The Rise and Fall of Smitty the Great

smitty the great
rose up from the ground-mud
where he was sleeping

he rose up
he rose up
he rose up up up up

and then he fell

poem by Bobby Crawford
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Analogies

Oh! you are bad for me
Like Chinese food
For a pregnant woman
and
Oh! you are bad for me
Like cigarettes
For a lung-cancer patient
and
Oh! you make me scream
Like an Italian
Soccer player
and
Oh! you leave me beat
Like Bobby Fischer
Beats Boris Spassky
and
Oh!
Oh!
Oh!

poem by Bobby Crawford
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Cynicism Is an Art

Come you little children- people
Children-people of the future
For soon you will be people-people
What sort of people-people will you be?
It doesn't really matter, really, because
Soon you won't be people-people
Soon you will be dead-people
Dead-people of so long ago
What sort of dead-people will you be?

poem by Bobby Crawford
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Children...

The window is open
standing knee-deep in freedom
Singing
We are inside
It is a back-and-forth relationship
Woe to All who try to stop me now
Damn! them, for all this is my dance
You must change seats now and
pray there is no god
For the Sun
is hot-
are you nervous?
I doubt you are(the Sun is hot)
The Sun is hot
You must embrace it(the Sun
is hot) squeeze it-
The sun is hot.

poem by Bobby Crawford
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The River that Slowly Rills

The Big Fish finds his lunch, and kills
In the river that slowly rills

The victim, caught up in the flood
First of water, now of blood
Death comes to him in blowing chills
While the river slowly rills

We see the blue is mixed with red
The prey surely now is dead
The carnivore has shown his skills
While the river slowly rills

The day has only just begun
Once of two fish, now of one
A strange home for slaught'ring gills
The river that slowly, slowly rills

poem by Bobby Crawford
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No Horse Town

i lived for a while
the fish who eat milk
stayed with me
i ran faster than the speed of tears
back and forth
the fish went
i wrote another chapter
in the good book
take it home
got to break out
of this no horse town
the question is how
the fish who eat milk
stayed with me
their story is long
the church organ harmonica
played out of tune but
it still sounds good
i sell fear
see the tip jar

[...] Read more

poem by Bobby Crawford
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