By Bob Dougherty
 
I found my father’s box of stuff
while just cleaning my house
brought it home many years ago
and never looked inside
 
decided it was about time
to see what I should keep
old jokes   photos   letters   clippings  
no secrets or great thoughts
 
nothing of real meaning to me
that’s when I realized
all my father’s important thoughts
he had shared long ago
 
that’s the lesson in this I guess
don’t tuck your thoughts away
share your thoughts while you are alive
that way they’re here to stay

By Bob Dougherty
 
If you’re wise you know
you don’t have to choose
when you’re deluged with propagandized news
the left they spin      the right they spin
but  steady are  you     who knows your soul
who knows your soul
 
Oh, the mobs do march
and the meek demur
senseless slogans still make the masses roar
the left they spin     the right they spin
but  steady are  you     who knows your soul
who knows your soul
 
Power portrays pleasant faces
when vying for your vote
once it’s cast you’ll find no traces
                                              you’re just left to                                  float

Arguments                                  rage  on
tearing             friends              apart
  lovers yell                     and split
and it breaks     your heart
 the left they spin     the right they spin
but  steady are  you     who knows your soul
who knows your soul
 
You just keep movin’ straight ahead
‘cause you know
your soul
yes, you know your
 
Soul
 
 
(Thanks Billie)

By Bob Dougherty
 
 
A person over seventy has known themselves for years;
can sense every small twitch and change; has known both joy and tears.
 
A person over seventy has dealt with Medicine,
and how physicians poke, prescribe, opine, smile and listen.
 
A person over seventy once had older doctors,
but now they seem so young it's feared, wisdom their youth ignores.
 
A person over seventy deserves to live and thrive.
In matters that are medical; treatments should not deprive.
 
A person over seventy should not accept decline,
as just a part of getting old.  One never should resign.
 
“A person over seventy”, describes me to a T.
It also describes who you are or who you'll someday be.

By Bob Dougherty

 
see the wind in the trees   they are restless
branches wave signal flags   storm is coming
graceful trees dance and swing in their greenness
 
whistling winds hear them soar   wailing trumpets
downpour drives deluge drums   cymbals crashing
blessed storm   beast so wild   bestows wellness
 
falling rain washes leaves   shining satin
cleansed of dead   clinging weak   earth is nourished
hard wind halts   air so still   drip   drip      dripping
 
parting storm streams beyond   cloud break      sunburst
distant drums   rainbow tints   dyeing      dying
sturdy trees stand renewed      forest healthy

By Bob Dougherty

 
walked down a street on a cold windy day
just glanced at a window along the way
 
a face gazed back at me so gaunt and still
with glaring eyes and a stare like a drill 
 
passed by the window then sensed a voice say
“what a sad look, you can't just walk away” 
 
returned to the window wearing a smile
to my delight the face grinned back with style
 
left feeling great with the circle complete
reflecting on windows makes smiles repeat

By Bob Dougherty
 
I provide the needle;
without it there’s no music.
The needle makes things flow.
If the needle leaves a scar, So What.  
 
He’s a Nardis, Miles’ gold horn
rests still and cool.  Then caressed
by hands and breath, a focused flow
of vibrations emerge from embouchure
at one with mouthpiece as dancing fingers
modulate a tonal enhancement with mind to
mind focal enchantment from trumpeter to listener;
sounds stir, penetrate, haunt, crack, break in
rapid staccato, then stream clear straight
notes ending in soft muted hush.
Trane, Cannonball, Bill, Jimmy
and Paul are one with Miles.
 
The needle scars keep “click time”,
as music flows from the groove;
it’s a time travel ticket to 1958,
I’m On Green Dolphin Street.

By Bob Dougherty
 
I am not a painter or a poet.                                     
I am a bartender at the Five Spot,                                          
yeah a bartender.   I know all these guys.                            
Take Frank O’Hara, he’s a poet                                               
a really good poet.  He’s got a friend                                    
Mike Goldberg, a good painter.                                              
They go on all the time about                                                 
painting versus poetry.  Frank talks                                       
and mostly Mike draws on napkins.                                      
I serve them drinks like all the regulars.                                                             
So, Frank says to Mike about one                                                                         
painting, “you have SARDINES in it                                                                      
then in a few days they’re gone,                                            
‘Where’s SARDINES’”?  I’m listening.                                                                   
Mike says to Frank, “It was too much”.                                                               
They laugh over their drinks. I shrug.                                                                  
Then Frank he’s talking poetry                                                                                             
a poem about the color orange.                                                                                          
Frank says to Mike, ‘first it’s a line                                         
then a page not just lines then many pages
not of orange, but of words about life and
soon I’ve got twelve poems called “ORANGES”.
To Frank, "too much" is not a problem.
So, as a bartender I see it this way.
Mike's “It was too much” said it all.
When Frank’s got "too much"
he just starts more poems.
Poets are only limited by their minds.
Mike, when he's got "too much"
he gets rid of stuff to fit his canvas.
Painters are limited by their canvas.
That's poets and painters.
Can I get you something?