R. G. Bell

R. G. Bell Poems


Home lies that way, somewhere, through the fog,
Down a road I did not ask to be set upon
And most of whose forks were chosen for me
By others no less road-bound than I,

I've drifted over Trafalgar's rotting hulls,
Seen dolphins play at the pillars of Hercules,
Been camel-ridden to the foot of Cheops
And walked the city Alexander took and named.

Storm clouds bleed and render earth to mud.
We lie inside, assaulted by the lies,
Tightly bound in gray dismality.

The Duck

There came into my yard a duck,
And he and I, being both in luck,

Fertilized with a dose of aggravation,
And watered with a little touch of gall,
Her lawn has sprouted warning signs to tell
The neighbor children and passing dog walkers

I reign from a second-hand Adirondack throne,
My legs in the lap of its facing mate.
Its only other claimant, a house panther,
Lies between my pale feet, feigning sleep,

Recorded somewhere’s something like this,
“A scientist is one who knows
Nearly all of nearly nothing.
A salesman is one who knows

Great-grandmother’s Frying Pan

Thinking it mine, I seldom think it hers.

Children no longer rush to mount
The merry-go-round,
To claim an outside horse.
There is no brass ring to grab,


Pardon me, young man. I can see you're busy.
Please, sit by me on the porch awhile.


Though I may cast a picture-cloud
And bend it to my mind,

This time around the masses stroke their lyres.
Bread and circuses. Brats and quarterbacks.
Collective gaze, frozen on the arena field,
Witnesses what passes now for glory’s deeds,

(Lockhart is, was, a cotton mill village in SC.)

They're spawned in a gene pool

The state has numbers for the highways in
And out of town; even ones for east and west,
The other kind for north and south, to remind
Both regions they're still at odds, if passively.

A Romantic (Translated)

You can see the house, or what was
A house, there, in the field that was a field

Sam’s god

My dog sees me as if he sees a god.
By miracle appear his daily meats.

There once was a poet sublime
With talent for making things rhyme.
He could chew on some gum
And make bubbles with some,

I sweated, uprooting his cornerstone,
And heard the laugh of a nineteenth century man.
It came softly, not from the sky, nor from
The trees he planted (or at least let stay) ,

The mansion crumbles, held up by honeysuckle outside,
Bales of hay and ghosts within. A columned barn
With paintless facade and bitter memories.

There, over in the check-out line, see her?
The one with the blue hair, sapphire earrings
And matching necklace masking a fleshy neck.
(Try not to look like you're looking, but look.)

R. G. Bell Biography

BA (English) - The Citadel.1974. Masters of Fine Arts (Creative Writing) - The Univ. of Dallas 1982. My goal in writing poetry is to reveal small truths in the hope that occasionally something profound will come along for the ride. Few, if any, of my poems are as simple as they may first appear. If a word has two (or more) meanings, they might all be taken profitably within the context of the poem. For some vigorous chewing, I invite the serious reader to take on 'The Seventh Day; ' the idle, internal musings of The Creator commenting on His own work. It was 25 years in the making, and I still see 'new' things in it with each reading. I try to write in a style and language that is 'accessible' to any reader who speaks English natively, but who does not generally read poetry. Yet, at the same time, I try to build multiple layers of thought and meaning and effectively employ technical poetic devices in order to command the interest of the more sophisticated reader. Published 'Whispers of Madmen' with Matt Fontana. Available from Amazon. Autographed copies available. Email me here on poemhunter.)

The Best Poem Of R. G. Bell


Home lies that way, somewhere, through the fog,
Down a road I did not ask to be set upon
And most of whose forks were chosen for me
By others no less road-bound than I,
Who find their journey no more worthwhile.

I carry too much baggage, but search for more,
Wish for great tasks while failing small ones,
Pass many milestones, but make no progress.

How long it is to home I only guess.
I have not gone this way before and would not
Know it without the fog. I hope it isn't far,
But somehow begin to fear it is.

Still, distractions let me forget the road
And the Duties that keep me surely on it
Without seeking the shortcut through the woods.

Come, walk with me a while since our roads
Are joined as far as the fog will let us see:
A mile, a season, a lifetime, till our
Roads diverge, or one of us gets Home,
Finally through the mist, to the long, long rest.

R. G. Bell Comments

Smoky Hoss 17 July 2012

Mr. Bell is a poet that surely feels life moving, sees the currents of something great flowing all about us. Put simply, I absolutely love his poetry. It is so good, so real. I can only hope for much more to show up here on poemhunter.

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