Posts Tagged ‘poetry’





We go to church twice
Once shortly after sunrise
And once after sundown
Despite adolescent protesting cries.

In the second one
There will be blue “gowns”
And funny-looking hats
With golden tassels
Swaying this way and that.

The persons wearing this
Unusual Attire
Will probably look annoyed,
Bored, and about to Perspire.

The rest of the crowd
Will be dressed in their finest
And still smile broadly even when
The robed crowd is whiniest.

The name of the occasion
Is also pretty extraordinary
And is probably named that,
To make atheists less wary.

But the fact remains
Despite all the nonsense
That God has brought success
To teens who are now a lot less tense.

And so we acknowledge
The Power that blesses
And hope that those children
Don’t displace their perfectly-combed tresses.

Monday’s Post: How carminative is Carmen????

You Might Also Like: Wedding Cake, I’m Glad to Be Your Man, When East Meets West, For Boston, Cheese Please, The Uninvited Guest, Mexican Bunny Hop, My Madness



The Merits of Cookies, Limericks, Sag Harbor, Pam, and Dead Ends…


Several Saturdays ago I introduced my MIP readers to the haikus of Dave Mattson. Those first brief poems were largely serious in nature. But, Dave has a wry sense of humor as well and the haikus today reflect the more silly side of his poetic offerings. And Dave? I may not be able to answer your last question, but my favorite breakfasts always have dessert: Starbucks lattes with whipped cream. ‘Nuf said.

She’s baking cookies
Olfactory seduction
Gastronomic negligee

Please no more Haiku
Its sentimentality
Demeans limericks

Don’t burden children
With the responsibility
To train their parents

Let her sleep in
Served coffee in bed; her thanks?
Is the garbage out?

Can you tell me who
Male or female would desire
Clothes named “Sag Harbor”

Spraying Pam will not
Make your long johns easier
To slide on and off

In between naps I
Lie down until the urge to
Exercise subsides

I’ve lived long enough
To learn some roads not taken
Just lead to dead ends

Why do we bless a
Toxic sneeze’s germs and yet we
Shame a harmless belch

Who declared breakfast
The one meal without dessert?
I would like to know

Monday’s Post: Not too much bosky near the Bosque…

You might also enjoy: The poetry of Dave Mattson; When East Meets West; For Boston; Espresso; Green Eggs, One Fish, The Cat in the Hat and Me


Cheese, Please…


While at the writer’s conference last week, a speaker said that no poems had been written about cheese to date. His point was that no one would read a poem about cheese. The speaker is probably right and honestly, I didn’t research poems to figure out if the speaker’s claim was correct. But, I am just stubborn enough to take such statements as a dare. So, in case the speaker’s claim was true, here’s my ode to cheese:

Asiago, American
Bleu and brie
Cheddar, Camembert
And Domiati.

Edam, Feta
Gouda, gruyere,
Havarti, Imsil
Jarlsberg all are there.

Kojack, Limberger, Mozzarella
Monterey Jack, Mascarpone,
Munster, Nacho, Olteranni
And good ol’ provolone.

Parmesan, pepperjack
Queto and Romano
Swiss, String,
Tandil and Urda.

Valdeon, Whitestone
And Xygalo
Yaraslavsky and

Whatever the occasion
Whatever the day,
There’s a cheese to imbibe
To take your bleus away.

Monday’s Post: Zarzuela anyone?


The Uninvited Guest…

wedding window

Two lives end as one begins

In the prettiest of places

But it is the in-between spaces

Where loves are shared with kin.


There is a third party

Coming to the occasion

And He doesn’t have

That handsome invitation.


But the hosts do not mind

If this party attends

For when it does

Love truly descends.


Can you guess of whom I speak?

Will the guessing make legs weak?

It depends on who you are

And what you know about life so far.


But even if you cannot guess

The event will still continue

And if the two are wise

They will want his watching eyes.


For he blesses what will follow

In the whole and in the hollow

And I will sing his praises

For giving joy to both their faces.

Monday’s Post: What was your guess for vernissage?


My Madness…


It’s madness;
It’s mayhem;
It’s superior fandom.
It’s Hoopland torture
For the bracket worshipper.

Watching four channels
And burning out remotes,
To see the hottest play
Or the coaches’ best quotes.

We don’t want to miss a second at all,
For if we did, we might miss the latest bucketed ball.
And that would be horrible
For all of us fans;
We sure don’t want that to happen
When the score finally stands.

And what is the point of all of this drivel?
To see who walked by missing a dribble!
And to find out who’s queen or king,
Not of the b-ball court,
But of this bracket thing.

Will I be there at the very end?
Based on so far,
I’d say that’s a stretch.
Because when I pick a winner,
My bracket makes me look like a wretch.

Monday’s Post: Do you traduce?




Growing up somewhat close to the University of Notre Dame, I spent a lot of time with Catholics. In fact I dated all Catholics (including one who was training to be a priest) until I finally found the one non-Catholic man in Indiana. Thus, this protestant preacher’s kid went to a lot of masses and Catholic weddings. My equally protestant mother also enjoyed watching the suspense caused whenever a new pope was to be selected during the cardinals’ conclave. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to her “illness,” too. Since I have only known of 5 popes during my lifetime (including Pope Francis) and I am no “spring chicken”, the reality is that we probably should be paying some attention to each conclave. The election of a new pope does affect a rather large portion of the world’s population. Unfortunately for the Catholic community, I have known just a few too many crazy Catholics and so, I feel no obligation to be completely reverent about pontifical poetry. My apologies to God, Pope Francis, and my Catholic friends. After this, they will probably be my former Catholic friends.

The rare has happened,
A papal resignation
That has led to reason speculation.
Because of too many scandal seasons?
Or because of aging health reasons?
No matter what the trouble,
The Sistene Chapel is still far from rubble
And seems like a majestic setting
To drink Italian espresso
And celebrate ego less so.

To elect a new pope
You have to wear a dress
Which might cause distress
To an ordinary male witness
And the only sign of a decision
Is smoke with questionable color division

This method was first thought
By the Vatican distraught,
Who felt cardinals should elect a new pope
In less time than it takes for a spinster
To regain matrimonial hope.
So, they locked up those gentlemen,
Who had little papal acumen,
And gave them sparse nutrition
And little religious hydration.
And presto!
A quick election
With minimal additional frustration.

So, here is my question,
For our national consternation
Why haven’t we locked up our Congress
To fix our governmental budget mess?
It hasn’t been attempted
Because we know them all too well
They’d rather not jell or budget fight quell,
And most would rather drown
Before getting caught wearing a gown.


Green Eggs, One Fish, The Cat in the Hat…and Me

Green eggs and ham

The first two books I ever remember being my “bedtime stories” were Dr. Seuss’ One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Fox in Socks. Since our family rarely purchased new children’s books, these were a treasure. And since Dr. Seuss is often quite silly, I delighted in them as a child. My beleaguered mother probably had them memorized by the time I was five, since I insisted on each being read to me every night.

March 2nd was Dr. Seuss‘ birthday and since my birthday is the day after his, I have an extra-special fondness for all things Seuss, as you will see this coming Tuesday on MIP. So, here is my decidedly poor attempt to salute this “master” of children’s poetry:

A girl on the go
Should sit down with a book
Because the girl cannot go
Without doing that book look.

For the book tells a story
About unusual places
And lots of tall piles
In rather strange spaces.

And the piles all are silly
And seem willy-nilly
But, to a young girl
They can be fabuhilly.

And they show a young girl
How to live a good life
With a fox, and a cat and
Marvin K. Mooney,
For life wouldn’t be life
Without each as a roomie.

So, a girl on the go
Should pack up her imagination
Full of new words and
Beetle paddle paginations.

For fun is so fun
When the fun is so Seuss
And Thing One and Thing Two
Are back out on the loose.


Monday’s Post: Are you for realia?


The Birthday Girl…


She was born in a blip of a village
Over a half century long ago,
Where everyone knows everybody
And caring is the norm.

She grew up in a small southern town
In the tempest known as the ‘60s
And found herself center-stage
As the winds of time turned quickly.

She had her first kiss
In the suburbs of a city
And learned about who she was
In the flash known as the 70s.

Her city became a university
Where life changed so dramatically
And she wrestled with identity,
Tradition, and civility.

She met a country boy
In the midst of transformation
And he turned her head to a new life
Far from the dreams of her own destiny

As she grew into a woman
Life was not kind to her own well-being
And she struggled to achieve sanity
In a world of huge hypocrisy

She forged a new self-idea
As she learned to be a mother
And found that parenting struggles
Are far harder than any other

In the midst of a large crisis,
She found herself again
And slowly turned the pages to a
New and better “yen.”

She took on daunting challenges
At a time when most would quit
And shed too many tears
Because of mentors gone and spent

But, now she is much wiser
Even though she still has much to know
And the good Lord leads her quietly
On a road few ever go.


The Ration of Passion

Poetry flower

It starts when we’re 4 or 5,

The learning of how to survive,

In a world of business and power,

Where few ever explore the flower.


And then when we’re 8 or 9,

We realize that we have a spine,

But relentless is the pressure to conform,

And we hope that we can transform.


Around the time of a teen,

We learn we must have self-esteem,

But only if we work, as forewarned,

Toward the conventions of society’s norm.


We want so badly to be “good,”

And do what we know we should,

But lost in the drive for power,

Is the soul’s last hopeful tower.


So, off to work we go,

Hoping our soul will learn to know,

A new sense of self and love,

But, it merely goes on like an ill-fitting glove.


It isn’t who we truly are,

Like putting a cloud in a race car,

And finally we realize our error,

And the all-engulfing time terror.


So, we finally engage the fear

And learn to trust in what’s clear

And work on our heart’s dream

To fuel our innermost seam.


And to the world of conformity

We say, “Following you is deformity.”

For us to be His chosen

We yield to a life less frozen.


Monday’s Post: Word of the Week: What did you think campestral meant?