Cuz i'm a Cowboy, Baby

I have never been gifted in the art of poetry. While both reading and writing it, I can't escape the feeling that the bullshit is flowing. Both in my interpretations and in my smarmy attempts. I think it goes back to the book of poems I wrote in the eigth grade that included these gems:

Yellmert
My bird is such a happy fellow.
He sings for me and is so yellow.

(and)

When Prince Charles becomes king,
It will be a special thing
And all the church bells will ring.

We had to draw pictures to accompany our poems, and Gina C. had recently taught me how to draw clowns wearing sombreros. (That's the way I remember it). So Prince Charles looks more like a git than a prince. Plus there was the haiku about a young tree weathering a storm. I asked Brad what a young tree is called and he told me "sibling" not the correct term, sapling. So my title probably led my teacher to think the poem much deeper than it was in actuality.

After reading the pieces posted here, my advisor told me today that I write like a cowboy. Straightforward, honest and with a take it or leave it attitude. She said it much better than I, and since I recently bought a cowboy hat, and found out some ancestors led wild west sort of lives, this was pretty cool to hear.

So here is what I came up with today. We were given sentence starters, and then had to fill in the end of the line, and develop a poem from that. So is it bullshit or not? I don't know. But I am enjoying writing it more than I ever have before. (The top part of the first is a shout out to Len T.)

The dice skip toward Len
The stick pushing them forward
like they are late for supper.
In a hurry passing his gin martini,
two green olives speared
through their red centers.
Leaning over the table
He seizes them in a wet hand
lifts
blows
shakes
releases.
Catches breath, nails bite palms.
Silent begging prayers.
Thoughts race.
The money on the table is his.
Impulse to
grab it and run.
Could they catch him?
Rolling bouncing off edges
down green felt
settling at last.
Eyes widen.
Cheers erupt.
“Six the hard way!”
He doubles up and
Lets it ride.


Nothing was the same,
Now that it was over.
When he calls now
I force gaiety.
But I am waiting.
I know that now he calls for
something.
I know what he
wants.
I know I can be
weak.
I know I am
afraid.
I know I am
lonely.
But what if it is different
now?
Am I hopeful or
pathetic?