A Lady Named
Popper
By Jeffrey Moss Charles
December 2019
When I first spotted
her crossing the street,
I thought she was
crying,
It was those
green-hazely watery eyes,
Looking right at me,
Like she had a
question.
Her red and white,
faded t-shirt read,
"Rawhide
Down"
That was Reagan's
nickname, and what they said,
When Hinkley shot him,
So I asked her if she
was okay,
And if she needed any
help,
She said she was a
truck driver,
Her name was
"Popper."
I said, "breaker,
breaker 1-9"
She laughed, it looked
like she was crying,
She was cute, but not
my type,
I asked her if she
wanted to be friends with
benefits,
She took off one white Top-Sider
boat shoe,
And threw it at me. She
missed,
I kept it and occasionally
sniff it,
It smells kind of
gross,
This is a cautionary
tale,
Be careful what you
wish for, and,
Don't talk to
strangers,
The beginning of the end times two.
The latest print and online versions of the Free Venice
Beachead includes one of my poems. This is the second time in three months they
have published one.
http://www.freevenice.org/Beachhead-21st/Beachhead-Nov2019.pdf
Eleven Inch Heads (Lazy Sunday Morning)
Jeffrey Moss Charles
November 2019
If bird is the word,
Why is “Wipeout” playing on my A.M. radio dial?
I’ve had visions of playing the
drums with The Ventures,
On the sand,
But they wanted to play, “Tequila” instead,
Speaking of drums,
Why don’t they make eleven imch heads?
Do they even make eleven inch drums?
If so, I haven’t seen them carrying the rythmn through the salty,
Foggy, morning breeze.
I can hear it from a mile away.
I imagine it is some guy with a conga drum sitting under a palm tree,
Near the beach.
He’s probably sweaty and shirtless.
With a Modelo by his side.
I wish I was him.
Instead, I’m just walking down the street to get my cup of coffee.
And the newspaper.
It is Sunday after all.
A lazy Sunday morning.
http://www.freevenice.org/Beachhead-21st/Beachhead-Nov2019.pdf
Eleven Inch Heads (Lazy Sunday Morning)
Jeffrey Moss Charles
November 2019
If bird is the word,
Why is “Wipeout” playing on my A.M. radio dial?
I’ve had visions of playing the drums with The Ventures,
On the sand,
But they wanted to play, “Tequila” instead,
Speaking of drums,
Why don’t they make eleven imch heads?
Do they even make eleven inch drums?
If so, I haven’t seen them carrying the rythmn through the salty,
Foggy, morning breeze.
I can hear it from a mile away.
I imagine it is some guy with a conga drum sitting under a palm tree,
Near the beach.
He’s probably sweaty and shirtless.
With a Modelo by his side.
I wish I was him.
Instead, I’m just walking down the street to get my cup of coffee.
And the newspaper.
It is Sunday after all.
A lazy Sunday morning.
Venice Beachhead September 2019, Page 9
Invisible Thoughts (Clowns on the Beach)
By Jeffrey Moss Charles / August 2019
The last time I went to the beach,
I got sucked out by the undertow,
Before I even went into the water.
The last drum circle I played at,
My riddims were stolen out of my hands,
And my feet were locked in the sand.
The final sunset of the year fell out of the sky,
Winter became fall became summer became rain,
However, sunshine ran into first place from behind.
Skating the bowl and shreddin’ the waves,
Cruising down Main Street with the wind in my hair,
No worries, no cares, no invisible thoughts.
One day, maybe soon, when it all goes down,
I’ll be around, making some sound, acting the clown,
‘Til then be well and get some rest.
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