Without time
There is
No grief
Without life
There is
No death
The dead
Have nothing
To grieve
The dead
Have nothing
To lose
My goldfish
Died today
Or yesterday
He’s in
A wetter
Place now
I’m kidding
Gill’s alive
Me too
I write
All day
He swims
poetry
The Rain Said Nothing
Last night I hugged
A thunderstorm.
The wind howled.
It spoke to my soul.
The sky took a rumble
But the sky didn’t fall.
I forgot to mention
The rain said nothing.
Tomorrow it’s going
To rain in all directions.
It’s always raining.
The wind is mostly rain.
Compassion Persists
Suffering builds compassion
Compassion reduces suffering
Suffering endures
Suffering persists
Suffering wounds compassion
Compassion soothes suffering
Compassion endures
Compassion persists
Rhymes With Toad
My last name
Rhymes with toad
The frog
In my throat
Just croaked
He’s dead
I mean
He croaked
Tell the tadpoles
At the wake
His last name
Rhymes with toad
Small Wounds
My life is a meadow
Is a meadow a meadow
My life is a meadow
God strolls through
I tickle the sky
And cradle the sun
I long for time
To heal small wounds
My light is a shadow
Is a shadow a shadow
My light is a shadow
God shines through
I hug the horizon
And swaddle the moon
I long for time
To heal small wounds
Inherit The Mirth
Paint a piano
Play it by ear
The sad shall
Inherit the mirth
Draw a breath
Trace an echo
The sad shall
Inherit the mirth
Little by little
Brick by brick
The sad shall
Inherit the mirth
Time after time
Mind over matter
The sad shall
Inherit the mirth
New Book: Hot Moms In Yoga Pants
A new (short) book of poems? And it’s called Hot Moms in Yoga Pants? Are you kidding me? It’s all true; book number seven is available on Amazon. I’m not offering a Kindle version. You’ll have to settle for this book in your hands, as God and Johannes Gutenberg intended.
Click here to buy Hot Moms in Yoga Pants.
Amazon description:
“In his newest book of poems, Hot Moms in Yoga Pants, Charles B. Snoad is up to no good, and he misbehaves well. Sex and death: these poems embrace both extremes, which, in the end, remain two sides of the same coin. This is Charles B. Snoad—God forbid—at his most hopeful place in decades. He’s not sure what to make of his new reality; he’s just happy to be here, given how improbable it is for anyone to be anywhere at all.”
Ophelia Gets Her Wings
I once knew a person
Named Ophelia
She worked for United Airlines
She was a stewardess
Or a flight attendant
She was many different
People at the same time
Ophelia refused
To become the pilot
She was born to be
She was too tired
To follow her dreams
All she wanted was
To sleep in the womb
Of the deepest sleep
She’s an angel now
I have her wings
Flowers In Despair
Welcome to the Motel California.
The Eagles have landed.
Joan Jett is leaving John Denver
On a Jefferson Airplane.
Rainy days and Mondays
Always get Karen Carpenter down.
Why do the Byrds suddenly appear
Every time Don Henley is near?
Welcome to the Motel California.
The Eagles have landed.
If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear flowers in despair.
Endless Breadsticks
Snapping turtles
All the way
Down
Time to drain the mainframe
Time to shave the whales
Time to make the donut holes
Infinite repression
Edge of chaos
Circular guilt
Endless breadsticks
Free Wi-Fi
Surf and turf toe
It’s the summer of sixty-nine
It’s four-twenty somewhere
The rent is too damn high
I’m a bipolar bear
Eating fish
Out of water
My name is
Wet Willy or is it
Lazy Susan?
Wet Willy And Lazy Susan
While I blow wads of cash
On free Wi-Fi at Motel 6
Wet Willy dry humps Lazy Susan
In front of a dumbwaiter.
While I blow wads of cash
On endless breadsticks at Olive Garden
Wet Willy dry humps Lazy Susan
In front of a dumb waiter.
My name is Sir Real
Or is it Miss Fortune?
Welcome to Motel 6
Or is this Olive Garden?
Mister Ed Sullivan
Whirlpools in a rushing river
No man’s land
This lamb is your lamb
Charlie McCarthy rides
Mister Ed Sullivan
Harder than Woody Woodpecker
Carnegie Hall wasn’t built
In a day it took practice
Practice practice
Let’s all go to Hobby Lobby
And grab ourselves
Some Chick-fil-A
Cigars! Cigarettes!
Cigars! Cigarettes!
This is not a pipe dream
A rooster
Eating crow
Pets a cockatoo
Mister Ed Sullivan
Leaves a jolly rancher
For a factory farmer
Tomorrow looks
Cloudy with a chance
Of mothballs
I’m itching
Like a beagle
In a fuzzy peach tree
Mister Ed Sullivan
Has left
The building
Soy Milk Duds
Too many cooks
In the kitchen sink
Too many forks
Too many knives
Too many forks
Spooning knives
Too many spoons
Forking knives
Too many bowls
Of rice cakes
Too many cups
Of sugar cubes
Too many soy
Milk Duds
Too many frosted
Wheat Thins
Too many green onions
Or are they chives?
Too many
Legs of lamb
Not enough hands
To pass the thyme
Vegan cheese?
No fucking whey!
Green onions
Give me hives
Sir Real And Miss Fortune
Sir Real says
There’s no place
Like home
Confinement
Miss Fortune says
I make a better trapdoor
Than a windowsill
I’m depressed
I’m an atheist
I think I’m God
I don’t believe in myself
Sir Real hits me
Where the landlord
Split me
Miss Fortune rubs me
The wrong way
I spill my guts
I spill my seed
I cry over sour
Grapes of wrath
When Sir Real slams
A trapdoor
Miss Fortune shatters
A windowsill
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of seeking relief
From the burden
Of being me
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being free
To choose my own
Confinements
Wounded Healers
Wounded healers
Accept we can’t
Ease suffering
Without easing
The suffering
Within ourselves
I’m a wounded healer
Practicing the art
Of suffering well
I see people in pain
But I can’t help them
Ease their suffering
I’m afraid I’m not
Strong enough
To help people heal
I’m afraid I might
Further wound
Those looking to heal
Wounded healers
Accept we can’t
Ease suffering
Without easing
The suffering
Within ourselves
Wounded healers
Taught me first
To heal myself
I’m a human being
Practicing the art
Of healing myself
The Deepest Sleep
I refuse to become
The person
I was born to be.
I’m too tired
To follow
My dreams.
All I want is sleep.
The deepest sleep.
All I want is to sleep
In the womb
Of the deepest sleep.
All I want is sleep.
The deepest sleep.
All I want is to sleep
In the womb
Of the deepest sleep.
No Angel
Every midnight
At the crack of dawn
My rooster yelps
There’s a monkey
On my back and a donkey
On his ass
I suspend
My belief
In gravity
Still I rise
Bound to fall
I ride my high horse
To the kitchen
For a bag of crumbs
And a sip of thirst
He draws me a bubble bath
Tells me I’m no angel
I’m a bird of prey
In a house that rattles
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me
All I want is a ceiling
On the floor
To rest my wings
Knot Again
A poet swallows
Butterflies
Tied up in knots.
Not real butterflies.
Unreal butterflies.
Not a real poet.
The image of a poet
Tied up in knots.
Swallowing Butterflies
I told a poet tied up in knots
To listen for a caterpillar
Swallowing butterflies.
Not a real caterpillar.
The word caterpillar.
Not a real poet.
The image of a poet
Tied up in knots.
Opposite Day
Same shit
Opposite day
I mistake a deep breath
For a panic attack.
Same shit
Opposite day
A repetitive poem
Repeats itself.
Same shit
Opposite day
A repetitive poem
Repeats itself.
Same shit
Opposite day
A history of trauma
Repeats itself.
Same shit
Opposite day
I take my life
One panic attack at a time.
Ode To Michael Stipe
Stand in the place
Where you work
That’s me
In the corner office
Losing my reflection
It’s the end of this ode
As we know it
And I feel fine
Kurt Cobain said
Everybody shits
Michael Stipe said
Everybody squirts
It’s the end of this ode
As we know it
And I feel fine
It’s the end of this ode
As I wrote it
And I feel divine
Thinner Than A Sliver
Thinner than a sliver of hope
I asked a sensitive soul
Walking on sunshine:
Which came first
The chicken
Or the egg on my face?
Which came first
Chicken wings
Or eggshells?
Which came first
Chicken fingers
Or chicken tenders?
Which came first
Hot wings and cold cuts
Or hot sauce and cold turkey?
Which came first
Walking on sunshine
Or walking on eggshells?
The weight of the world
Rests squarely on the shoulders
Of a sensitive soul
Still I rise
Thinner than
A sliver of hope
Hot Moms In Yoga Pants
Every night in a house that rattles
I suspend my belief in gravity.
Every night in a house that rattles
I take two pills and call
A priest in mourning.
Every night in a house that rattles
I mistake a pinch of salt
For a grain of sand.
Every night in a house that rattles
I sell sex toys and Tupperware
To hot moms in yoga pants.
Every night in a house that rattles
Alex Trebek answers my prayers
In the form of a question
Fats Domino and Little Richard
Play chubby checkers
And I mistake a grain of sand
For an hourglass.
Every night in a house that rattles
Popeye eats Olive Oyl
And a pound of spinach
I clutch my pearls of wisdom
Take two spills and cut
A rug on the ceiling.
Still I Rise
Empty mind
Of thoughts
Not mine
Empty reason
Empty rhyme
Every day
I take my life
One decade
At a time
Empty sky
Of sun
Not mine
Empty moon
Empty tide
Every day
I take my pills
One half-life
At a time
Empty ego
Empty pride
Empty mind
Of thoughts
Not mine
Every day
Uncertain
Still I rise
Full of life
Every day
Night falls
Still I rise
Nothing Light Is Heavy
Today I told my worries
Nothing light is heavy
If we take our time
And bear our burdens lightly
And I introduced each worry
To another worry
And I loved each worry
In a kind way lightly
And I told each worry
Nothing light is heavy
If we take our time
And bear our burdens lightly
Hope And Healing
I’ve been writing the same thing over and over for the last 15 years, and I’m tired. Today I feel less motivated to write anything beyond grocery lists and notes to myself. This is fine.
Next month I’m going back to school to become a Certified Recovery Support Specialist. I’ll get to use my lived experience with mental illness to help other people in their journeys through hope and healing.
I won’t update this blog much going forward, but readers can still find my favorite poems from 2019-2022, along with links to buy my books on Amazon.
For now, I want to close with the testimonial I wrote for the mental health center that changed my life: “I feel less ashamed about what happened to me in the past, and I’m excited to embrace my future.”
Update: On September 13, 2022, I changed my mind and made the entire blog public again.
Stroke Of Midnight
Lonely is the life
Of an anxious mind.
I take my clock out
To unwind
At the stroke
Of midnight.
It’s been forever
Since my first crush
And her girlfriends
New to S&M
Melted in my mouth
And in my hand
At the stroke
Of midnight.
Robert Frost
One way
In a poem
He didn’t
Write
To think
About death:
Wherever he is
Or isn’t now
Robert Frost
Can’t say
I’m alive
Because
He’s dead.
Another way
In a poem
He didn’t
Write
To think
About death:
Wherever he is
Or isn’t now
Robert Frost
Can’t say
“I’m alive.”
Because
He’s dead.
Birthday Boy
From head to toe
I cover my shame
In baby oil
Close my eyes
And make a wish.
I haven’t been this hard
On myself
Since my first crush held me
In the palm
Of her hand
Closed her eyes
And made a fist.
In Her Infinite Wisdom
Forgiveness,
In her infinite wisdom,
Sighs.
I tell myself:
“This is a moment of suffering.
Suffering is a part of life.”
God’s shadow responds:
“I, too, am suffering.
Suffering is a part of my life.”
We admit
We are powerless
Over time.
I cradle
God’s shadow
In mine.
Forgiveness,
In her infinite wisdom,
Sighs.
Charles B. Snoad 