Author: Blind John Ellsworth

Blind John Ellsworth (1960- ), a (questionable) poet and sometimes Texas bluesman. He has recorded one spoken-word album (thankfully unreleased), since he is still trying to learn to play guitar. (Lack of musical skills is what makes him a poet and not a lyricist. Plus, he can’t write music.)

Progress

You can lose something that’s not yours.

I will see a mansion on a hill.
I wish my house remained there still.
Some unnamed Yuppie came to town.
He bought my house and tore it down.

I haven’t lived in it for years,
Which doesn’t seem to stop the tears.
It was the place where I grew up.
It sheltered me, my Mom and Dad and pup.

I knew someday it would be gone.
I just didn’t want to play along.
I wanted to be able to just drive by,
And see it standing beneath the sky.

Yesterday, it was an empty lot.
It’s now a place that time forgot.
I will miss my happy (former) home.
Now, I’m feeling even more alone.

I know that everything must die.
I just hoped to see my past survive.
I understand that times will change.
I just thought my past remained the same.

Plano at Rush Hour

He thinks that no-one will complain,
As he exits from the far left lane.

Kill me.
Kill me now.

She is like a pig in clover,
As she slides her three lanes over.

Kill me.
Kill me now.

He thinks he may have seen a cop.
So, let’s have all on Central stop.

Kill me.
Kill me now.

Some of the smartest people alive,
But none of them know how to drive.

Kill me.
Kill me now.

A Child of Many

Many things form a child into an adult. Some are recoverable.

I’m a child of the Sixties,
I can sing any Beatles song.
Peace and love,
Sex and Drugs,
I’ll party all night long.

I’m a child of Catholic schools,
I know a lot of prayers.
Glory Be,
Our Father,
He watches over us everywhere.

I’m (mostly) a child of Texas,
I got here when I was two.
Whataburger,
Ranching,
A State with its own worldview.

I’m one of the last Baby Boomers,
I was taught right from wrong.
Princess phones,
Playing outside,
In college, I even saw a bong.

I’m a child of many,
My folks, the highest percentile.
Selective amnesia,
An occasional drink,
And my shrink on speed-dial.

Blank

One last poem for NaPoWriMo

(One last poem for NaPoWriMo)

Last day of the month.
I’ve drawn a blank.
My mind is numb.
An empty tank.

My dogs are quiet.
Now of all times.
My annoyance with them
Always makes good rhymes.

I’m sure something will come,
There’s an idea somewhere.
I just hope it arrives,
I may need prayer.

(See you next year.)