Published in over 300 journals, magazines, Ezines, blogs and anthologies, Raindog also has fourteen books including Fire and Rain Vols. 1 & 2 Selected Poems – 1993-2007 (Lummox Press - 2008); On/Off the Beaten Path (Lummox Press - 2008) and El Pagano (Short Stories, Lummox Press - 2008). He also operates the Lummox Press which has published the Lummox Journal; the Little Red Book series (59 titles); New and Selected Poems by John Yamrus; The Riddle of the Wooden Gun by Todd Moore; The Long Way Home Ten years of the Little Red Book Series edited by RD Armstrong; Down This Crooked Road edited by RD Armstrong and William Taylor, Jr.; and Sea Trails Poems and 1977 Passage Notes by Pris Campbell. All can be viewed at www.lummoxpress.com
An itinerant, self-taught writer, RD lives alone in Long Beach, CA USA. He makes a living doing whatever he can.
The poems below are from RD's collection, Fire and Rain - Selected Poems 1993-2007 V. 1.
Like the Wings of the Butterfly
The miner, Wang Shu Bin,
tells the story of his last
hours with his wife:
trapped within the rubble
of his hospital ward
after a devastating earthquake
“My wife called to me
in the darkness, we were both pinned
under debris, “Wang Shu Bin! Are you
alive?’ I said “yes, can you move?”
She said, “I am pinned from the waist
down.” I began to claw away at the
cement blocks that buried me. It took
two days for me to reach her. She
was only three beds away
from me. I tried to get to her but a large
beam blocked her from me. I could only
touch her fingers. When she realized I was
beside her, she was so glad, her fingers
fluttered like the wings of a butterfly.
For two more days we talked of our past,
of our love for each other. Throughout
her fingers touched mine, speaking to my
heart, directly. Finally, she said one word to me.
‘Wang,’ and the butterfly ceased to flutter.
Four Short Poems
I thought
of suicide
until I
remember
ed the taste
of fruit
The sound
of Buddha’s
voice lingers
in the ring
ing of the bell
Death comes
when hope
has faded
beyond
memory
The
blanket
of dreams
wraps us up
and carries us
away
THE POEM WILL SAVE YOU
“even their nightmares are ringed with tinsel” Charles Bukowski
It’s the middle of May and a warm tropical rain is falling
turning dusty streets into greasy ones.
I’m reading the newest book of poesy
from my favorite, now dead, poet
and marveling at his clarity and the strength of his lines.
He said it
“The poem will save your ass from madness”
The poem will save you
while fat drops of acid rain descend
while the bills pile up
while the paint peels
while you wait and wait and wait
for something to change
it doesn’t matter what it is
as long as it’s something
The poem will save you
while your auto insurance climbs
while the phone screams your name
while the pipe calls to you
from the other room
while your heart considers the pros and cons of retirement
while the babies scream for attention
while your mind begins to go
while lovers dream of each other
while you dream of becoming someone else
while hookers hook
and junkies junk
and the stoner gets steadily dimmer
while the whole county flatlines
from a bad batch of crystal
while the beer goes flat
while the women come and go
while you jerk into the hollow memories of their
brief laughter
while someone lets the air out of your tires
and the wind out of your sails
and the joy out of your days
while the life seeps out of your windows
and each breath takes you farther away from
life and closer into death’s final orbit
while the warranty on your vcr runs out
while the internet sucks you dry
while the open grave waits patiently
and the orange waits to be peeled
and the lights flicker
and the ground moves
and the really important stories wait to be sold
and the needle crawls across the floor
at 3 a.m. like an inch worm
while you wait for it’s promise of happy stupidity
while you binge on lollypop dreams of power and glory
while they plot the next turn in your life
while the streets are overrun with anger
and revenge
while you grab as much of the pie as you can carry
while the 911 call goes unanswered
while the oven begins to look very inviting
while you place a razor blade on your tongue
and swallow
while you eat all the right food groups
and still get cancer
while you starve to death
on a diet of empty promises
still-born dreams and low-fat hopes
The poem will save you
The poem will save you.
Saturday Morning Driveby
An old latino
at least
a white haired man
sits on the steps
of an empty lot
a nice house probably stood
atop these steps, once
but no more.
The man looks grimly
out at the street
as I drive past
He does not follow
my passing
with much interest
His face is as cracked and weathered
as the concrete steps
on which he sits
There is an easy sadness
about this moment:
The Man
The Steps
The Driver
The Street.
Nothing is required of
any of the players
only the simple movement of the day.
Death Comes Stumbling
Death comes stumbling through an open door
any door will do
Death isn’t too choosey
these days
Death is overworked and underpaid
a day late and a dollar short
Death wants to take some time off
but is understaffed and can’t get away
even for a coffee break.
I think about death differently
ever since that morning in January
when Death spun me around
and dropped me on the floor
like a rag doll,
my life flashing before my eyes,
the thread that tied me to this life,
unraveling while
you smiled
and nodded
at me.
Death isn’t that melodramatic departure
that I dreamed of as a child
or that martyred sacrificial lamb
dropped in the service of some great calling
“Nobility of Sacrifice for the cause”
that I mistakenly longed for as a young adult
And, most likely, Death
will not come for me like an old friend
in my old age
to ease my ancient suffering.
Death will keep taking pot shots at me
like a weekend “plinker”
riddling that roadside sign until it drops
onto the shoulder of the highway
more air than sign.
Death will pick me off
like a scab,
one piece at a time.
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