Roshi Hogan Poetry

The birds singing in the trees do not know of your sorrow

One ship has sailed and along with it went some of your dreams and as it did, another ship pulled into port carrying treasures for you that you can’t even guess at...

There are more interesting stories to be found in a graveyard than a library...

I could listen to Dave Brubeck all night

and pretend I could play like him

in some dark and cool club

two blocks off of reality street

i’m old now and jaded

but that impresses me to no end

it is the ultimate of ultimates

i need a dark place

i need a glass of something cool

and some dark glasses

and a leather jacket

and a don’t give a damn attitude

but it’s probably too late for all that

I should have started sooner


Some days crawl by

Like a wounded man

On his hands and knees

Each second, a moment of agony

There are other days though

Happy days

That pass like a shooting star

And if we are lucky

Time builds no barrier

Between us


I sit in the den

Staring into a dying fire

In the old stone fireplace

Then I go to my studio

To finish my latest painting

That will be stacked up against the wall

With all the other masterpieces

That no one wants

Then I pick up a book

And read about a poet I have

Always admired

I read with great interest

Until much to my dismay

I find that he died at an age

Much younger than I am right now

And somehow he loses some of his credibility

For the aging man

The passing of days is merciless

He waits for the unsaid

One foot in the grave

And another on a patch of ice

His afternoons are slow

But time speeds past

He longs for the old days

Some of which he can’t remember

But he wants them anyway

The body is now frail

The hair gray or gone

Stranger in the mirror

Looks at him with dark eyes

Those that know what is coming
 I enjoy a cool and rainy day

Days that most others don’t

I enjoy a sunny day now and then

But I’ve always been most comfortable

in a cool damp mist

Somewhere in the overcast skies

A spirit or some such thing

Is awakened inside

Though I’m not sure that’s what it is

Or if it really exists

All I know is a kind of oneness

An extension of myself

Going out and falling among the trees

And the wet streets

That I walk

The day I did nothing
But lay in bed until five p.m.
Was the best day of work
I have ever done
The day I learned how to live
From watching the passing clouds
On a small patch of grass
On a fall day
Was of far greater value
Than all my years of learning
In a brick and mortar school
The day I gazed out the window
For hours and hours
And watched the snowflakes
Fall into their perfect resting places
Told me more than I could ever be told

One side of his family had been English
Classy, stylish
Earl Grey tea from the bone china cup
Expert gardeners, bowler hats
The other side of the family had been from Russia
Exciting, dangerous
Vodka straight from the bottle
Cossacks on horses
He himself was from American middle class suburbia
And he hated himself for it

There was the old house
With the green swirly carpet
And the big TV antenna outside
That somehow only got three channels
And then there was the house with the cerulean blue carpet
That we said was so perfect for a place in Florida
Where the rain played drums
On the metal roof of the porch

These were houses, but not home
Home was where
We had the bright red carpet in the bedroom
And in the coolness of the basement
We listened to music late at night
And pretended we were popular

Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep
The leaves continue to fall
My broom is tired

As the snow falls

My mind falls away
Melting into the ground

Gazing at the moon
Wondering how it got there
A hot cup of tea

Raindrop on window
Reaches its destination
You have come so far

Yin is in yang
Yang is in yin
I am in pajamas

Do the stars look down?
What do they see?
What must be their dreams?
Listening to the music

All alone in the dark basement 
Pretending to be popular
Opening the blinds
On a chilly day and sitting
On the floor in the sun

I watch the dogs play
Under the sprawling old oaks
By the cemetery

On the way to work
She dreams of missing the exit
Going anywhere else


The Muse

Everyone has a muse

Some have more than one

Muses are often quite mysterious

They seem to find you more often

Than you find them

They come in a variety of flavors

There are muses for painting

Muses for sculpting I suppose

And of course there are muses

For the musically inclined

They emerge from a shadow

Or breath of wind

Filling up that crack

Or in some cases a chasm

That amusingly we believe there to be

Maybe there should be a museum

For all these muses

To honor their accomplishments

The things they have inspired

The lives they have changed

Real Poetry

Someone once told me

“Your poetry ain’t real poetry

because it don’t rhyme”

I told him

it was because

my poetry was about life

and life dosen’t always rhyme

you have blue

and you don’t always get

you or new

sometimes you get

bottle or street

i thought it was a pretty snappy answer


“She’s fake” my friend grumbled

Over his glass of Jack

As the woman with more curves

Than a mountain road strutted past

Inviting a thousand eyes

Flipping her hair as she click-clicked

Down the street in her high heels

“Women are all fake these days”

He said

I didn’t add that we are all fake

In one sense or another

And if we weren’t

We’d be killing one another in droves

I mean how many people can we truly stand?

Company Outing

It was an awkward company outing

so her and I

shared some beer

I admit I always was smitten with her

And vainly waited for her to

Make me her next flavor of the month

on a non-descript Friday night

at a bowling alley

in the seedy part of town

we got to feeling silly

alcohol has a way of doing that

even for those with admirable restraint

and for one night somehow

I looked good to her

we gazed into each

others eyes

and there was magic

it got late

and we found the inside of her car

many kisses later we said our goodnights

but by monday morning

when we saw each other at work

Robert-Houdin had left town

She looked awkward

and the whole night

was never brought up again

I always thought there was a curse

Following me around

And when I’m taking a ride in the hearse

I won’t make a sound

When something could go wrong

It always managed to

Sure things were never sure

There was nothing I could do