Roy W. Backes – Poetry

Floating Dreams

The next time you are
Sitting in a theater
And the house goes to half,
Just before the lights
Fade to black,
Please soften your gaze,
Maybe even squint a little
So you can see all of the dreams
Of all of the hopefuls
Floating in the air.
Sometimes they are thick as fog
Other times just a few tiny
Dust mites in the air.
These floating dreams
Fill every theater every night.

The next time you are in a theater
Please soften your gaze
When the house goes to half
Just before the lights
Fade to black
And take a look at
All of our floating dreams.

Roy W. Backes 
© 2018

Conversations on the Floor

Now that she is gone
He finds himself surrounded by
Empty conversations left laying
Scattered on the floor.
      Conversations he could have had
      Conversations he should have had
      …. with her.

Instead,
He just knocked them off the table
And kicked them under his feet.
He tried to hide them,
But no matter how hard he tried
He could not stop her
From tripping over the copious conversations
Left lying on the floor.
      Conversations she could not live without
      Conversations that he
      Could not/would not have
      …. with her.

Now that she is gone
He finds himself surrounded by
Empty conversations left laying
Scattered on the floor.

Roy W. Backes
© 2019

Don’t You See?

They love, they laugh,
They cry, they lie.
Just like you and me.
Don’t you see?
Why, in your eye
Must they die?

Is it their hair? Their skin?
The shape of their chin?

You love, you laugh,
You cry, you lie.
Just like me.
Don’t you see?
Why, in your eye
Must I die?

Roy W. Backes
© 2009

Prayer

Do prayers work?
If so, how often?
What is the average?
If one hundred prayers get prayed,
How many get answered?
One out of a hundred?
Ten?

I think of all the prayers being prayed
In Darfur or Iraq.
How often do they stop the death squads?
How often do they stop the bullet?
How often do they stop the rape?
I pray tonight that prayer
Works more often than not.
But if it doesn’t work
More often than not,
Then my prayer of prayer
Just landed in a land called Limbo.

Roy W. Backes
© 2007

Shotgun

We
Are heading west.
The sun, glaring in our eyes,
Is slowly beating us to the horizon.
You
Riding shotgun,
Paper map in your lap,
Wind blowing in your hair,
Bowie playing on the radio.
You smile, look over at me
I smile back.
I
Am thrilled to have you
On this journey
Riding shotgun
And guiding me on my way.

Roy W. Backes
© 2018

Ball and Chain

The choker is fastened tightly
Around his neck.
The chain, hanging down his back,
Is constantly jingling and jangling
As he drags the chipped and discolored 
Ball through the dirt.
He leans into the wind of life
His legs pumping, driving.
The muscles in his neck
Strain against the weight,
As the ball grabs at every root and weed.
He keeps focused on the earth ahead
Seldom lifting his eyes.
He drags this discolored metal ball
Everywhere he goes
Wondering how empty pockets
Can weigh so much
And keep him down so long.

Roy W. Backes
© 2005

Hit the Road Jane

Hit the road, Jane.
That’s right,
You heard me.
That is what I said.
Not what I suggested,
Not what I hinted at,
But what I said,
What I want.

I want you, Jane
To hit the road.
You really didn’t expect
Me to forgive you
For treating me so mean,
Did you?
That’s not going to happen.
So, pack up your things and go.
Don’t forget your toothbrush 
In the glass.

So, climb into your powder-blue pickup
And
Hit the road, Jane
And
Don’t you come back no more.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

The Hunting Cabin

We called it “The Hunting Cabin”.
We’d go there once a year, 
In late autumn.  Hunting season.
Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Grandparents,
The whole nine yards.
At sunrise my four uncles, my dad
And my grandpap would all march
Off into the woods carrying rifles and
Shotguns and wearing camouflage coats
And bright orange vests.
My mom and aunts forbade us
To wander off of the property
For fear of being mistaken for a deer.
We’d play ball and badminton in 
The field next to the cabin.
The wiffle ball and birdie
Never travelling very far.
We’d run the bases and whack
The birdie and listen for the crack
Of rifle fire and wait for our
Fathers to march out of the woods
With dead animals slung over
Their shoulders and
Big smiles on their faces.


Dedicated to my Uncle “Shock”, Uncle Matt, “Smokey” (my dad), Uncle Al, Uncle Fran and Grandpap

Roy W. Backes
© 2013

My Voice

I joined the protest on a whim.
Unplanned, I just left work,
Walked down and joined the crowd.
I joined many thousands
Exercising our right to raise our voices 
Against what we felt was wrong.
As I entered the crowd
I became surrounded by signs and slogans,
Some handwritten, some professionally printed.
I found myself wishing that
I had taken the time to write a sign,
Even on a scrap of cardboard.
Then it came to me.
I had my sign.
I held up my two fingers
In the sign of peace.
My personal peace sign.
My handwritten sign.
My voice.

Roy W. Backes
© 2017

Last Visit

Lying on a bed
With a sheet over its face
The body of someone I knew
Lays lifeless.
I pull down the sheet,
Uncover the face
And look at how death
Leaves us all.
Still.
Cold.
Eyes, open, still blue and beautiful,
Staring but not seeing.
Mouth, open, frozen in a perfect zero,
With only darkness inside.
The soul, gone.
The spirit, gone.
The light of life, gone.
I pull up the sheet and cover the face 
Of the person I once knew
That is now
Just a body on a bed.
Still.
Cold.

Roy W. Backes
© 2018