Strawberry Preserve Sky

It was a hot, but pleasant day,

The front porch was cool in the shade,

Inside the house I heard her weep,

And so help me God, I was afraid.

'Neath a strawberry preserve sky,

Me and my woman shared our pain.

All alone, with no one around,

We walked, side by side, down the lane.

It was in the morn's early hour,

The sun just peeking o'er the trees,

We spoke not a word as we trod,

The two of us and one made three.

A rusty gate opened for us,

We walked past it toward the grave,

I dug with my hands yesterday,

Sun was hot, woman called brave.

A wooden casket that I'd made,

Sat by the grave for sweet, sweet Sue.

She's gone from us, she went away,

Died two days ago with the flu.

I'm on the porch; I've no more tears,

Don't know when my woman will rest

Her crying, I doubt that she will,

Life looks bleak if this is God's test.

©February 4, 2011 / Jerry Pat Bolton

Our Love

it was spring

our hearts

burning with love

windswept desire

thunderous passion

our arms reaching

into forevermore

and then . . .

deceptive lightning

blazed a course

of deceits and lies

trivial at first

a germ of deception

on many fronts

infection set in

a pox on our house

slept with eyes open

trust gone

love collapsed

into and upon itself

we never understood

how angry we were

until the shouting began

the crying

shattering of thrown things

crying

you tried to cut me once

I stopped you

we hugged

we made lust

looking for the sun

to send shafts of light

back into our souls

we hung on

didn't want it to end

closed our eyes

to everything

far too long

after awhile

I snorted

began to wonder

about transmigrating

still, our arms reached out again

searching for lost passion

we'd lost the map

anyway

our thoughts

too dark to see

what was right in front of us

finally

tearfully

with shame and regret kicking in

we understood

we didn't matter

it was the "we" part

we'd failed to see

I'm here

on the banks of the bayou

watching my reflection

staring back at me

trying

in my own way

to come to an understanding

of love

I've grown to hate

the word

my reflection

nods in agreement

©January 4, 2011 / Jerry Pat Bolton

New Year's Day 2011 Poem

he looked me in the eye
I'm an intellectually curious atheist
a portrait of guilt breached his face
I'm in constant search of a God I don't believe in
when I looked confused
his laughter shattered my eardrums
pay me no mind
he sputtered through the mirth
I'm really looking for a girl with a beautiful body
and a sick mind

I walked away

wait, kemo sabe
he caught up with me
it's the new year
will this be the year we find world-wide
everlasting peace?
someone told me a while back
peace is overrated I said
what'd you tell him?
nothing
I punched him in the mouth

©January 1, 2011 / Jerry Pat Bolton

Chance Encounter

She was ravenous for it.
He had hit the jackpot.
She knew of a spot in the vicinity.
He was a stranger.
She had money.
He was broke and thumbing.
She paid for the no-tell-motel.
He now believed in God.
She was a wild-child.
He only tried to keep up.
She assaulted the manmeat.
He thought he would die.
She wolfed it down.
His knees were weak.
She licked the rest.
He lay back on the bed.
She slurped greedily at the feast.
He rolled his eyes and grinned.
She gave him the back door.
He was shocked but not much.
She was gutted with want.
He licked off her sweat.
Her husband broke down the door.
He screamed himself awake.

A Girl So Blue

 

We knew a girl who was so blue.

Why was she sad we never knew.
We wondered but we had no clue.

Some said she was sad for a man,
Whispers about a girl, Diane,
Who left her and moved to Japan,
We never knew if it were true.

She never smiled and would not laugh,
Walked around like a half-sick calf,
And had a neck like a giraffe,
It always looked a bit askew.

One day she up and went away,
She left a note and signed it Mae,
Said it was time for her to stray,
Searching for llama's in Peru.

©March 15, 2006 / Jerry Pat Bolton

A Date For Mona

When he gave any thought at all,
to Mona's lovely smile he bawled.
He couldn't help that the tears fell,
as he held his daughter Michelle.

Moments, when all hope was gone,
insanity sneaked in quiet like a yawn.
Where once he was happy and free,
a dark cloud had covered all reality.

The bedroom, that room of amour,
locked, bolted, nailed shut, the door.
Windows painted black sun not let in,
sealed shut  like the wall of Berlin.

The land, the countryside did not alter,
only his heart, cold, hard like Gibraltar.
Passiveness and all the normal judgment,
were cast aside with intellectual descent.

He lay on a bed of nails, his body bled,
punishment for living with Mona dead.
He lived in filth, his mind on one issue,
his brain zeroed in on what he had to do.

The moon, so bright, so vast and so pale,
shinned on the paper he read like Braille.
A finger on each letter, then on a word.
to not believe its message was absurd.

A mild and quiet man had been his way,
but he felt like he had been betrayed.
A tempest so awful had befallen him,
causing a plan to fight but not in a gym.

Man, when pushed can and will hit back,
that is why this man was in this evil shack.
The map in his shaking hand lit by candle,
was given to him by one wearing sandals.

He walked all night, the moon did its part,
hid behind clouds, he'd memorized the chart.
The arid wind stung his face as he trod,
alone, but armed, with the grace of God.

Armies had searched and came up short,
but tonight he was going to hold court.
It was the time, tonight was for Mona,
last time he saw her she wore a kimono.

He was not alone on the desert tonight,
his heart fluttered as he trailed his flight.
Hearing his quarry's shallow gasp, his panic
clear, he had come for him across the Atlantic.

He was there to put to death an evil man,
who had bragged about his killing plan.
Those in the World Trade Towers for one,
Pentagon, woods of Pennsylvania he'd done.

The man no longer ran, he was worn down,
held out his hands, pleading, looking around.
His hands found the throat of Osama bin Laden,
as he died, he cried like a coy maiden.

©March 7, 2004 / Jerry Pat Bolton

A Female Unknown

They found her sprawled in the alley
Dead.  Asleep in the Lily of the Valley
Obscene and cold, flat on her back
All for a damn hit of ten dollar crack.

Beneath the grime and blood and gore
The innocence, before she was a whore
Could not be seen, she met her maker
A one hundred percent street-wise faker.

Dead blue eyes, peroxide hair, a wild vine
Earrings in her nose, tongue, a defiant sign
To the world that she's a wild child
Who long ago learned how not to smile.

The one thing which stood out about her
Where everything thing else was a blur
A silver cross lay obscenely under her throat.
It looked out of place, as would a sable coat.

A silver cross, from her unknown past?
A present from someone she held onto fast?
A detective, hardened to scenes such as this
He shuddered, covered her with a low hiss.

Blue strobe lights lit up the night near the dump
The police milled around the unmoving lump
Trying to maintain, it was an awful test
The sheet over her body outlined her breast.

Each man, woman, working the dreadful scene
Spoke tersely about the fallen sex queen
Many times they had been called out in the night
To look at and ponder such similar sights.

How much can one take before giving in
To horror and begin living for a bottle of gin?
The one lying so still, sculptured by a fiends
Wicked hand carving out her end, not clean.

More honest in death than living the life she did
She was much more than a whore on the skids
My, God, a detective screamed at the slaughter
Oh please, don't let this happen to my daughter.


©August 4, 2003 / Jerry Pat Bolton