Roy W. Backes – Poetry

Willow Weeps

The willow weeps while
I sit in its shade,
My cheeks, as dry as sun bleached sand.

I want to cry.
I need to cry.
I can’t cry.

I come to this willow in hope
Of some relief.
Relief from my grief.
But my cheeks remain dry,
Not a tear in my eye.
Why?

The willow weeps while I sit
In its shade.

I want to cry.
I need to cry.
I can’t cry.
Why?

Roy W. Backes
© 2007

Surrounded by Color

Well, my friend, when your brakes stopped working
On your long drive west
You drove right under the sunset.
Drove straight into the heart of the color
At full speed.
I only hope that the colors
Are as beautiful from your perspective
As they are from mine.

May you rest in peace
Forever surrounded by the colors
Of the setting sun.
				For Thom

Roy W. Backes
© 2015

Walkin’ the Blues  
                      A Lyric

Standin’ on the sidewalk
Under the bright streetlight
Feelin’ the rain fall from the sky,
I scream, “Baby, it was only a fight”.
Now Baby, you got me
Walkin’ the blues.

I walk down the East side
I cross over to the West
My hands buried in my pockets
My chin sits on my chest.
Now Baby, you got me
Walkin’ the blues.

My pockets, they’re all empty
They both have a hole.
I kick through the puddles
Which only dampen my soul.
Now, Baby, you got me
Walkin’ the blues.

I wander back up the West side
I cross over to the East.
I move under our front window
Pacing like a caged beast.
Now Baby, you got me
Walkin’ the blues.

Rain falls from my eyes
I scream out your name,
“Stella, Stella my star.
Oh Baby, I’m the one to blame”.
Now Baby, you got me
Cryin’ the blues.

You got me cryin’
And walkin’ the blues.


Roy W. Backes
© 1996

In Her Wake

She came down into the shop
Like a bird who had
Just escaped its cage.
Flying from there to here
Trying on this dress and
That pair of shoes.
Everything was, ‘fabulous’.
She wanted it all.
Her daughter followed along
Saying all the right things.
“Those are beautiful”,
“That dress is perfect”.
After four dresses and
Six pairs of shoes
She chose a lightweight
Summer dress.
She paid with her platinum card
And flew back up the stairs
Looking for blue skies and more sales,
While her daughter carried
The shopping bag and followed
In her mother’s frantic wake.

Roy W. Backes
© 2010

Old Man Through a Window 

Standing in the mist of a recent rain
I peer through the parted curtains
Of an old man's window.
The color images from his TV
Create flat entertainment.
Bottles of pills lined up
Like soldiers next to his bed
Keep guard against the pain.
The bedpan, all shiny and silver,
Sits on top of a shelf
Like a misplaced knick-knack.
The worn cotton blanket has been tucked
Tightly around his thin frame
By loving hands.

His gnarled fingers grip the remote
With a fierce determination
As he flips from station to station
In search of something interesting.

Surrounded by the misty fog
I watch this old man lying on his bed
Watching TV
Waiting to die.

Roy W. Backes
© 1997

Daddy’s World

She grew up Daddy’s Girl,
Pigtails and pink hiking boots.
Scraped knees from climbing trees.
Calloused hands from softball and
Hitting the heavy bag.
She studied hard.
She played hard.
She fought hard.

Now, she is out in Daddy’s world.
A world full of sharks
With loose hands
And sharp teeth.
She still has scraped knees
From crawling up life’s ladder
And calloused hands from fighting
Off the sharks on land.
She still plays hard.
She still fights hard.

She grew up Daddy’s Girl,
A girl he taught how to fight.
A girl he taught how to survive.
A girl he taught
How to thrive out there
In Daddy’s world.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

Foggy Road

As I creep along this winding road
My fog lights on
My vision impaired
The fog wraps itself around me
Like the cool silk sheets
Of a fancy hotel.
Leaning forward against the steering wheel
Straining my eyes against the mist
I struggle to stay on the road.
The wipers sway back and forth
Keeping rhythm with my pounding heart.
I creep along this winding road
Slowly heading west
Hoping to stay on the road
Until the fog clears and
I can continue my journey
At my own leisurely pace.

Roy W. Backes
© 2017

One Plate, One Glass

Another evening washing one china plate
And one crystal wine glass in the kitchen sink.
It would take forever to fill the dishwasher,
It’s easier to wash the stuff by hand.
Her counter clean
Her hands dry
She wanders into her living room
Feeling the plush carpet between her toes.
While looking at her reflection
In the 56-inch LCD – HDTV
She sucks in her belly,
Checks out her profile and
Hits the remote, watching her image
Get eaten up by talking heads
And unknown personalities.
She sinks into her comfy sofa
And fires up a joint, her steady friend,
And settles back into another night
Of stoned thoughts on life and
A deep yearning to share
Her comfortable life with another.

Roy W. Backes
© 2010

The Steel City

They still call Pittsburgh
The Steel City.
Pittsburgh, the city that produced
Steel for over a hundred years.
In mills my family worked in.
In mills that lined the three rivers
And polluted the air.
In mills that have been razed
After being picked clean of anything of value.
In mills that are now malls and parking lots.
In mills that have completely disappeared.

They still call Pittsburgh
The Steel City,
Even though the last mill there
Closed over thirty-six years ago.
I think it is time to give
Pittsburgh a new nickname,
A new tag-line.

How about, “Pittsburgh,
The Terrible Towel City,
The city that turned mills into malls”.
What do you think?

But, Pittsburgh,
The Steel City?
That no longer applies.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

Whiskey and Lace

He noticed her sitting at the bar
Nursing a whiskey – on the rocks.
She seemed to savor each sip.
He noticed the lace of her bra
That she allowed to peek out
Of her half-unbuttoned blouse.

They started to talk.
His eyes kept drifting to that lace.
Her eyes kept drifting to her glass.
He bought her another drink; whiskey-rocks.
She smiled.

Eventually they left the bar
Both a little buzzed.
He invited her home.
She smiled and said ‘yes’.
Lucky for him he had a bottle of Jack
On hand and poured her another drink,
Over rocks, of course.
She smiled.

Ever so slowly she showed
Him more lace.
He smiled.

She liked her whiskey,
He liked her lace.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021