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I don't believe in an interventionist God but I know, darling, that you do but if I did I would kneel down and ask him …
Poems
James Bradley McCallum Nov 2015
Remembrance Game
James Bradley McCallum
Nov 2015
stirred deeply with joy
enthralled with the spirit
we return to Elysian fields
to live autumnal reveries
we prance once more
onto blue sky diamonds
with hometown heroes
to pitch perfect games
knock long grand slams
to honor and embrace
the semblance of siblings,
parents, lovers and friends
life's teammates
our dearest playmates
passed and still here
sustaining our spirit
filling the void of
riven hearts
with nothing more than
a smiling presence,
compliant ear
a warm embrace
keeping a
season of sunshine
alive for one more
golden day
in a resplendent moment
Measy’s youngest son
stood before me
as if it were him
five decades ago
his impish smile,
mischievous eye
and olive skin
wrinkled when
he grinned
your Old Man
was a hell
of a ball player
a great hitter
he always swung down
at the pitch, hitting
nasty line drives
I remember that
summer afternoon
when we first met on
the Washington School
Merry-Go-Round...
Measy just up
from Carolina
he spoke with
a slow Tar Heel drawl
we didn't know what
to make of him
so we made him
our friend
Sifford's Esso, B&D;
and Bulldog teammates
I marveled at his athleticism
but the thing I remember
most was the soft joviality of...
“ ah hoot,
ah hoot.
ah hoot”
his laugh would send
a soft almost *******
shudder through his body
Measy lives in me,
forever in my heart
I embraced young Roy
touched his cheek
a transcendent moment
that spans a half century
At first base
Gail “Peppermint Patty” Q
was scooping up grounders
and not letting anyone past her
without giving them a smile or a hug….
asking each player if their shirt fit right…
the way Gail played
she could start for
the Lady Gaels today...
on the mound
Moons was wearing
a Schmeds shirt
lobbing lollipops to the hitters…..
making sure everyone got on base…
at short Screwball
covering half the ground
he once did..
(never a ss but a classic junk baller,
never threw a pitch that you could hit)
but on this day his heart was filled
overflowing with the karma
of good works and his love for
Rutherford and its favorite
sons and daughters
who have gone on before….
other stars abounded on the field and off…
Noons cracked everyone up
with an endless stand-up routine
Skip walloped a few dingers
BL looked sharp in his Foster Grants
and Andy was looking good
destined for the next cover of GQ….
Coach Way gave a resounding pep talk…
the need to grow up and show up
with an attitude of gratitude will
always make one a winner
regardless of the score
in the stands I heard a hundred stories
about the prowess and foibles of departed friends…
Bay Bay’s HR smash that put Flash Cleaners
into the World Series
A cool Moose bringing the ball across
half court, driving and dumping one off to Head
for the go ahead points against Queen of Peace
Minnow ruling a territory that included Morse Ave,
Wood Street up to Chopper’s House and
half of the Washington School playground
Fic being the smallest Bulldog with the largest heart
ran over linebackers and tackled fullbacks twice his size
Weehawken Joe draining a jumper
from the top of the key to keep it close
at the Union Hill pit…
as the list of the departed was read by Gail, Pat, John and Jimmy
the depth of our loss was only exceeded by the magnitude of love
a caring community extends to one another….
Rutherford is indeed a very special place….
so many caring friends
so many good thoughts
the blessing of friendship
the grace of presence
as I turned to leave
I thought I saw
Nick and Joe
hanging with
Sweet Lou
the hog was
humming
his red bandanna
was flapping
in a rising breeze
Aaron Copland:
Our Town
Righteous Brothers
Unchained Melody
Whitney Houston:
I Will Always Love You
Oakland
Dia De Muertos
2015
Thank you Pat Francke, Jimmy Noonan, Gail Wilhelm Quinn and John Mooney for putting this beautiful event together….
My apologies for not mentioning all the beloved souls so honored at this game…..Know that all are deeply loved and equally missed…..
If anyone has a memory they would like included please add in comments section and it will be incorporated in future versions…..
Also if anyone has a list of the names would like to add that to this….
God Bless
enthralled with the spirit
we return to Elysian fields
to live autumnal reveries
we prance once more
onto blue sky diamonds
with hometown heroes
to pitch perfect games
knock long grand slams
to honor and embrace
the semblance of siblings,
parents, lovers and friends
life's teammates
our dearest playmates
passed and still here
sustaining our spirit
filling the void of
riven hearts
with nothing more than
a smiling presence,
compliant ear
a warm embrace
keeping a
season of sunshine
alive for one more
golden day
in a resplendent moment
Measy’s youngest son
stood before me
as if it were him
five decades ago
his impish smile,
mischievous eye
and olive skin
wrinkled when
he grinned
your Old Man
was a hell
of a ball player
a great hitter
he always swung down
at the pitch, hitting
nasty line drives
I remember that
summer afternoon
when we first met on
the Washington School
Merry-Go-Round...
Measy just up
from Carolina
he spoke with
a slow Tar Heel drawl
we didn't know what
to make of him
so we made him
our friend
Sifford's Esso, B&D;
and Bulldog teammates
I marveled at his athleticism
but the thing I remember
most was the soft joviality of...
“ ah hoot,
ah hoot.
ah hoot”
his laugh would send
a soft almost *******
shudder through his body
Measy lives in me,
forever in my heart
I embraced young Roy
touched his cheek
a transcendent moment
that spans a half century
At first base
Gail “Peppermint Patty” Q
was scooping up grounders
and not letting anyone past her
without giving them a smile or a hug….
asking each player if their shirt fit right…
the way Gail played
she could start for
the Lady Gaels today...
on the mound
Moons was wearing
a Schmeds shirt
lobbing lollipops to the hitters…..
making sure everyone got on base…
at short Screwball
covering half the ground
he once did..
(never a ss but a classic junk baller,
never threw a pitch that you could hit)
but on this day his heart was filled
overflowing with the karma
of good works and his love for
Rutherford and its favorite
sons and daughters
who have gone on before….
other stars abounded on the field and off…
Noons cracked everyone up
with an endless stand-up routine
Skip walloped a few dingers
BL looked sharp in his Foster Grants
and Andy was looking good
destined for the next cover of GQ….
Coach Way gave a resounding pep talk…
the need to grow up and show up
with an attitude of gratitude will
always make one a winner
regardless of the score
in the stands I heard a hundred stories
about the prowess and foibles of departed friends…
Bay Bay’s HR smash that put Flash Cleaners
into the World Series
A cool Moose bringing the ball across
half court, driving and dumping one off to Head
for the go ahead points against Queen of Peace
Minnow ruling a territory that included Morse Ave,
Wood Street up to Chopper’s House and
half of the Washington School playground
Fic being the smallest Bulldog with the largest heart
ran over linebackers and tackled fullbacks twice his size
Weehawken Joe draining a jumper
from the top of the key to keep it close
at the Union Hill pit…
as the list of the departed was read by Gail, Pat, John and Jimmy
the depth of our loss was only exceeded by the magnitude of love
a caring community extends to one another….
Rutherford is indeed a very special place….
so many caring friends
so many good thoughts
the blessing of friendship
the grace of presence
as I turned to leave
I thought I saw
Nick and Joe
hanging with
Sweet Lou
the hog was
humming
his red bandanna
was flapping
in a rising breeze
Aaron Copland:
Our Town
Righteous Brothers
Unchained Melody
Whitney Houston:
I Will Always Love You
Oakland
Dia De Muertos
2015
Thank you Pat Francke, Jimmy Noonan, Gail Wilhelm Quinn and John Mooney for putting this beautiful event together….
My apologies for not mentioning all the beloved souls so honored at this game…..Know that all are deeply loved and equally missed…..
If anyone has a memory they would like included please add in comments section and it will be incorporated in future versions…..
Also if anyone has a list of the names would like to add that to this….
God Bless
an annual autumn softball game played in my hometown Rutherford NJ...
we gather to honor and remember passed loved ones......
we gather to honor and remember passed loved ones......
Nat Lipstadt
Mar 2016
~~~
"I would look at them in the audience:
the frail old lady with thin white hair;
the big, rough biker-looking guy;
the pleasant middle-aged teacher;
the silver-haired accountant with two young kids;
the beat-up middle-aged woman with rheumy alcoholic eyes who is sweetly gracious, modest, as she moves to give you a seat;
the obese, wild-haired man bursting out of his torn, cracked leather jacket;
the giggly, chatty middle-aged redhead in the NoLabels.org sweatshirt;
the Patti Smith-looking woman, tall, pale and austere; the hunky football player;
the skinny hipster girl in architect eyeglasses and torn jeans. Everybody listening so closely to the candidates.
Beret guy, too, with a white bandage on his eye and a beard that went down to the third button of his shirt.
What a crew we are."
Peggy Noonan, political columnist, writing about a New Hampshire meet-the-candidates Town Hall 2016
~~~
confess here an avowed legally, registered voter,
who fails to vote with almost
perfectly regular regularity
for his solitary voice almost always
swallowed whole,
living in the futility utility of a self-selected body politic,
geographical location where
dissent is a now pathetic revolutionary concept lost
in the new intolerance of a place,
where there is none of the
demanding New England hampshired state
that brooks, adheres to
only the standard highest,
"live free or die"
in the sweeping crush of nationalized,
commoditized would be Commodores,
whose sounds bite,
elephantine donkeys and donkeyed elephants,
leading us to the same slaughterhouse,
by different paths
but I am a crew member here...
proud and free,
proud to be,
amidst this mess of characters,
homogenous in their pursuit
of independent assaying
of the character of men
to whom we would
our liberty, entrust
God, it gives me breathing space,
these unusual common folk, who with the
unpracticed eye of a periodic literary critic,
in their first-in-the-nation primary,
selected the would be revolutionaries extremists,
polar opposites
God bless their orneriness,
though both of their final aisles choices to me,
anathema,
message received,
we are tired of the ordinary hacks,
who think their longevity means success,
want a sea core change,
a fresh revolution
as principled as the original...
but they suit up, on uncomfortable
folding chairs,
willing to listen,
all the while acknowledging
their presence physical,
evidentiary proofs each,
that you can fool some of the people
some of the time,
but you cannot fool
all the people
all the time
a man proud to be a crew member,
of this cantankerous irascible population
who will vote this time
but not on any machine that offers up
more of the same ole insane,
will exercise my vote,
in the most old fashioned now waining way
*the same way
I write poetry,
upon a ballot where I will
write in, write on with
ink and paper,
tag a name of person
good enough for representing the
interests best
of this rag tag crew o'mine,
who I love so....
"I would look at them in the audience:
the frail old lady with thin white hair;
the big, rough biker-looking guy;
the pleasant middle-aged teacher;
the silver-haired accountant with two young kids;
the beat-up middle-aged woman with rheumy alcoholic eyes who is sweetly gracious, modest, as she moves to give you a seat;
the obese, wild-haired man bursting out of his torn, cracked leather jacket;
the giggly, chatty middle-aged redhead in the NoLabels.org sweatshirt;
the Patti Smith-looking woman, tall, pale and austere; the hunky football player;
the skinny hipster girl in architect eyeglasses and torn jeans. Everybody listening so closely to the candidates.
Beret guy, too, with a white bandage on his eye and a beard that went down to the third button of his shirt.
What a crew we are."
Peggy Noonan, political columnist, writing about a New Hampshire meet-the-candidates Town Hall 2016
~~~
confess here an avowed legally, registered voter,
who fails to vote with almost
perfectly regular regularity
for his solitary voice almost always
swallowed whole,
living in the futility utility of a self-selected body politic,
geographical location where
dissent is a now pathetic revolutionary concept lost
in the new intolerance of a place,
where there is none of the
demanding New England hampshired state
that brooks, adheres to
only the standard highest,
"live free or die"
in the sweeping crush of nationalized,
commoditized would be Commodores,
whose sounds bite,
elephantine donkeys and donkeyed elephants,
leading us to the same slaughterhouse,
by different paths
but I am a crew member here...
proud and free,
proud to be,
amidst this mess of characters,
homogenous in their pursuit
of independent assaying
of the character of men
to whom we would
our liberty, entrust
God, it gives me breathing space,
these unusual common folk, who with the
unpracticed eye of a periodic literary critic,
in their first-in-the-nation primary,
selected the would be revolutionaries extremists,
polar opposites
God bless their orneriness,
though both of their final aisles choices to me,
anathema,
message received,
we are tired of the ordinary hacks,
who think their longevity means success,
want a sea core change,
a fresh revolution
as principled as the original...
but they suit up, on uncomfortable
folding chairs,
willing to listen,
all the while acknowledging
their presence physical,
evidentiary proofs each,
that you can fool some of the people
some of the time,
but you cannot fool
all the people
all the time
a man proud to be a crew member,
of this cantankerous irascible population
who will vote this time
but not on any machine that offers up
more of the same ole insane,
will exercise my vote,
in the most old fashioned now waining way
*the same way
I write poetry,
upon a ballot where I will
write in, write on with
ink and paper,
tag a name of person
good enough for representing the
interests best
of this rag tag crew o'mine,
who I love so....
July 4th - There are no tribes in America
There are no tribes in America. This is my annual reposting of my July 4th poem, written years ago. After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their sons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart
There are no tribes in America. This is my annual reposting of my July 4th poem, written years ago. After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their sons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart
Ignatius Brabazon
Feb 2015
When Michael Collins came, first from the courts of England,
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.
Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.
Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.
There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.
Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.
Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.
Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.
There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.
Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.
The first brief installment of a romance in Alliterative verse. Alliterative verse belonged to the North West of England, and is quite different to the southern style of English poetry which was made popular by Chaucer. For one of the finest examples of this style of poetry, and the parodic source for this poem, see 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.' Pardon the spellings.