Haiku

12th of November.
Neighbor's still in denial.
Trump flag in the rain. -- Jeff Barnes

Becoming Abe Vigoda

The sky tonight is veiled

by horizon spanning clouds.

I feel as if I'm looking up

through a burial shroud.

I can't see any stars,

just a hazy smudge of moon.

October's leaves, like my hair,

are falling way too soon.

The landscape is as desolate

as the plains of North Dakota.

My aura has faded to gray,

and I am becoming Abe Vigoda.

I mainly drink tea or coffee

when I need to slake my thirst.

Some say I should switch to decaf,

but I tell them I will die first.

Ice cream, salt, and butter, I'm told,

are unhealthy for my heart.

I would love a big bowl of chili,

but it would only make me fart.

I can't eat spicy tacos

or enjoy a can of  soda.

My churning stomach reminds me

that I am becoming Abe Vigoda.

I speak with what sounds

a lot like my grandfather's voice.

Laxatives, antacid, and Viagra

have become my drugs of choice.

I wish that time were an illusion

and that I could quit counting years.

The hair on my head is relocating

to a new home in my ears.

I hear birds outside and wonder

if they are singing my life's coda.

The old man in the mirror tells me

that I am becoming Abe Vigoda.  - Jeff Barnes

Count Stinkula

Every night he rises
from his lonely tomb.
He reeks so badly that the rats
all scatter in the gloom.
He has never brushed his fangs
in 500 years of undeath.
His bloodlust is only exceeded
by his rancid, putrid breath,
which is far more malodorous
than the most putrefactive quagmire.
He is Count Stinkula,
the halitotic vampire.

Wear a cross around your neck

and a filter on your nose

to protect yourself from the stench

that rises from his toes.

Nobody can long endure

the power of his foetor.

His shoes could surely use

a pair of Odor Eaters.

Would that someone had staked him

and thrown him on a pyre.

He is Count Stinkula,

the bromodotic vampire.

The villagers fear his hypnotic gaze

and the miasma from his ass.

Who knew that a steady diet of blood

could give anybody so much gas?

They shelter in their huts and pray

down upon their knees,

asking protection from his evil

and his backdoor breeze.

They wait for the morning to once again

break upon their shire,

giving them safety from Count Stinkula

the inordinately flatulent vampire. - Jeff Barnes

Pothole

gray clouds 
dispel
the residue
of daytime

goldenrod

and yellow leaves

glow with a light

all their own

my mind

is as full

as a pothole

in the rain

my fear

is as gone

as the town

this used to be - Jeff Barnes

Podunk

I don't have no fancy clothes.

I wear work boots and camouflage.

Ain't got no sissy hybrid car,

just a pickup truck in the garage.

I got an assault rifle and two shotguns

and my trusty huntin' knife.

I'm just sittin here in Podunk

defendin' my way of life.

My Trump bumper stickers are the only thing

holdin' my truck together.

Got a tarp over the hole in my roof

to keep out the rainy weather.

I shoot groundhogs to feed my kids.

My second cousin is my wife.

I'm just sittin' here in podunk

defendin' my way of life. - Jeff Barnes

Page 29

We only speak in the language of possums

and do not concern ourselves with human affairs.

The westward sun touches the tops of the blossoms

and we talk of nothing as we sit on the porch stairs.

We bask in the fading day's lukewarm heat

and feel nothing, though we keep smiling.

Ghosts of children dance in the street

and sing songs that are almost beguiling.

Indian music floats out of someone's window,

the sweet sounds of a sitar and a tampura.

In the distance the sound of a backhoe

fades out like the setting sun's aura.

I went to the place where they buried Mom's ashes

but could no longer detect where they dug the hole.

A ladybug walks across your upper eyelashes

as the wind bangs a chain against a flagpole.

In the lot next door I see a grasshopper jumping.

The evening clouds begin to turn gray.

I open my mouth and start to say something

but the force of silence buries my words away. - Jeff Barnes

In the Grocery Store Parking Lot

The rickety old pickup truck

sits like a relic,

facing us from the

opposite parking space.

The red part of its

Confederate flag license plate

has faded to the color

of Donald Trump's face. - Jeff Barnes