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Still More Poems

A Poem in My Pocket

 

I've a poem in my pocket

Not quite burning a hole.

From the glow of my muse

And the warmth of my soul.

 

I placed it to cool there

To hatch its idea

It nags me, it chides me

My angst's panacea

 

It's a poem of a poem

A tautology's mirror

Reflecting, restarting

Its beginning is clearer

 

There's a poem in my docket

It can't be delayed

It's written on Kleenex

All germy and flayed.

 

The germ's the beginning

It spreads towards its middle

It's ending not certain

And much like a riddle.

 

But my poem like a rocket

Has fuel from my muse

It's heading for liftoff

My soul lit the fuse

The Parrot who

Could Not Sing

 

The parrot was perched in old Punjab

On a sizzling hot summer's day.

He begged, "Sahib, will you please buy me?"

I was stunned, didn't know what to say.

 

Said the parrot, "I speak more than one language.

"Spanish and a bunch of Fran-say.

"Italian, Hindi, Afghani

"And my accent's to die for, they say."

 

"Why, certainly!" said I, offering rupees

 

 

(The sale made the shopkeeper's day.)

The parrot he preened and he strutted

And accents he mimicked this way:

 

"Do youse like my accent from Brooklyn

"or mah drawl from down neah Savannah?

Y yo puedo hablar en la lengua

De Cuba y La Vieja Habana! *

 

(* And I can speak in the language of Cuba and the old city Havana!)

 

"But one thing I'll tell you," he confided

"Please don't expect me to sing

"I never took one singing lesson

"I can't carry a tune, that's the thing."

 

Then he started to sing some Pucini

Clearly the worst I have heard

"Stop, please, and I promise I'll buy you!

"But don't sing another harsh word."

 

I bought him and went to the FedEx

And boxed up the parrot to send it

"You're going to Montana!" I told him.

"So say nothing 'til your journey is ended."

 

"My old mother will certainly love you

"You'll fill up her sad, empty time

"So be quiet, don't chatter or flutter

"Pretend you're a mute and a mime."

 

The next week I sent Mom a short e-mail.

"Say, Mom, did you enjoy that strange bird?"

"Why, yes, it was simply delicious!"

Came back her answer (absurd!).

 

"Say what?" I wrote back most insulted

"You ate that one-of-a-kind bird?

"Did you know that it spoke more than one language?"

A more shocking thing I never heard!

 

"Calm down," wrote my mother, "Don't sweat it.

"The bird arrived practically dead.

"You shouldn't have shipped it by FedEx

"And besides, there was nothing he said

 

"...to let me know he was so clever

"He never said one single thing!

"But it seemed to try mimicking accents

"But I cooked it when I heard it sing."

           Hockey

 

Zamboni's brush paints frozen ice

As the hallowed rink is healed

A path for iron-shod warriors

On hockey's ice-glazed field

 

The shushing of the skate-scraped ice

Puck slapped by hardwood sticks

Launched by skating giants

In high excitement's pitch

 

The ice-crazed crowd oohs and ahs   

The puck quicker than the eye

Slides towards the grim masked goalie

To the net where all hopes lie

 

Three rounds, two intermissions

To quaff the beered-up crowd

As helmets leak testosterone

Where brawling is allowed

 

Zambonis sail on hockey's seams

Red ice is at their prow

They navigate through players' blood

That stripe-ed refs allow

 

And with unmet expectations

Buzzed fans just scream and shout

They came to see an icy brawl

But a hockey game broke out

Football's Game Day

As Fall's ballet pirouettes

The turnstile turns ajar

The stadium is our battlefield

Game day our latest war

 

Red colors of the changing leaves

Team colors in the stands

Chewing gum beneath the seat

Cacophony of bands

 

Odors of the burgers

The peanut vendor's shout

Overwhelm all our resistance

As the diet turns about

 

At last run out the warriors

Like Mars away from home

The jumping of the cheering nymphs

And unbridled testosterone

 

From the vantage of the seated fan

Football's a game of running

At times the ball is in the air

At times the violence stunning

 

But mostly it's all space and time

Four chances for ten yards

Where land's exchanged for casualties

Despite behemoth guards

 

And when the clock expires the game

With exhausted patience nettled

And digested hot dogs churn

The struggle finally settled

 

We remember that this game day

Despite all football's arts

Was far more than a single game

An event more than its parts

Basketball's Ballet

On courts of hardwood, bathed in light

Sneakers squeak, to fans’ delight

Balls ascend in graceful play

An athletic show, a sport’s ballet

 

From humble gyms to grand arenas

The game unfolds, in countless schemas

Two forwards, guards, and one tall center

Huddle with their coaching mentor


Man-to-man or zone defense

A clash of bodies, swift, intense

Down the court, a fast break pace

Basketball's electric chase

 

The referee who blows the whistle

Can thrill the fans or make them bristle

Calling fouls or game infractions

Bring a gamut of fans’ reactions

 

Through hoops they aim with focused art

A swish so sweet, a piercing dart

Winning’s thrill, sting of defeat

Last only until the next game’s meet

 

Dr. Naismith’s gift to all

Was the game of basketball

From nailed peach baskets, spheres of leather

He saved us from foul football’s weather

A Farmer’s Prayer

 

O Great Planter in the sky

Please in Your wisdom answer why

I must work from sun to sun

And still my work is never done

 

Why must I plow, and plant and toil

While all Your rain and droughts do spoil

This year's hopes and next year's plans

With swampy mud or dry dust spans

 

Oh, Lord above who seeds the sky

We all know each man must die

But while we live we all must eat

Nourished by your farmer's wheat

 

Like fallen Adam then and yet

Bread is earned by our own sweat

And paid for twice through farmers' grind

That starts at three and ends at nine

 

O Great Grower in the sky

When it comes my time to die

Grant me rain and restful sun

And tell me that my work is done

Next: Colorado Autumn Poems

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