Being Odd by Ruth Walters

They all exalt in normal
they do not like the weird,
they slander anybody
who’s slightly out of gear.

They all berate the odd ball
that stands out from the crowd.
You’ve seen odd balls at parties
hung loose, all odd and proud.

The odd ball talks excitedly
about his odd ball ways
The things that other people fear
or find a trifle strange.

They say that he’s not normal,
they snigger and they grin
but he’d rather be an odd ball
than normal, just like them.

poe 3

Security Breeds My Lazy Sobriety



Physically forgotten,

are the footfalls deluded by haste.


with the sunshine,

pass due date.

Illegal rummage sales among watercolors from an artist on the take.

Loosing chase with overcast informer.

Longing for the finish-line.

Unsanctioned rhyme…

About doing the poor woman’s time.

In the back of my mind…I have been tone down before.

Shade shackled at my crow’s-feet.

A burden of defeat?

Anxiety cupped in a blurred retreat.

Why not?

Acid washed and hung-out to dry.

The running has to stop.


On glory days,

a pledge of allegiance to the boozy haze.

Visions of illusions,

I wished were never severed.

Misadventures cut loose,



Lost direction has made its comeback.

And, it is animation that I lack.

From what the elders have told…

‘there is no cure for sobriety growing old.’

Just parchment pieces of parched reprieve…hand rolled.


Backwood Indifference


No assurance, with an azure sky.

As above,

in cobalt when blown in.

A contrasting hue.

My souls conflict only slightly subdued.

All my changes still ahead of an unsteady mind.

Neither a twitch.


a nervous tic,

mine to refine.

Hopefully nothing but an admonishing sign.

Protected society of timbered blunders.

Temporary insanity.

In the woods designed to comfort.

Not in the least,

an easy role to play.

The earthy meandering fool.

Vicarious living outside the rules.


But somehow, fitting just right.

A game of chance with this thing called, life.



The Art Spirit


I don’t believe any real artist cares whether what he or she does is ‘art’ or not.  Who, after all, know what is art?  I think the real artists are too busy with just being and growing and acting (on canvas or however) like themselves, to worry about the end.  This end is what it will be.  The object is intense living, fulfillment, the great happiness in creation.

  • Robert Henri, the Art Spirit

Half Mast

It appears, as of late, as though, we are always at half mast.

Everyone flying without wings.

Bank robbers without banks.

Cowboys and Indians without a hero.

Nowhere zones for nobody.

The local inconvenient-mart surrounded by splintered beings.

There is no glorified banner of right or wrong…

Good or evil.

Just a setting in which…desolation can dwell.

Peace on earth; a cup of twice brewed coffee…

weak and watery.

The middle of the road…lawless without castles.

Pieces of titled heaven in a used car lot.

Vetted veterans to the unknown wars…

no glory, no banner.

Just a holiday savings at the state liquor store.

Alas, no morals are left for the majority tours…of duty.

Daily helping hands down at the pantry.

Empty church pews guarded by rock star sentries.

Left on their own for fruitless searches.

To unearth nowhere places with placid deserters.