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Bob Wayne

poet, writer, memoirist

If Jesus Came to Dance

If Jesus came to dance,
what would the Buddha say?
Could we be saved by the sound of
shuffling feet?

My Poetry

My poetry kicks in the door,
bellows for beer,


Have humans always killed each other?

Rain Down

On the seventh day
the fire wasn’t easy.
Sargasso Sea
crashed and burned.

New Day

Something inside my skin moves
and I watch it
scurry about.


I rode my bike the other day.
First time in ten years.


  BOWL - \ꞌbōl\n 1: a concave usu. nearly...


Ah, morning at the office.
Nothing like the fresh aroma of burnt coffee.


She’s just a cat;
a fixture around the house.

Cure II

The best cure for poetry is

A Winter’s Dawn at Oliver’s End

Winter prowls through Shingle Creek Park.


She hung dead roses in my kitchen

Quality Of Life

Bouncing across the street
in his four-wheel Electri-glide,
bandoliers across his chest.

Assembly Line Blues

Two joints before first shift,
recovery from last night,
lube the line.

My Father’s Garage

When it comes to a working man
his garage is biography…

I Feel Like

I feel like…

I never should have made
Left Turns.

A quantum particle
at the gates of Hell.


I could have stared at the waitresses legs

Broken Bread

I can’t see the path.
My sight is twisted.

I scrabble with bare hands,

Midwest Ramblin’

Church lady pies,
lounge in the back seat,
taunting me.


Does my shadow feel?
I see his foot tapping to the music.
But is it in his soul?


In confession,
fathers speak in tongues,
mothers weep holy water.


My fountain burbles,
and Klemmer’s sweet sax
sings me to sleep.

A Cup of Coffee

Dragging my weary,
sixty year old butt out of bed,
sleep knuckles under.


I’m dreaming
of a bellyful of fire,
I’ve been dead
for so long.

The Girl With Dark Glasses

She was no longer alone.
For the moment.


We were lovers long ago,
I remember her face in the morning.
A jigsaw of fine lines,
her dayface dissolved in the pillowcase.

Fifty Shades of Green

The ancient garage always reeked of grass.

Forest Koan

The leaves screaming

I Am From

I am from what was once called
The Paris of the Midwest.
Nugent called it the

Early Morning in Northern Minnesota

The wonky old aluminum window,
austere and squealing for mercy,
would only rise a few inches.
But it was enough.

A Touch of Bob

  Rustle of sheets… Murmur of hearts… Thrum of...