Wednesday 6 April 2022

Three Poems by Roy J. Adams




Dispensable


I didn’t choose the pen because I had to or because of some other ditzy romantic drivel. In retrospect it was something quite different that drove me. For drones only that platitude


about long hours alone honing the craft. I was cocksure that “Hello Emily” would be plenty. Such was my insight that I
needed but unbolt the gate for great stuff to flow, lavishly.


Callow though I was, I trumpeted to my stately mates that great Joyce had ragged it because nobody read him. Real skill,
I puffed, knew how to scent the Sweet Will where reverence and brilliance bloomed and fused.


“That’s what we must do,” I told them, emphatically. No one challenged me.My grizzled peers
greeted my pomposity with wanton mystification.


But create something capable of seducing both the sincere and the savvy – I had no clue. Still, when I preened
my jeune homme de lettres, oozing both pensive and vulnerable, the girls would pant and purr.


It was trippy but I hadn’t the moxie to know the score: the pen was dispensable.




Lost


Beyond the fire lurking low

the cub close by to where we stood

went unseen but in her wake

our bin was bare; next day though

moving easy through the woods

she took steps a mutt might take.



Then upright swaying – to, fro

she seemed to say “where’s the goods?”

As if pals at hearty play

we gaped at her graceful show

big-eyed, wide grins stretching broad

when it dawned: this was no game.



We gathered handy stones to

hustle her into the woods

then mom appeared at the brake.

Our ruse at first made them go

but not for long, we understood.

We packed, stroked across the lake.



At our new site by fire’s glow,

guide’s tale froze our festive mood.

Destiny had raised the stakes:

their new mien a dead-end slough -

ease with man and untamed blood,

for them and us, baneful freight.




Wild Waters


Why not swim across

Martha’s Vineyard

where weather may turn

at any instant

from Arctic blast to Malibu dunk



It can’t be worse

than Cheever’s Neddy

whose story turned

indeed that quickly

from golden boy to fraudulent bunk



If you delve into

wild waters

You might excite

the No Limit Look



You might even emerge

in solid sync

with motcross,

tech-no,

manga, punk



Roy J. Adams has been a short-order cook, a magician, a professor, a poet but not yet a pirate. He has a black belt, paratrooper wings, a scuba certificate, an honourable discharge, a driver’s license, a Ph.D. and a Philly accent. He’s touched mountain peaks, ocean deeps and steaming jungle mud. He’s run for office and for his life. A corkboard in his mancave is full of certificates won in poetry contests. His poetry’s been published in Canada, the U.S., the U.K, Malta, India, Australia, Singapore and Ireland, the land his mother came from. He is the author of a chapbook, a full book of poetry, and a history of the Tower Poetry Society. Not long ago, he was the Poetry Superhighway’s Poet of the Week.   






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