"brady" poems
It's that time of the Patriot's year
Postseason playoff games are in full gear
The road to the Superbowl, I cheer
But not for the big, bad grissly bear
That takes every opponent's fate without fear
That's right the big bad bear without peer
I'm snickering the Patriot's to cry a tear
Nothing would make me so happier, I swear
Fricken, dicken, bitchen Patriots beware
To see another Bostonian tea party, I glare
I do show respect at the Patriot's lair
Brady and Belicheck what a podded pair
Steady, stoic and simulcast, condescending I declare
You see a Patriots playoff loss is so rare
Their team profile is beyond compare
A well oiled machine that wear
Goliath close over David with regular fare
The road to this year's Superbowl Sunday, I say a prayer
That the other teams flag is flying patriotically in the air
Logan Robertson
1/11/2019
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
Bless me Uncle! God's given Naked Head
For finding a Mentor these Comms restore
And import a Friend brought Laughter instead
With a Learning Interest revived once more
For all our doubts, grateful Confidence brew
This shrill Vernacular you opt to Reach
Whilst you divulge Traded Secrets a-new
Shrieked the Blue Eagle; Sately-Done you Teach
That Part we will Miss! Surely Independ
When we of Soft Skills this Task inherit
What Pictures remain of Trust comprehend
We give back in Kind to Service, debit.
Difficult it is to Forget you by
As you climb the Stairs, we sing: "MABUHAY!"
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
It's Sister Lucy not Sister Bridget
who's the crush on the young priest
Father Joseph Magdalene said,
Mary said is she the one? as she sat
on Mags bed listening to music
on her record player I thought
you said the Bridget,
Magdalene sitting beside Mary
passed a glass of lemonade to her
and said nothing certain
you understand just the rumours
I've heard but don't tell
the parents or my arse'll
be slapped for spreading the rumour,
have you a ciggie?
Mary said
putting the lemonade and glass
on the bedside cabinet,
Magdalene poked under the mattress
and took out a squashed pack
of 10 Woodbines and said
open the fecking window
or Ma'll know we've been smoking
and she'll have a moan
and passed the packet to Mary
who took a cigarette
and put it in her mouth
and went and opened the window,
Magdalene took a cigarette
and stuffed the packed
under the mattress again,
Mary sat down and said
have you a light then
or are we to fecking **** on air?
Magdalene took out
of the pocket of her dress
a box of matches
(liberated from the kitchen)
and struck a light for them both
and put the matchbox away again,
they inhaled and sat in silence,
the record played( Billy fury)
and they tapped their feet softly
and nodded their heads,
so what are you doing
about Brian Brady?
Magdalene asked,
what'd you mean doing about
I'm doing nowt with the ******
it's him who thinks I'm going
to be doing things the soft loon
Mary said,
you seemed to be encouraging him
the other day Magdalene said,
ah was fun only I'd not let him
near me in a serious way
no more than the holy Joe himself
Mary said,
smoke filtered ceiling ward,
a car backfired from the street below,
Magdalene leaned in close to Mary
I'm your best friend
and I get jealous of the likes of him
being too near to you,
O he's nothing to be worrying yourself
about him Mags he's just a loon
as boys are Mary said,
Magdalene held the cigarette
a way from her lips
and kissed Mary's cheek,
Mary sighed and said
he's nothing I just give him
the tease he'll get nothing
from my ****** money box,
they both inhaled and exhaled again
and watched the smoke
rise ceiling ward,
the sound of Magdalene's ma
downstairs singing along to the radio,
Magdalene's hand went on Mary's thigh,
a bright sun in a blue Irish sky.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
There you are
pretty as a picture
the perfect life
you eat amazing food!
Thank you for sharing
Your private thoughts
Your personal contacts
how you shop
where you travel
Where you work
You gave me permission
To control you
when you signed up
to play that game
the game that tells you
which Brady Bunch Kid
Is most like you
a small price to pay
for your ignorance
you are not alone
two billion idiots
myself included
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
We started out with Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
A jackrabbit raced past to the rear,
no dumb bunny was he
The heat rose up to meet us
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.
The flower of Virginia here
displayed upon Parade
We must have looked magnificent
Just before the cannonade
They piled on Double Cannister
and tore holes in our line
We staggered from the weight of shot
that fearful hissing whine..
Then enfilading fire came
From the Yanks behind stone walls
Just then post fences six feet high
briefly caused our charge to stall
Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot
We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
"Turn those guns!" I'm told.
But at that very Moment
General Armistead was downed
The attack lost its momentum
Our wave crested on high ground..
The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.
The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with our dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing
Matthew Brady took my photograph
before I was led away
My face a study in defiance
A true man of the gray.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
Lady adjacent waiter,
ruler of the medulla,
give me a certain angle
that'll make her want to maneuver,
make her want to consider
in the absence of his figure,
that maybe not the whole gender
is full of secret agendas,
with her left over right leg,
glass in her right hand,
a tribute to her innocence
ever since she walked in,
assembled it's, white wine
Krispy Kreme eyes,
glazed look,
lips glossed like her oil thighs,
it's finally off time
her sorority cross line,
it's happy hour,
she wasn't,
his whole crime has been a cover up
since she wants him,
this whole scene has been taped off
by her girlfriends,
it's often I see it,
alcoholic rehab,
a culprit — a demon
making contracts with my open tab,
broken bad in the bathroom,
clad woman,
For all the attention
such good first impressions,
but not you,
I feel a different aura,
I feel I'll get exposed
so I call a different offense,
Semper Fi
within my eyes
this energy —
I quiet the restaurant,
Can you hear me?
Proceed to throwing signals
Tom Brady couldn't throw,
the ball's in my court so I'm finally on the move,
crushing on you while the sky undresses,
you catch a glimpse
as the clouds bare witness,
Excuse me Miss Unfortunate,
I know I'm at a disadvantage
but I had to call it
head or tails
I'm still offering,
a chance to be your man? No
a chance to be your author?
a chance to be your narrator now or later
call me,
a chance to say “there she is”
her piercing eyes, fixes her finger on my lips
be quiet, “I saw this in a movie once”
she told me as I spy and I grab onto her truths,
excuse me thats selfish, pardon me
apart of me just wants to see that movie,
a father daughter dance,
a chance to be your groupie,
a chance to see that smile
that you flashed
like a lunar star,
meteor crash
and its back to reality,
eye connection broken
and it’s back to the irony,
a word barely spoken
and I’m back to asking:
Check Please.
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 3:12 PM UTC
My father was carved from a mountain,
his features were etched from the stone,
but like all mountains my father will crumble,
he was in need of an heir to his throne.
My brother was forged of hot iron,
no straighter a path could he walk,
he draws all his strength from the mountain,
his veins run deep through the rock.
My brother was grown in the forest,
so vivid, alive and in sync,
he draws all his strength from the ocean,
his roots thrive on the water they drink.
My mother was born of the ocean,
like a flower she bloomed from the sea,
but when the tide overcame the mountain,
all that remained on the shore was me.
I was born of my father and mother,
I crawled from the ocean and stone,
and when my father finally crumbles,
his two heirs will inherit his throne.
I will travel to nations of bloodshed,
I will not let my death go to waste,
I will lay down my life in the desert,
to keep my fathers throne safe.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
The darker I am
Then the harder to see
Me in anything besides a penitentiary
Because that’s the view people get
Even from the six
Mixes me into a criminal description
Where Dark skin
means a quick conviction
Also I’m none to bright
Since my skin ain’t light
But instead that got replaced with might
Which makes me aggressive
If you ask anyone
who more likely to fight
Of course the dark one
so run
Dare we shed a tear
police come near
As being dark skin
and crying brings fear
Because we can’t
check our emotions
My dear
Ladies of shade I feel your pain
Your viewed uglier than most
Because your skin
Doesn’t roast
But I bet they still joke
and call you toast
Despite having the
most unblemished skin around
They treat you like coffee grounds
They don’t even like your sound
Saying you yell all day
Even when your voice is sultry
Enough to slay
Yellow for the fellows ain’t so mellow
Immediately he soft
cause of complexion
But look at his reflection and the cops
Will make a exception
Your a pretty boy
That can annoy joy out of a toy
My fair ladies
this might be shady
But your as needy as a Brady
Latest shoes all the fenty
Ask anyone and
god blessed you plenty
They say you not humble
But I see your bumble
Your gracious until a rumble
Where does all this lip
come from
Look in the mirror
We bad mouth our bother
Even if we have same the mother
All because life makes us a runner
Stop increasing hate
And dictate our fate
By improving for all our sake
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC
Dear Brady,
Your hair is so luscious
How is it so curly?
It's like Fabio
Learned what a curling iron is
You're a straight baller
Poppin' tres like it's nothin'
You're like Kobe,
Except you actually play
You have a long way to go
To dunk, even though you're like 6' 7"
You have late team parties
Pushed back 3 weeks
I guess it's okay though
At least you have them
So you're Brady
The curly-haired baller
Who has late team parties.
Nice to meet you.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Autism prays for...
Chuck E. Cheese
Maya and Miguel
Huey, Dewey, and Louie
Mom and Dad
Pizza rolls
Subway sandwiches
Grannie
Greeney phantom
dogs,
the Brady Bunch
His greatness
His provision
and comedy cartoons
to watch all day.
Amen
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
It’s the week before the Super Bowl,
where the Patriots and Sea hawks will meet,
and all that folks are talking about
is Bill and Tom’s softball deceit.
It’s cold up North this time of year
when the Patriots made their playoff run.
Snow and ice require gloves;
If footballs slip, they’d be undone.
“Taking the air out of the ball”
Once referred to the running game.
Deflated ***** are easy to grip
But it’s cheating, that much is plain.
It seems the ***** that Brady used
spiraled nicely through the rain.
When you ***** are small and soft,
Like Brady’s, it’s a different game.
When Tom was asked about the scheme
He laughed at first and wouldn’t tell.
The truth about Tom Brady’s *****
is closely guarded by Gisele.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
Every employee's name was listed in the address field
Except for one
The one I never noticed
That we never noticed
We all marched into the meeting room as ordered
Found the CEO on an extra tall stage
To tell us
"Today is Emma McGurk's last day
But she says it's the first day
Of her tenure
As Director of Forecasting of Unintended Consequences
She's not going
So I need all of you, all 300 of you,
To help me terminator."
(Or was that terminate her?)
So we gave each other Brady Bunch nods
I had to look up to make eye contact (or is that I contact?) with superiors
Then we marched to
The cubicle of Emma McGurk
Me remembering what Santa Ana had said:
"With a few hundred more men like the San
Patricios, Mexico would have won the battle."
And the battle wasn't to be won by us
It was to be won by Emma McGurk
The CEO tried to move her
Ten of us tried to move her
Then one hundred
And then all three hundred
Even I made an effort
But she wouldn't budge
So we had to move...
To another building
Hearing that Emma McGurk was still ensconced
In the position existing only in her noggin
Until finally the old building had to be imploded
A fifth-grader winning the honor of triggering
That dusty downfall of Emma McGurk's cubicle
And the building that sheltered it
It wasn't until Signing Day Eve
That I saw her again
Pouring ink at a haiku-con
"The pay wouldn't be that bad," she told me.
"If it was by the snicker instead of the word."
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 9:35 PM UTC
Here’s the story of a guy named Eli,
Who is captain of the G men and well known.
He had a ring of gold, from the desert,
but it was all alone.
Here’s the story of a man named Brady
who was living large with three rings of his own.
He’s a hero, up in New England,
and has Gisele at home.
Till the one night when this Eli met this Brady
And they knew that it was much more than a hunch.
that Cruz would dance and Gronk would come up limping.
That’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.
Tom Brady’s lunch, I played my hunch
that’s the way that Eli ate Tom Brady’s lunch.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 5:31 AM UTC
Here there be Giants,
wearing red and white and blue.
See them raise the trophy;
Eli's Lombardi number two!.
Tom Brady had a final chance
to make the winning score.
A Giant knocked the ball away
as time ran out our spirits soared!
The hats and shirts they hoped
to sell, up in Patriot nation,
now are Nicaragua bound,
to Tommy's consternation.
those perfect season T shirts
were worn threadbare after four.
Now that you've provided new ones-
they're not needed anymore.
So Mister Brady, please don't cry
by most measures, you've done well.
Eli's off to Disneyland-
Go home and sack Gisele.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 5:41 AM UTC
"Who ****** Marsha Brady?" "I," said the Sparrow
"With my bow and arrow, I ****** Marsha Brady"
"Who saw him **** "I," said the Fly
"With my little eye, I saw him ****
"Who caught his *** "I," said the Fish
"With my little dish, I caught his ***
"Who'll make the movie?" "I", said the Beetle
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the movie"
"Who'll make his advert?" "I," said the Owl
"With my pick and shovel, I'll make his advert"
"Who'll be the screenwriter?" "I," said the Rook
"With my little book, I'll be the screenwriter"
"Who'll be the cameraman?" "I," said the Lark
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the cameraman"
"Who'll carry the camera?" "I," said the Linnet
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the camera"
"Who'll be chief editor?" "I," said the Dove
"I **** for my love, I'll be chief editor."
"Who'll carry the actors?" "I," said the Kite
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the actors"
"Who'll bare it all? "We," said the Wren
"Both the **** and the hen, we'll bare it all."
"Who'll sing a song?" "I," said the Thrush
"As she ate on a mush, I'll sing a song"
"Who'll make him *** "I," said the bull
"Because I can pull, I'll make him ***
All the crew of the film, fell a-sighing and a-sobbing
When they witnessed the ******** yell, from poor Marsha Brady.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 8:04 AM UTC
Deflate Gate
By: Tom Brady
When it comes to football
it’s all about the ball
it’s got nothing to do with skill
or giving our fans a thrill
When I cozy up behind the hiker
and give the call to begin the game
he snaps the ball into my hands
as the crowd screams from the stands
Then I make my famous moves
to the left, maybe right, maybe back
either to pass the ball or, to
hand it off to a running back
Where the ball goes, nobody knows
just me – in my moment of glory
whether the ball is soft or hard
I can’t be bothered or give a worry
Seems strange to me about the air
inside the ball – being such a big crime
they check the pressure when we start
why not each quarter, or, during half time
Whether a ball is soft or hard at game’s end
no difference to me or any team mate
we’re here to play our best on game day
not to deflate ***** or litigate
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
brady’s cafe
i’m doing a reading at kent state
got an interminably long wait to get on
protesters outside provoke the cops
about an after nine noise pollution law
they bang bongos and march through
the cafe
disrupting the readings
chanting
“noise is illegal noise is llegal.”
i am getting nerve racked and edgy
so i drink port from disguised juice bottle
we smoke a joint
the time drags and i get
somewhat drunk-my face a fiery blush
but no longer feel the thump of my heart
somewhere up in my neck
it’s round midnight
we smoke another
and suddenly i’m on
i totter up grabbing chairs for leverage
the crowd receptive to my words
never knew my mental anguish
or saw the slight in my left knee.
ana christy from beatnik blues
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Tales of the Texas Rangers:
The Legend of Tom Brady’s Shirt
Texas is rich with tales of old
Heroes, villains, San Saba’s gold
Once Aztecs ruled our shores and bays
And Tejas roamed the forest ways
Here in this sunburnt arid land
Comanches bold made their last stand
Karankawas, Apaches too -
All sorts of tales, and mostly true
Nueva Espana, then Mexico
Rebellion and the Alamo
But the strangest tale, we now assert
Is the mystery of Tom Brady’s shirt
Missing it is, after the game
Who is the thief? Who is to blame?
Dan Patrick, the lieutenant-guv
He swore by all the stars above
And most of all by that one Star
That’s flown in every saloon and bar
He’d catch that creep, and make him hurt
Whoever pinched Tom Brady’s shirt
So in this time of ******* danger
He called upon each Texas Ranger
His voice was low, but cold as steel:
“Y’all brang that mangy cur to heel;
Load your weapons, and saddle up!”
Each Ranger answered with a “Yup.”
All Rangers, now, be on alert:
Somebody rustled Tom Brady’s shirt
Every Texan expects your best
(Tom Brady is our honored guest)
He can’t go home in just his jeans
So find his jersey, by any means
Remember - not a blouse or skirt;
You’re looking for the poor man’s shirt
That’s why you Rangers are paid so much -
Search every ****** and hovel and hutch
Somewhere under the Texas skies
An outlaw hides, and probably cries
He shamed his state and he shamed his mama
And the only end to all this drama
Will come upon him like wind and dust
And a voice will command (with great disgust)
“Stand and deliver, you ugly varmint!
Hold up your hands, and drop that garment!”
“Oh, Texas Ranger, tell me true:
How did you find me? I feel so blue!”
And the Ranger will sing softly:
“The shirt of a stranger is upon you…”1
y colorín, colorado y este cuento se ha acabado, y’all
1Apologies to Chuck Norris
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
If it is not a popular dream, they will dispose of it.
About the only thing this country has ever proven,
Is that on their best days they are about this:
A straight couple, with children, sitting in a
"Brady" home with their girls play with dolls,
Boys play with toy soldiers and football,
This is it, everyone!
The death of the Progressive Era, may we all become drones,
In the best known words of the Borg in Star Trek, Next Generation:
"RESISTANCE IS FUTILE..."
And we'll all be assimilated.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
I found myself in a record shop
Which got me all to wondering
How these bands all got their names
And wouldn't it be summon
If I went through all the racks
And pulled them randomly
What it is that I would find
To solve this mystery
When this idea hit me
I was standing before the M's
So based upon that simple fact
Is where this journey begins
Mega Death-You must be kidding!
Are theses guys for real?
How big a death do you have to die
Before your still road ****
I decided to jump around
To get the full effect
Can not help but wonder
At what will pop up next
Oh, lookie here...Butt Hole Suffers
I bet their momma's proud
When those guys hang ten
Are they surfing in or surfing out
I came across Badfinger
In an old 70's record bin
I'm telling you the honest truth
I don't care to know where that fingers been
Over yonder a band called The, The
The, The...What?!
Then there's Chumbawamba
Chumbawamba...Whoba?!
This may all sound a bit far fetched
But it's the honest to goodness truthba!
The H's are holding Hoobastank
The closest I can figure
Is that the guys in this band
Hang out with Badfinger
Albino Toilet Boys
Cottage Cheese From The Lips Of Death
My Dog Has Hitlers Brains
Norman Bates And The Shower Heads
Poultry In Motion
Brady Bunch Lawn Mower Massacre
**Roid Rodgers And The Whirling **** Cherries**
Are today's record shop de jour
As I'm leaving out the door
Arms piled high with newly purchased song
I grab the last copy of **Yoko ****
For soothing dinner music later on
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
Out past the Dam
with its whispering water
overflow.
the ducks sally forth
beneath the wooden bridges
of Brady Park pond.
The trees line
our way as
bare silent Sentinels
Our boots crunch
upon the icy, stony path.
Come Spring there will
be cygnets and green
in profusion.
but now only brown
and the white
nakedness
of the Birches
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
I treat beef like lions in, the Ramada inn, dying to sign into the luncheon,
go to work,
I punch in,
these beefcakez, is munchkins, my dough nuts, and bunch Keens.
We Brady Bunch,
and Punch like Kens -sheens.
we punching through functions
like a bunch of alienss at the Days Inns working equations off all kinds of ocassions, mostly Caucasian, facials so amazing, when their facebook, if they face them..I page in,and they page Kim, to let him, know that I'm waiting; the appointment meant, we dating, no promo, so stop your hating. take a selfy in the **** stop ur waiting. ctrl, alt, delete. there's no.escaping- staple the email to your upper lip, recycle trash every other weak in. *** Ginny, run, Freddy creeping. slow, creepy walk, Jason mask out the Lake Inn, my neighbors laughed, Chevy chasing there *** child's play with a ****** hockey mask, i'm up to task. dog had a limp,so I made him part of the cast! Bruce Lee kicked, thier ******* *** I'm talking full body cast.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
They came without vision
None questioned their skills
They took a big lead
Then promply got killed
New England was battered
New England was bruised
Atlanta was lunching
And quickly got schooled
The halftime explicits
They blistered the walls
The bigger the lead
The harder they fall
Tom Brady's the gravy
In Belichick's cup
Coach built a big fire
And heated him up
There were some deep passes
Some ***** and some dunks
The hell of it is
It was done without Gronk
That tightend of legend
Who sat in the wings
While wiley Tom Brady
Conducted the thing
It's all big in Texas
Including that game
The hype, the excitement
For Atlanta, the shame
We heard them complaining
We saw them give in
With Julio to lead them
They still couldn't win
But, there is good news
If it wasn't from chocking
They stumble this fall
Then it must be bad coaching
In twenty-eighteen, we'll fire the staff
And bring in some retread
For minimum cash
He'll get the ball rolling
We'll win it, for sure
Or, ole Mr Ryan
We're showing the door
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
Martha Maguire sits
in the back pew of the church
cigarette between fingers,
smoke drifting slowly
to the high beams and tiled roof,
her blue eyes focusing on the Crucified
His arms stretched wide
His head lowered
His eyes shut
the skimpy cloth
about His midriff
nails in hands and feet
and wound in the side
a slit of red paint revealed,
she takes a drag on the cigarette,
inhales deeply holds the cigarette
just away from her lips and
with no effort releases
the smoke in a steady stream
over the pew in front,
the Crucified's skin
has a yellowy sheen to it,
the crown of thorns have
acquired cobwebs and dust,
only her in the church
silence except for distant traffic,
Magdalene had talked
of the priest and one
of the nuns and some
kind of thing going on,
Martha muses
watching the smoke rise,
the young priest not the old codger,
which nun was it?
not St Agnes that's for sure
she'd only *** out of
her thingamajig,
as would most of the sisters
no doubt,
Sister Lucy was it?
maybe can't recall the gossip,
she inhales deeply again
scratches an itch
on her thigh,
Mary Moran and her ways
with the boys
and she only fourteen too
as am I,
she smiles recalling
what Mary said of Brian Brady
and what he tried to do
put your hand in some other
girl's private place not mine
she said she said,
the Crucified hangs in silence
not a word
not a judgement,
some days she's sure His head
lifts and He gazes at her
with an awkward smile,
His eyes half open
the **** thorns pushing
His hair over His eyes,
the door at the far end opens
and the young priest enters
in his black garb
like a young rook
on the prowl,
he genuflects
and makes the sign of the cross,
then peers down towards Martha
who hides her cigarette
out of sight,
the smoke drifting less so
but under the lower pews,
he looks away
goes to the altar
fiddles with things
goes to the tabernacle
and opens the door
and fiddles inside,
she looks at her cigarette,
lowers her head
and takes a swift inhalation,
then sits back up
gazes at the priest
**** arsing about,
the cigarette between fingers
out of sight,
and she thinking
if it was the priest and Sister Luke
and the carrying ons
and what and where if so,
anyway she muses
letting the smoke drift
from her lips
what do they know?
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
Here's to those who suffer voluntarily,
who rise above the mean and merely momentary
pleasure that we feel sitting on a couch,
eating Cheetos, watching reruns of "The Brady Bunch";
those who exercise, walk fast (raising weights
with their arms in rhythm to their feet),
jog, or actually even run --
as long as there's no clear goal in mind,
no Olympic medal, no short-skirted cheerleaders
proffering kisses;
residents of Blakely, Georgia, and Moosejaw, Saskatchewan,
who steadfastly resist removal to California
and similar climes, knowing intuitively
that delight in perfect weather is born in sub-zero winters,
in summer's humid swelter;
those who do without air-conditioning,
using the money for a violin
or books or trips to the local swimming pool;
those who fast, mortify the flesh, --
or at least skip breakfast occasionally,
refusing to indulge every ****** whim,
letting them ripen, at least now and then,
into actual, robust hunger;
monks in solemn Kentucky silence,
some, I suppose, are misanthropes, here I speak of those
with a normal affection for chat and hubbub
who restrict themselves to a reverent silence,
speech being used only in extremity;
blood donors.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 8:27 PM UTC