Is it William or Bill?
I don’t know William,
and, I suppose, neither do you.

“William R. Foster, Jr, died on Saturday, August 28, 2010.
Home going service will be at House of Day Funeral Service,
Tuesday, August 31, 2010. Wake hour at 10 a.m. with
funeral hour at 11 a.m.”

I noticed this on the obituary page,
filled with life stories,
only because it’s one paragraph.

A lifetime in 36 words.
It’s not enough.

Perhaps it was written to catch my attention.

I see his mother holding him at birth.
Lovingly naming him for his proud father.
Does he have a wife? Children?
Are his parents now heartbroken?

Who will attend the wake?
Will I?
Probably not.
Will I think of Bill on Tuesday at 10 a.m.?
Probably not.

But, we’re thinking about him now.

L. Humphries
© August 2010

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Posted by on September 16, 2011 in Uncategorized



Of all of society’s down-trodden,
and helpless,
none is in greater need of a hero,
liberator from the shackles of
burden of an unfulfilled existence,
as that of the Coffee Hillbilly.

With Hills Brothers and Mountain Grown,
Green Mountain, Blue Mountain,
Forest Hills, Duncan Hills,
and Land of a Thousand Hills coffee,
you’d think hillbillies would be in the know.
Just ain’t so.
You never microwave,
reheat in the pot,
set in the sun,
or set on the pot in the sun.
If it’s over three hours old,
throw it the fuck out!
Or send it to Osama or Obama,
Kim Jung Il, or old Fidel.
You can even ship it to Al Qaida, the Taliban,
or to Mr. Ahmadinejad if you can.

I like mine black,
no sugar no cream,
strong enough to use as mercury.
If you get close enough to smell it,
you’re gonna want to taste it.
It should lick your tongue,
then kiss your throat
as it works all the way down to that sweet spot.
When done correctly,
it’ll warm you all over,
make your toes curl.

So, put your mullet in a ponytail,
take some pride,
have some standards.
Stop drinkin’ yak piss from
one of those Starbuck thermal cups.
Stop already with the,
“Can I get this nuked?”
No, if it’s too hot now,
I will not put an ice cube in it for you.
Next thing I know,
you’ll want a little umbrella.

Iced? Iced coffee?
Have you completely
lost your fucking mind?

October 7, 2010

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Posted by on September 16, 2011 in Uncategorized



I thought the ride would be bumpier,
shorter than I thought.
All the other passengers were quiet.
The bus smelled of sweat, my sweat,
and something else I couldn’t identify,
fear, maybe.

The day was bright,
sun shining, warm, but not hot.
I didn’t see anyone along the way.
I kept my head down most of the trip.
I knew better than to make eye contact.
I could feel them looking at me.

I’ve been asking myself, “How?”
There was a lot of noise,
rattling, crying, swearing.
The bus stopped,
moved ahead a few feet, then stopped again.
I had to remind myself to breathe.

The engine went silent.
I looked up at the bricks, and wire.
It was, I don’t know, sparkling.
I looked back down
at my chains,
I was home.

© 2011

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Posted by on September 16, 2011 in Uncategorized


Illegal Aliens

Illegal aliens occupation,

terrorists slaughtering nations.

Invasion not by swimming rivers,

walking across desert sand,

or climbing walls and fences.

They arrived in ships,

in the name of religious freedom.

Aggregate disregard for all others,

seeking personal gain, freedom, power.

Stealing from the outnumbered,

Stripping liberty and life

from a proud people.

An Eden gone forever.

Your gangs, your “armies”,

genocidal, larcenous.

Taking everything,


Illegal aliens

not to be denied,

just kept coming through

unrestraining borders.

Delivering plague, fear, death, shame.

Apathetic annihilators

of cultures, ways of life.

Shackled by poverty,

ignored by those

choosing to just look away.

Those who proudly and falsely

claim to be from them.

Banished now to POW camps

they call reservations.

To be forgotten into extinction.


© December 2010


Posted by on February 28, 2011 in Poetry


My Father’s Eyes

From the very beginning,

you saw thought,

wondering what he saw.

He always saw more than you thought.


It wasn’t so much kindness,

although he is kind,

you saw caring,

more understanding than you thought.


They sparkled with mischief,

and still do,

crinkled with laughter,

enjoying us more than you thought.


You wanted him to see you do well.

You wanted to see pride for you in them.

He may not have said the words,

though his eyes showed more than you thought.


They no longer see

more than light and shape.

But the rest is still there.

Those will stay longer than you thought.


I have my dad’s eyes.

I only hope I have the rest.

And I hope my dad’s eyes saw

how much I love him…


…even more than he thought.



Larry  Humphries

© November 2010


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Posted by on February 28, 2011 in Poetry


Ode to a Neoplasm

I needed to lose a few pounds anyway,

so thanks for your help with that.

I’ll take my time away from the Grind,

and use it for taking naps?

You can take my hair, I don’t care,

I’ll look like Paul, that’s okay too.

I’ll get my ear pierced and buy a big hog,

and I’ll be happy in spite of you.

Now as far as neoplasms go,

shame on you for calling yourself the Big C.

I look forward to the fight you son of a bitch.

You can’t get the better of me.

You made a pass at my daughter a few years ago,

and she kicked your ass without breaking a sweat.

Well, you should have given up when you had half the chance.

But we’re not done with you yet.

Now I’m not sure why this is happening.

But I’m sure that it’s mostly my fault.

I eat doughnuts and French fries and red meat off the grill,

and I chase them all down with large malts.

I don’t smoke, I don’t sniff, I don’t chew anything.

I’m busy and active most the time.

And that other thing they say you shouldn’t do,

is just supposed to make you go blind.

So you picked this fight, you coward.

I’ve seen what you’ve done in the past.

Give it your best shot, I’ll take all that you’ve got,

and I’ll shove it right back up your ass.

L. Humphries

July 2010

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Posted by on February 28, 2011 in Poetry


Assaulting the Quiet

The coffee shop is empty now,

patrons have all gone home.

The musicians have loaded out,

their echoes follow.


I turn off the lights,

the work is done.

I pick up my guitar and feel it’s energy,

waiting, frustrated by unmet expectation.


There’s so much beauty inside it,

but I’m not to be the channel for it’s release.

I gently put it back in it’s stand,

and lock the door behind me.




September 2010


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Posted by on February 28, 2011 in Poetry