Diego's jersey

At five-foot-five
Diego Maradona
Stood two heads shorter
Than me, wearing this jersey,
The blue and white Number Ten

Of Argentina.
That diminutive wizard
With the hand of God,
Who in four breathless minutes
There in Mexico City

Tore out my young heart
With his maddening mixture
Of dishonesty –
Punching the ball in the net –
And finesse – his second goal.

My good friend Bob went
To the Golden Boy’s homeland,
And when his hosts learned
That I was born in England
They took him down to a shrine

To Maradona,
A store packed with souvenirs
Of that plunderer,
And they bought me a jersey,
Just so they could rub it in.

I promise

I promise –

I will want you still

Tomorrow

No matter

What the news is, bad or good,

On the telephone.

Mugs

If one could count the cups in every sink
And draining board across the British Isles,
Still dotted with digestive crumbs, in piles
Of geometric porcelain, I think
The number would make Wall Street people wink
At sexy opportunities, with miles
Of data spread by shark-toothed men with smiles
They learned to fake from stretches in the clink.
The simple truth is, if you want to be
Successful in investing hard-won cash
Within a marketplace that pulls and tugs
Your heart to go against what you can see
Is smart, then shun the charlatans and dash
To read the tea-leaves – just invest in… Mugs.

The thousand reasons

Were you to ask the thousand reasons why
I love you, I would point you to the snow
Descending lazily outside – a show
So easy and enchanting to the eye
That one can miss the pattern of the sky,
With every flake unique and pure, prepared to flow
With its compatriots to scatter low
A blanket where our fondest dreams may lie.
That graceful synergy of patterns found
Within the winter landscape tells me how
Two lives so separate can fold around
Each other’s beauty and yet still allow
Each one to dance a solitary round
Gracing the slow unfolding of a vow.

Stay in the room (advice to poets)

(a triolet)

Stay in the room, and do not quit
Until your work is done.
I know it’s hard, but you must sit,
Stay in the room, and do not quit!
The poem’s there, now capture it –
A tale is waiting to be spun.
Stay in the room, and do not quit
Until your work is done.


(with thanks to The Pocket Muse)

Magi

To all the bruised and weary,

Saddle-sore from sleepless nights
Spent upright and resentful
In way stations and overflowing inns.

To those who have endured
The rituals of forced familiarity,
Feigning surprise and joy
While harboring their opposites.

To those who feel the sting
Of self-recrimination
Seeing long-worn patterns
Resurrected, not resisted.

To those who hate the sound
Of bells and Auld Lang Syne,
Whose stomachs turn
At just the smell of douglas fir.

Congratulations – you survived.

The gifts you brought were
Less important than your presence,
As you will one day understand.
Tonight, go safely home, another way.

Chapbook - "The Family Business"

It's been a good year of poeming for me.  I have gathered some of my favorites written in 2010 in a small chapbook titled "The Family Business."  I did a limited run of 50, and have already sold or given about 30.  They are going fast.  If you would like to get a copy from this first run, you can get one for just $5, sent to you anywhere in the USA and autographed by the author.  Overseas friends, we can haggle on the shipping!

Live Video - Flying lessons

Here's a video of "Flying lessons" from a reading at the Electric Brew, Goshen, Indiana, in December 2010.

Live Video - Road rage

Here's a video from my reading at the Electric Brew in Goshen, Indiana, in December 2010. This poem is a true story...

Gastrointestinal Limericks

(a real-life email duel with a poet-who-shall-remain-nameless)


Tuesday

The gastrointenstinal tract
Is the greatest yawn since Rome was sacked.
It’s simply not funny
If a poo’s thick or runny,
It’s a bore as a matter of fact!

Wednesday

The GI tract is only a part
Of a system whose primary art
is to edify boys
with the eloquent noise
of a seismic grandiloquent flatulation.

You started it.

Thursday

The best G.I. doctors all pass
At the top of their medical class
They expertly seek
Every bubble and squeak
That proceeds from our head and our bottom.

Back atcha. This is war.

Friday

As a theme the GI tract is fit
for treatment by poetic wit
But the sum of it all
Is a mountain that's tall
And composed almost solely of nonsense.

I rest my case.

Saturday

When dueling rhyme-writers scrap
They do well to steer clear of the trap
Of waxing ironic
On matters colonic
For such writing’s invariably rubbish.

Tag


And here, both poets finally lost the will to go on...