Types of Poetry

This is one of the Types of Poetry. A series of very short poems about....."The Red Robin".
Types of Poetry

Un-named short series


Richard A. McCullough

Birds cross in glancing sweeps,
their paths that search
for trash in the sea
swiftly glancing
as a swarm of tiny gnats
upon the surface of the water,
darting drops of quivering black,
fluttering nervously
across the wet bed of the wind.


Rain across the window streaking,
drunken arms of convex clear
against the pane glass window
where putty cracks
against the pleasure
of many nights frozen cold
and watching
the tippled bob
of glasses raised in meeting,
red lips steeped in laughing
to be left in the drip
of cracked foam,
only to be raised
and left in frothing laughter again.


There was nothing happening.
The gnats just flickering
about a clear glass liquid rolled reflection
and a whiskered barman
rolls a keg across the floor
and the song goes on.

Playing fingers across someone's ass,
with titillative thumpings.
She flicks fingers
through her platinum hair,
assuring herself
of her loveliness
and she is beautiful
and the song goes on.


Tugs laden
with heaps of rocks
to sink its steel bows
in the froth
and edging out against the smear
of coming lights
he blows his horn.


And she
with tintillative fingers is gone.
I must dismiss her
from out my keeping,
to dismiss her
to the arms of someone new.

Gallons, quarts and stubies,
pitchers to wash such salted foam away.
The blues.
Joplin singing "Ball and Chain"
and I just waiting
for when the night will slip
in mist-cloaked shoulder
out through the fog
to smother out the day,
but the lights of shopkeeper's street
clothe my humped sipping
with their dottings of the blue.


A swelling whiteness,
a Rainier truck whose attendant,
leather apron dripping from the rain,
brings us refills,
hulked in cool aluminum dull,
fresh foam
to fill our heads with dreaming
and to staggered wakeness
repeated endlessly
day and day.


I a traveler,
not necessarily by choice,
but by need or habit
from place to place
leaving in wake
tall slender good looks,
long hair
clutched in thumb and forefinger
and in tow
all that which has passed,
been before

and scribbling across bathroom walls
on barroom tissues
to those who must remain
to live the repercussion
of my passing,
must stay to hear the waves
of agonized ecstasy
lap wood and sand.

I travel,
though I may remain.


Barman fill my glass.
The night has grown gray-black
and I am afraid.
Ask me not of what,
for I cannot tell you.
You are not slender enough.

Who is this stranger I wait for?
Where is she,
this unknown one I long to meet.
Ask not for whom the bells toll.
They toll for thee.


Write on...

Richard A. McCullough

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