more.

Had I the tiny brain of an ant,
I wouldn’t worry about any of that.

Bob Boyd

He learned what he didn’t want
to know about her back in 1982,

his lovely neighbor who sold
her body for money.

She was sweet and nice to
everyone, didn’t seem the type

to engage in selling her body
along with the dangerous risks.

She was murdered in 1983,
a customer who was a serial killer.

Bob Boyd

Once in a while I use to write love poems,
but not with any woman in mind.

I thought I wrote them because it seemed obligatory
to write some love poems as one who writes poetry.

But maybe as a song birds sings songs seeking a mate,
I was writing love poems for the same reason.

Now I don’t write love poems anymore, maybe
because I’m not seeking love anymore.

Bob Boyd

I’m watching actors in a 30s movie,
doubtlessly dead, all of them.

Lives once bursting with excitement,
dreams and ambitions.

Careers lighting up the silver screen,
some famous in their days.

Now all dead, the excitement, dreams
and ambitions

obliterated and gone to dust.

Bob Boyd

Little bird trapped in a tiny cage,
and born in one,

does a part of you ever yearn
for the freedom you never knew?

Is there a primordial collective
memory inside of you that

beckons back something more
than being trapped till you die

in a tiny cage?

And do you sing your songs
daily for the sweetheart
you never knew

and who will never hear
your beautiful songs?

Maybe like you, I’m trapped
in a tiny cage too.

Bob Boyd

According to various historical accounts,
Saint Joseph of Cupertino could smell sin,
“foul, unbearable odors around certain people.”

In various passages in the Bible the stench
of sin is written about.

Pray, Pilgrim, that when you die, you smell
like the lillies in the fields instead of
the skunks in the forests.

Pray, Pilgrim that all this talk about the
stench of sin is metaphorical,

and you won’t need deodorant
in the hereafter.

Bob Boyd

Assuming there’s an afterlife, which I believe
there is

I’ve often wondered if I would meet people there
I knew on earth and didn’t like

Were I to meet people I didn’t like in the afterlife
or people who didn’t like me

that would turn my afterlife experiences from the
supposed light and love into a hereafter hell.

Bob Boyd

When he was a child,
he prayed to God for a pony,
never got it.

He was led to believe God
was like a genie in a bottle
that you prayed to for things
and you got them.

Throughout the years
most of his prayers went
unanswered

and he wondered if God
really ever answered
prayers

or if those prayers he
thought might have been
answered were merely
conindences

he never lost his belief
in God, but he became
a skeptic about the
effectiveness of prayers.

Bob Boyd

Her marriage had become boring;
she no longer loved her husband.

She decided she needed her freedom
and another shot at lasting, romantic love.

After the divorce, she posted alluring photos of
herself on social media,

joined dating apps, had a hundred men
vying for her attention.

After dozens of disappointments, married men,
men who were users, one night stands, etc,

she became emotionally hardened and grilled
potential dates as if they were applying for a job.

Bitter, feeling used, growing older, she hated
the dating apps but still used them,

and she missed the stability of her failed marriage,
wondered if she should have tried harder to salvage it.

Bob Boyd