Roy W. Backes – Poetry

Outrun the Night

It is a cliché’, I know.
But I have the pedal 
To the metal, pushing
My car to its limit.
Hoping the troopers are all 
Eating donuts with a hot cup of coffee,
I speed down the highway.
My eyes shift from the road
Ahead to the rear-view mirror
Where I see the night
Fast approaching.
I pump the gas, hoping for
A little more speed,
A little more time
As I do my damndest to
Outrun the night.

Roy W. Backes
© 2015

Time to Sleep
        (A Bedtime prayer)

Thank you Mommy for a wonderful day.
Thank you Daddy for our time at play.
Thank you Brother for teaching me things.
Thank you Sister for the angel’s wings.
Thank you Grandma for the card so nice.
Thank you Grandpa for some swell advice.
Thank you Teacher for new thoughts to keep.
I love you all
But it is now time to sleep.

Roy W. Backes
© 2001

Lost Days

I gave up another sunny day
Today and sat in a dark theater
Watching fake sunlight being put 
Onto a painted sky.
I can’t begin to count the 
Number of days in my life
That I have spent in the dark,
While the sun shined bright outside.

I often ask myself if those
Lost days were worth it,
And I always answer myself
With a huge smile on my face
By saying, “Damn right it was,
Every minute of every lost day.”

Fade to Black….
House/Preset up.

Roy W, Backes
© 2007

Searching for the Meadow

As I stumble along
This path called life
I reach out for hand holds
And tree trunks to lean upon.

I keep my eyes to the ground
So I can stay on my feet
So I can see the roots and
Divots that threaten my balance.

I keep my head bobbing and weaving
To avoid the low hanging branch
And the misty web of the spider
That covers my face in silk.

I stumble along
This path called life
Searching for sunlight and
The flower-covered meadow.

The meadow where I can finally rest
My head, my feet, my hands
And lay in the tall green grass
Surrounded by the fragrance of flowers.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

Old Woman at Red Light

Ancient old woman
Hair thin and gray
On her wrinkled head,
Sits confined to her wheelchair
At a red light.
The old woman wears a black sweater
She apparently knitted years ago
With her gnarled fingers and has a
Lap blanket across her knees.
Her care-giver, bored and uninterested,
Is an overweight woman who stands 
Behind the chair just putting in her time.
She takes a deep drag on a cigarette
Dropping gray ash onto the
Shoulders of the ancient black sweater
Like so much dandruff.
The old woman stares at the light 
Patiently waiting for it to turn green
So she can get back to the home 
And brush off her shoulders.

Roy W. Backes
© 1996

Marsh Wheeling Darks

Marsh Wheeling Darks,
That is what my dad smoked.
They are what got him the nickname, “Smokey”.
One of my earliest memories is
Of my father trusting me enough
To go to the corner store
To pick him up a pack of cigars.

I remember climbing down the
Poured concrete stairway at the 
Back of my house, with money in hand
On my way to pick up his
Marsh Wheeling Darks.

Whenever I smell a cigar today,
Whether it is a genuine Cuban
Or a cheap knockoff, I am always
Taken back to the image of my
Father with a cigar in his mouth.

Living in that cloud of smoke
That both my mother and father
Blew into the air made me
A lover of the outdoors and
Long walks in the woods, breathing fresh air.

Marsh Wheeling Darks.
I probably inhaled hundreds of them
Without ever lighting a match.

Roy W. Backes
© 2007

Brown Bottle Blues

Brown bottles litter her world.
They are everywhere,
Surrounding her with the Brown Bottle Blues.
Many, still full and sealed
For the future, wait patiently
In her over-crowded liquor cabinet.
Most, laying empty on their sides
Like so many dead soldiers,
Wait patiently to be sent to the recycle bin.
A Few are always halfway from
Here to there, they wait patiently
On nightstands and bathtubs.

Brown bottles litter her world.
They are everywhere,
Surrounding her with the Brown Bottle Blues.
There are always a few
Here to there bottles within her reach.
They are like a quiet friend
Who never talks back,
Who is always there for comfort.
Bottles that are always
Willing and able
To soothe her soul
As she embraces these
Brown Bottle Blues.

Roy W. Backes
© 2021

FLT 800

I'm standing on the beach of
Long Island Sound on this
The 17th day of July.
Last night 230 people
Fell out of the sky
Not very far from here,
Out there, beyond the horizon line.
I'm a little distressed
That as a fellow human being
I was unable to feel their
Entrance into somewhere else.

I'm not talking about hearing
The sound of their screams
Or feeling the sound waves of the explosion.
I'm wondering how the feelings of
230 fellow humans,
All experiencing the terror and horror
Of watching their lives pass before them,
Could just pass me by
While I calmly walked the beach,
The waves at my feet
Thinking about my life,
My future.
How could I not possibly feel
That surge of energy?

From now on I plan to
Open the window of my soul
A little wider
And try to listen a little closer
To the feel of the Atlantic sea air.

Roy W. Backes
© 1996

I Love How the Sun Says Goodbye

I love how the sun
Says goodbye
By painting the sky.

Roy W. Backes
© 2016

Ray Bans

Putting on my Ray Bans
For comfort,
I think I’ll wait awhile
For that sunset drive.
I think I will just sit here
In the sun a little while longer
Rubbing #50 lotion onto my
Soft, white, wrinkly skin.

Roy W. Backes
© 2017