Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Pour me a perfect pitcher
Of lemonade or tea
Brewed in the sun.
I’ll go diving in boxers
Or fish with a stick
Because the lake is calling.
Gotta burn off the winter’s
McDonalds, and tan
So I don’t look like a dork.
Come June, California
Will share its rays
And I’ll sway
In a hammock for endlessly sunny days.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

The pretty little liars will never confess
They never knew Strasburg would be the best.
The sports halls are all a-twitter
Hoping for homeruns and no-hitters,
Security is at its height,
The TV crews turn on their lights.
The batters are all lined up
With their bats, helmets and cups,
Letting the first strike go by, not wanting to rush
But they keep checking their cleats a little too much
So wind up, pitcher, lower your cap
Make the first batter look like he’s swinging through sap.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Sometimes flying
Feels like falling
Until you get your wings
Under you.
You just have to rush
Into practice.
Release
Your fear.
Your insides
Become
A gyroscope.
Then
You find
Facetime
With
Hangtime.

Limerick Friday #6

A spoiled perfect game turns into a saga
But put on the glasses to turn Gaza gaga
You see we’re wooden
And’ll be turned to puddin’
Because our pursuer is a logga.

Thursday June 3, 2010

The blank sheet shines whitely.
Joyce didn’t have this problem.
Sometimes.
You gotta blow the lights out.
Recall the day,
Slashed as by a Griffin,
It spills in an instant
As if by accident.
Don’t rue it.
Build a memorial
By writing
A series
Of poems.
It’s never perfect.
But you can release it over time.
It might spread
Like oil
Across
A page;
An ocean.
There’s no penalty
For blogging.

Wednesday June 2, 2010

My computer’s battery’s dying,
Must be the mercury leaking,
So because it’s over the hill
There won’t be a bill
For this poem. TTYL

Tuesday June 1, 2010

Growing up in a wonderlandof haystacks
And unguarded cows
It was hard not to be a tipper.
The recreation of the outside lands
Could suck you in like a sinkhole.
Then what? Hang with a squalid squad
Easily turning criminal?

Pushing big animals is small time.

I’ve always had bigger dreams.
To be supreme,
Zipping down the fast lane
To Chicago, New York,
The Clinton Library,
I’ll raid wherever they won’t have me.
These negotiations are above bovine crime,
It’s big bucks or bust for me.