Roy W. Backes – Poetry

Chipper

We had a dog growing up
His name was ‘Chipper’.
I think he was actually
My dad’s dog
Or
Maybe my brother’s dog.
Not sure which.
I never thought of him as ‘my dog’.
Truth be told,
I don’t think I was ever
Much of a ‘dog person’.
I’ll tell you why.

I had a dog growing up,
His name was ‘Chipper’,
But,
For the life of me
I couldn’t tell you what happened to him.
Did he run off?
Did he die?
How did he die?
When did he die?
I have no idea.
With that being said,
I think it is safe to say
That I am not,
Nor have I ever been
A ‘dog person’.

Sorry Chipper.

Roy W. Backes
© 2018

Stopping Time

Morning, noon and night,
It just keeps coming
And passing me by,
No matter what I do.

I’m reduced to sitting
With my back against the 
Number six and my feet out
Straight, firmly planted in place
Holding the hands of time at bay.
My left hand holds the second hand,
Which pulses in my palm.

How long I can stay here
I don’t know.
My back is in pain and
My arm is starting to cramp.

I look at the pulsing second hand
Planted firmly in my fist and realize
That I’m so busy stopping time
That life is passing me by.

Roy W. Backes
© 1996

Blues in The Night

Blues in the night
It only seems right

The blues belong in dark, smoky
Clubs sometime after midnight,
Not in a sunny city park on a 
Lazy afternoon in broad daylight.

Blues in the night
It only seems right.

Roy W. Backes
© 2008

Dancing in the Dark

The moon's been swallowed by
Dark dense clouds,
The starlight is all snuffed out.
In front of his penthouse window
Surveying the crowded city,
With music playing soft and
Romantic in the background,
He sways to the beat of his heart,
His hands in his pockets,
Alone,
Dancing in the dark.

Roy W. Backes
© 1996

Welcome Back

It has been over a year since
I last sat on this deck
And looked out over the
Bright blue lake.
As I sit here the wind
Blows in my face.
The waves kick up and
Beat the shore.
The birds squawk 
And chirp in the trees.
The eagle flies by.
All as if to say,
“Welcome back.”

Roy W. Backes
©2018

Murdered

My friend was murdered.
He wasn’t shot.
He wasn’t stabbed.
He was infected.
By a virus.
By a virus that kills,
That murders.
That murders by
The hundreds of thousands.
That kills you slowly or quickly,
That causes you pain.

My friend was murdered.
Like he was shot in the heart
Or stabbed in the back,
He was murdered
By a heartless, venomous 
Virus.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

Between the Lines

In bounds. Out of bounds.
Onside. Offside.
Fair. Foul.
We have been taught
To live our lives
Between the lines.

Driving down the highway
My car now tells me if
I drift outside my lane,
Often forcing me back
Into compliance.
Back between the lines.

I pass through this life
Afraid to step across that line.
Afraid a wooden ruler will slap
My knuckles.
A ruler that measures whether
I have stayed 
Between the lines.

I yearn to find the courage
To finally step across that white stripe.
To find the courage to explore
The other side,
To take that step that finally
Gets me out from
Between the lines.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

Beware

Beware
      Of William Shakespeare
      The theater’s poet.
Centuries dead
       His words live on.

Trying not to saw the air
       Actors speak his speeches.
But Beware,
       Many an actor has drowned
In his poetic imagery.

Roy W. Backes    
© 1986

Phrases

“You feeling okay?”

“When are you coming home?”

“I’ll see you later.”

“What do you want to do for dinner?”

“What do you think?”

“Did you see that?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“Just relax.”


Just some phrases not heard
When you live alone.

Roy W. Backes
© 2011

Carrying Grief

I’ve been carrying grief
Since my mid-twenties.
I carry it in my bag.
I carry it in my pockets.
I carry it in my heart.
I can’t let go.
The loss is not something
You can just leave
Abandoned by the side of the road,
Or buried in a box
Under a tree.
That loss stays with you,
Attaches itself to you,
Drops into your pockets
Or into your bags.
It stays in your heart.
You just have to accept
The weight of it.
It does get lighter
But it never goes away.
So, leave room in your pockets
And space in your bags
And carry your grief with pride
Wherever you go.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021