Roy W. Backes – Poetry

Who Are We?

Bullets designed to fly through
The air faster than a jet
At full speed.

Designed to not pass through
Designed to explode when they hit flesh
Designed to cause maximum damage

Who are we that
        Design
	Manufacture
	Sell
	And shoot these supersonic projectiles?

Who are we?
What are we?

Roy W. Backes
© 2014

The Blues, With a Twang

I love listening to the Blues.
Sad stories;
Haunting guitar licks;
Emotional vocals.

I love listening to Country Music.
Sad stories;
Haunting steel guitar licks;
Emotional vocals.

It occurs to me that
Country music is just
The Blues, with a twang.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

Painting with Light

They paint daylight onto dark stages.
They paint night skies and sunsets onto blank cycloramas.
They paint clouds, trees and windows
With every gobo known to man.
They paint mood and atmosphere
Where work light only exists.
They paint the chorus with color and sidelight
And highlight the star with a soft, white
Spotlight that follows every move.

Lighting Designers.
They paint with light on a dark stage
While I honor them with my pen,
Painting black ink on the white page.

Roy W. Backes
©2020

She Was Ready

She always believed
In the after-life.
Heaven.  Hell.  Or, God forbid,
Purgatory or Limbo.
As she waited for death
To finally come and
End her time on this earth
She was ready.
She was ready to see her
Mother and father once again.
She was ready to see her
Best friend, Millie, after all these years.
She was ready
To see the light that
Only the living talked about.

After saying her goodbyes
She was ready.
At last, she closed her eyes
And welcomed the darkness behind her lids.
She waited…..
She was ready.

Roy W. Backes
© 2020

Love Ain’t Comin’ Back

The one thing she left
Was his old white XL tee shirt
That she used to sleep in.
He holds it to his nose
And inhales the memory of her.
There is nothing else left,
She took it all.

He holds the tee shirt
To his nose,
Inhales and knows,
Deep in his heart,
That love ain’t comin’ back.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

The Tunnel

Train tracks split my town in two.
There was no, “Wrong Side”,
As far as I knew.
Just businesses on one side
Our neighborhood on the other.
When my mom sent me out
For cigarettes I had to cross those tracks.
A six-foot fence, littered with wind blown
Debris, separated northbound from southbound.
The tunnel under the tracks
Entered the ground behind the V.F.W. Hall.
As a thirteen-year-old climbing down those steps
Was like entering a dungeon.
The first thing to hit you was
The acrid smell of urine going bad.
I always paused, frozen in fear,
On the bottom step to listen for footsteps.
Then I’d run the twenty yards 
Trying to hold my breath but never succeeding.
Then up the steps to clean air
And safety.
I made that journey often.
Each time the tunnel fear
Took a little piece of me.
To this day, that tunnel
Still visits me in my dreams.
Or, I should say,
It still visits me in my nightmares.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

What We Leave Behind

What do we leave behind
When we pass over?
Obviously, we leave all of our stuff.
Our crowded apartments or homes
Full of our memories.
Our bills, both paid and unpaid.
Our letters, both written and unwritten.
We leave our families,
We leave our friends.
We leave their memories of us,
Both good and bad.
We leave our reputation
And what they all really, truly
Thought of us.
We leave our spirit,
The imprint we left on the world.

What do we leave behind
When we pass over?
We leave behind memories,
Their memories, both good and bad.
That is what we leave behind
When we pass over.
			
Roy W. Backes
© 2021

My Favorite Space

My favorite space is the
Empty white space that
Surrounds a poem on a page.
That means that the poem
Is written, good or bad.
At least it is on the page.

It is the looming, large, empty
White space of a blank page
That is the most intimidating.

Now, I only have the
Empty white space surrounding
This poem on this once
Empty page.

My favorite space.

Roy W. Backes
© 2007

Driving Rain

Driving through the rain
The wipers singing at full speed,
“Twhack. Twhack. Twthack,”
Over and over and over.
Squinting to see out of the 
Fogged up windshield,
Fighting the streetlamps reflecting
Off of the rain like a million
Teardrop diamonds,
I’m forced to ease off the gas.
Forced to slow down.
I look at the clock on the dash
And my heart sinks.
I’m not going to make it.
Not at this speed.
I’m not going to make it.
I’m not going to make it 
Because I’m idly driving
Through a driving rain.

Roy W. Backes
© 2020

No Clue How He Got So Blue

He sits here at his kitchen table
Linoleum cold under his feet
A glass of whiskey in his hand
Staring out at the busy city.
Couples holding hands walking the streets,
The distant beat of some music,
Traffic moving slow but steady.
He sits here at his kitchen table
Fondling his whiskey glass
Surrounded by the blues
Like the morning fog.
He sits
He drinks
He pours
He sits here at his kitchen table
With no clue how he got so blue.
He’s been alone for years now
Alone with his thoughts
Alone with his whiskey.
He sits here at his kitchen table
Spinning his glass of whiskey
In the icy ring on the table
Alone, looking out at the colorful world
While he has no clue
How he got so blue.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021