Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Robin Hood Hills   Leave a comment

How dark were those woods?
How cold and uninviting?
How lonely they must have seemed
In twilight’s macabre lighting?

How cold was that river
As you lay naked
Hogtied inside it?
While your bodies ran dry of
Blood, I wonder if your killer

I was born with one of you,
The other two beside us.
We could not yet grow facial hair
When the demon crept inside us.

Were you their killer,
Father Damien,
The Boogeyman of Memphis?
Sometimes I’m not so convinced
When you proclaim your innocence.

-Joshua A. Woodard


Lady   2 comments


She can’t speak in words,
But I know what she wants.

The day has grown long.
Little feet yearn for rest.

But she can’t sleep yet.
She needs to find her friend.

“Daddy will help you,”
I say as I get up.

“She must be somewhere.
Let me see where she went.”

We look in her toys.
We look under the chair.

Finally I see her,
laying with the laundry,

A light brown stuffed dog,
Lady without the Tramp,

My daughter’s true love

Joshua A. Woodard

One Nation Under God   4 comments


I went to the Chick-Fil-A
And wanted the Jesus
People to stop talking.

“Where did you get those shoes”,
Asked Christian number one.
“I bet you paid for those!”

Would she still have liked them
If Christian number two
Would have said, “The Goodwill”?

There is a homeless man
Under the stars and stripes
Looking to work for food.

Where will he sleep tonight?
“Not in our parking lot.
We accept no vagrants.”

I wonder if Christian
One or Christian two would
Go without shoes to help.

– Joshua A. Woodard

Posted May 23, 2013 by Joshua A. Woodard in Poetry

Behold Your Mother   2 comments

The departing sun

Is followed by a

Golden trail as it

Retreats from the in-

Truding eventide.

The loneliness of

December fills me.

Its chill squeezes my

Lungs, stealing my breath.

Snow covers the ground.

My childhood home looms


The burst Bulbrite on

The porch shines no light.

It was my last one.

Where is my mother

In this house? She is

Laying on the couch.

Her eyes are open,

But no one is home.

-Joshua A. Woodard

Posted May 22, 2013 by Joshua A. Woodard in Poetry

The Hand He Shook   4 comments

I didn’t invite you into my life.
When I was born, you were already there.
You lived in my Papa’s car stereo
And my Granny thought you were a hunk.
The scenic route through rural Tennessee
Seemed more beautiful, more peaceful somehow
When listening to you sing songs about,
“The ‘G’ men, ‘T’ men, revenuers, too”.
In my mind, the hills leading to Carthage
Were the Carolina hills where they were
Searhin’ for the place where you made your brew.
Every other weekend, you let me know,
“It’s finally Friday, I’m free again”
And I did feel free with my grandparents,
Free from a broken home, free from my life.
How miserable was I bouncing from place
To place never knowing where home would be?
I was a boy without a stable home,
My grandparents lived four houses apart.
I could walk from Nanny and Papa’s house
To Granny and Pa’s. You lived with them both.
There was a trampoline in both back yards.
Papa didn’t listen to loud music,
Except when he was listening to you.
Your cassette was our soundtrack riding to
The flea market, our excitement building.
I was hotter than a two dollar pistol
And certainly the fastest thing around.
I still remember the heat of summer
As we looked around for second-hand loot.
Me with my blue raspberry Slush Puppy
And Papa eating his Polish sausage.
Nanny bought a sign. “Two old crows live here.”
The kiss of the air conditioner was
a welcome relief, and you were waiting.
You sang me to sleep and I napped back home.
My Granny had two stories about you.
The only song of yours she didn’t like
was your biggest hit. “When that song came out,”
She would say,
“Your dad had just broke up with his first love.
Every time I heard it, I thought of him.”
I think that she was right about my dad,
But his high school sweetheart wasn’t the girl.
My parents got divorced when I was three.
My father pined for my mother until
the day she died. And he still longs for her.
He said, “I will love her until I die.”
The years have went slowly by and she still
Preys upon his mind.
My Granny met you.
It became her favorite story to tell.
She stopped off at the Quick Sack for some gas
And cigarettes when she saw your tour bus.
She followed your name to Cracker Barrel
where you stopped for some sausage, I suppose.
Your crew got off the bus. You weren’t with them.
Pa was ready to go, Granny was not.
She knocked on the bus door, and you were there.
“Step right up. Come on in, if you’d like to
take the grand tour.” Welcome to the fan club.
You gave Granny an autographed picture
And shook her hand. When she would tell this story,
She’d say, “I’ll never wash this hand again.”
Time has passed.
Her hand is filled with formaldehyde now
And my Pa isn’t driving anywhere.
Granny and Pa never made it back to
Carthage. They both bought the farm in Portland.
Nanny had both her legs taken from her.
Now only one old crow lives in her house.
Papa sits. He is unable to walk.
The flea market left with his memory.
There are no trampolines in either yard.
No freedom.
My childhood is dead. It’s pillars are gone.
Memories of you are my memories.
You are my grandparents Now you’ve all left.
I’m a boy with a broken home again.
Who will stop this dissolution? Who is
Gonna fill their shoes? Who’s gonna stand that

Posted May 17, 2013 by Joshua A. Woodard in Poetry

I Am the Seahorse   4 comments

I can never

Again be a

Dog on the prowl.

Hearing the cry

Of a young pup

And wondering

If he is mine

Would be too much

For me to bear.

I’m not the kind

To  leave a bitch

At home alone.

Sending kibbles

Through the mail may



For the wild mutt,

But that is not

Enough for me.

Dogs will be dogs,

I’m sad to say,

But as for me,

I am the seahorse

I’m home to stay.

-Joshua A. Woodard

Posted May 17, 2013 by Joshua A. Woodard in Poetry