Poems by Bob Boyd

Like a surfer, he had the look and the mellow attitude, a beach pretty girlfriend too. Peaceful, cheerful, charismatic, fun guy, the best.
An auto accident on a curve, him driving, her dead. After that, surfer charismatic fun guy died inside.
Became dark and sinister, began collecting Nazi memorabilia, praising Hitler. Never understood why he became like a retro Nazi.

The tragic loss of your love caused that dark descent? Maybe it was guilt because you were driving and she died instead of you. Maybe you felt like you killed her, even though it was an accident. I could understand that. Maybe you went mad. You have the love of your young life cruelly snatched away from you. No justice in the universe, at least not for her and you, insane and unjust she was taken from you.

Haven’t seen you in over 50 years. Maybe you’re dead. Maybe you resigned from the quasi Hitler Youth. Maybe you went from the Third Reich to the Holy Cross. Hoping that’s so, rather
than you lost forever in that descending, swastika darkness. Hope you’re In heaven reunited with her. My heart bleeds for you.

Bob Boyd

Decades ago heard a song about not letting the sun catch you crying. Why not? Wouldn’t the heat of the sun dry your tears, and I don’t think it would care one way or the other if you were crying. Did that song mean it would be better to have the moon catch you crying
when many people and werewolves go bonkers when the moon is full? I truly doubt that. But what if I was crying then? Would the tears turn into
craziness and cause me to do something totally irrational like trying to fly off a tall building like the legendary Superman? Or, does the sun have a problem with overly sentimental people who for human reasons cry now and then. Is it some kind of solar condition that the sun’s allergic to tears? Or is the sun so sentimental that it would cry too if it caught you crying. Is the sun that sensitive, that thin skinned, like some people have skin sensitive to the sun? If I wrote that song, I’d be more concerned about the moon catching people crying, especially a full moon for aforementioned reasons.

Bob Boyd

The sound of your voice, angels singing.
Your loving looks, glimpses of heaven.
A kiss from your lips takes me there.

Bob Boyd

My life recedes. The past fades,
as if it never happened. This
fleeting life like an illusion
I blindly clung to until
I saw clearly the
impermanence of this
passing dream.

Bob Boyd

When I had cancer, dreams of women every night.
Angels, spirit guides, soulmate in many guises, something else?
Visiting me in dreams because I was near death?
There to guide me Into the afterlife? Never knew for sure.
When the cancer went into remission, the women in dreams
disappeared, and haven’t been back. Maybe a close call.
But I miss those women in my dreams. And I long for
the unconditional love of the afterlife.

Bob Boyd

Humans born deformed curiosities,
Camel Girl, Lobster Boy, Four Legged Woman.
Once cruelly exhibited as oddities in sideshows,
The only way for them to make a living.
Gawked at by curious throngs of spectators,
Teased and ridiculed by some,
Like making faces at monkeys in cages.
Why must some humans suffer such awful fates?

Bob Boyd

I see her attentions as frivolous.
They waste my time and never go anywhere.
Though she’s younger, she’s too old for me.
I can’t endure her insincerity anymore
and her unnerving, whimsical ways.
I’m too old for rainy day games
and fair weather love.

Bob Boyd

The moon pales in the face of her beauty
The sun beams when she appears in the morning
Birds sing at the sight of her
Flowers blossom when she walks by them
My heart bursts with love when I see her
But, alas, she never notices me.

Bob Boyd

A lady bug strolls across the top of my computer monitor.
I can’t tell if its pronouns are she/her or he/him.
Maybe it took gender studies in college, and it’s nonbinary.
Gnats flail in vain against my apartment window screens;
I imagine a few hot-headed ones are swearing.
A red-bellied woodpecker taps a tune on a nearby tree outside.
I think it’s an oldie, maybe Knock on Wood from 66 by Eddy Floyd.
The guppies in my aquarium swim happily going nowhere.
I think they’re hedonists living for today partying the night away.
The ceiling fan spins like a planet rotating in the cosmos;
I imagine an asteroid striking it and blasting it out of orbit.
In a reverie I find myself thinking of how in a perfect world
I would have been with the sweet looking, sweet sounding
woman who sang It’s Gonna Take a Lotta Love.

Bob Boyd

She draws near
my heart begins to clamor.
Oh God in heaven
why does she
affect me like this?

Bob Boyd

Free verse poems

Surfer Charisma Death

The Song About the Sun Catching You Crying

Perchance a Dream

Impermanence

Cancer and Women in Dreams

Awful Fates

Fair Weather Love

Guinevere

Reverie

Her