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Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,

reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

These are poems about sports like baseball, basketball, boxing, football and soccer. Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, locker room, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, darkness, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophy, award, acclamation



Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a ***** a *****.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.

Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.

My face reflected up, more bronze than gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—Bold.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child.
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

Published by Black Medina, Bashgah (Iran, in a Farsi translation), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Freshet, Formal Verse, Borderless Journal, Interracial Love, and in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong

Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying, “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******.” I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in a publication called Bashgah.



Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch



hey pete!
by michael r. burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy’s dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then
you'll be a Superstar.

Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player as a boy; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather ironic commentary on the term “superstar.”



Baseball's immeasurable spittin’ mixed with occasional hittin’.—Michael R. Burch



Larry Seivers had golden hands
by Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands,
platinum hands,
diamond hands,
hands of jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth and amethyst.

Other receivers were more elusive,
bigger,
faster,
more physical,
flashier ...

but Larry Seivers had hands.



Julius
by Michael R. Burch

Instinct
in an unplanned moment
as you rise
will teach your limbs the art of flight:
the waltz of light
through vaulted skies.

A falcon flies:
its keening cries
as sunlight fails
fall hollow to the earth below,
and you must know
how fierce the light of sunset feels.

You hear
those ringing cries, their echoes clear
though far away, and so you pause
—defying even gravity,
suspended over some vast sea—
then fall ... into applause.



Larry Legend
by Michael R. Burch

He's slow, can't jump,
looks pale and plump.
He talks too much;
he brags, and such.
He's not real nice,
has blood like ice
and will like steel
(and steal he will).
But when the game is on the line,
your team, or mine?



Big Mc Attack
by Michael R. Burch

Johnny Mc
Enroe
is back—
the fierce
attack
of words
and serves,
returns
and taunts.

He flaunts;
he flails,
reviles
and rails.
Sometimes
he wails.
His ego
swells.
He grunts
and groans
and moans
and gee . . .
I think
he wants
to referee!

Johnny Mc
(thank God)
is back—
wisecrack
ing, fiery,
taking flack
(not hesitant
to give it back).

We love
to watch
him glare
and wince,
and since we sense
his dreams
(intense),
we sit
on pins
until
he wins.



For Jack Nicklaus, at the 1987 Open
by Michael R. Burch

When you were young
every putt was makeable
and every dream remarkable;
the stars were unmistakable
you set your sights upon.

Then, in your youth,
time not yet a factor
and age not yet your rector,
you plotted every vector
and victory shone ahead, like truth.

But uncouth youth was fleeting ...
soon losses grew more numerous;
time's skies became more cumulus;
the nerves with age—more tremulous,
as the sun from the sky was setting, retreating.

How have you then, as sunset nears
and the world looks on with unsure eyes,
cast off the crutch of age to rise
and stand as though the butterflies
have no effect, no, nor the cheers?



I wrote this poem after Tom Watson chipped in at the 1982 US Open to defeat Jack Nicklaus. Nicklaus was getting older, but he was still competitive.

There Are Dreams
by Michael R. Burch

for Jack Nicklaus

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that are etched into your eyes.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that resignation can’t disguise.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed . . .
O, I’ve dreamed them, esteemed them.

Like fire,
desire
flares most brightly as it dies.



Jimbo
by Michael R. Burch

for Jimmy Connors

Pounce like a panther,
all sinew and nerve;
attack, arched in anger,
your quarry—the serve.
Imagine a moment
of glory to come
as you lunge for the path
of its flight through the sun.

Are you a Templar
like warriors of old,
forsaking your loved ones,
crusading for gold?
Or could it be
need for fame drives you on?
Do you soak up the cheers
as you dash through the sun?

As you battle those younger,
those stronger, more fleet,
still none can be fiercer,
less yielding, complete.
Oh, what drives you onward,
what makes you compete?

I think not the riches, acclaim, even love . . .
but your heart is incentive enough.



The Great GOAT Debate
by Michael R. Burch

The great GOAT debate
can no longer wait:
we MUST know who’s best, and know NOW!

Is it Jordan, Kareem,
or Hakeem the Dream?
Is it Gretzky, the Rocket, or Howe?

Is it O.J. or Brady,
or are they too shady?
Tom Burleson or Monte Towe?

But now that I’m thinking
and done with my drinking,
before I make friends with a large purple cow ...

It’s the Babe, let’s get serious!
Babe Didrikson Zaharias!
Let the Ultimate GOAT take a bow.

Mildred Ella “Babe” Didrikson Zaharias was a basketball All-American, a baseball and softball star, a professional golfer who accumulated ten major championships, and a track and field legend who won two gold medals and a silver in three different disciplines at the 1932 Olympics while setting four world records in the process. She was also an expert diver, roller-skater, bowler and billiards player. Didrikson won the 1932 AAU track and field team championships while competing as an individual, by winning five of the eight events she entered and finishing second in another. She remains the only track and field athlete, male or female, to have won individual Olympic medals in a running event (hurdles), a throwing event (javelin), and a jumping event (high jump). Despite taking up golf in her mid-twenties and having to wait until age 31 to regain her amateur status, Didrikson won 17 straight women's amateur tournaments, an unequaled feat. Altogether, she won 82 golf tournaments. She made the cut at two men’s PGA golf tournaments, the only woman to do so, and she did it sixty years before any other woman even tried. In 1934 exhibition games, after being taught the curve ball by Dizzy Dean, she pitched one scoreless inning against the Dodgers and two scoreless innings against the Indians. Didrikson still holds the world record for the longest baseball throw by a woman. The world has never seen anyone like her.

“She is beyond all belief until you see her perform ...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen.” – Grantland Rice, considered by many to be the greatest sportswriter of all time



Ring-a-Ling Bling
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is mostly bling.

Determining an individual athlete's greatness by counting championship rings (i.e., team success) makes no sense to me and seems disrespectful to all-time greats like Ernie Banks, Charles Barkley, Elgin Baylor, **** Butkus, Ty Cobb, Michelle Kwan, Karl Malone, Dan Marino, Marta (who may be the greatest female soccer player of all time), Barry Sanders, John Stockton, Fran Tarkenton and Ted Williams. Perhaps the best example is the player most cited for rings these days: Michael Jordan. In reality, Jordan didn't win a ring his first six years and was 0-6 against
the Larry Bird Celtics and lost two more playoff series to the Isiah Thomas Pistons. Were Bird and Thomas the better players, or did they simply have better teams? The answer seems obvious.
Jordan only began to win rings after he was joined by outstanding players like Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, et al, and even then it took time for that team to jell. Jordan was a transcendentally great player before he won a ring. If he had failed to win rings because he never had good-enough teammates, would that make him a lesser player? Judging individuals by team success or failure makes no sense, unless Jordan was a lesser player for six years while his teams struggled and then he miraculously became the GOAT when more capable players showed up. Ditto for LeBron James. The first thing he does after changing teams is use his influence to get better players to join him. LeBron is not foolish enough to believe rings are won by individuals.



The Ring Thing (is entirely Bling)
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is entirely bling.

Michael Jordan was zero-for-six
against the Larry Bird Celtics;
moreover he was twice sent home
by Isiah’s Pistons;
his ring case only began to gleam
when he had Horace, Scottie and B.J. on his team.

Thus the ring
thing
is bling.



The Ballad of King Henry the Great
(aka Derrick Henry)
by Michael R. Burch

Long live the King!
Send him victorious,
happy and glorious,
long to reign over us:
Long live the King!

Long live the King!
Send him like Sherman tanks
Mowing down cornerbacks,
Stiff-arming tiny ants:
Long live the King!



No T.O.
by Michael R. Burch

Lines written after the aptly-named Eric Eager said, “A. J. Brown is Terrell Owens.”

I’m young, I’m big-hearted,
but I’m just getting started.

I’m running my own race
at my own **** pace.

T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town,
but I’m A. J. Brown.

The second stanza was actually written by A. J. Brown, a budding poet, and published in the form of a tweet.



Charlie Hustle
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

Crouch at the plate,
intensity itself.

Follow the flight
of the streak of white
with avid eyes
and a heartfelt urge
to let it fly.

Sweep the short arc,
feel the crack of a clean hit,
pound the earth
toward first.

Edge into the base path,
eyes relentlessly relentless.

Watch his every movement;
feel his every thought;
forget all save his feet;
see him stretch
toward the plate ...
and fly!

Fly along the basepath
churning up the dirt,
desire in your eyes.

Slide around the outstretched glove,
hear the throaty cry,
"He's safe!"
And lie in a puddle of sunlight
soaking up the cheers.

A Texas Leaguer dropping
to the left-field side of center
sends you on your way back home.

Take the turn past third
with fervor in your eyes
and a fever in your step,
the game just strides away ...
take them all and then
slide your patented head-first slide
across the guarded plate.

Pause in the dust of your desires,
loving the feel of the scalding sun
and the roar of the crowd.

Shake your head and tip your cap
toward the clouds.

Slap the dirt
from your grass-stained shirt
and head toward the clubhouse ...
just doing your job,
but loving it
because it is your life.

This was an early attempt at free verse, written in my teens.



The Sliding Rule
by Michael R. Burch

If you’re not quite kosher,
like Leo Durocher;
or if you have a Pinocchio nose,
like Peter Edward Rose;
or if your life turns tragic,
like Ervin Johnson’s magic;
or if your earthly heaven
is stopped, like Howe’s, at seven;
or if you’re a disciplinarian
like Knight, but also a contrarian;
or if like Joe you’re shoeless
because you’re also clueless;
or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson
you work a little vice in;
or like Daly working the jackpot
you’re less unlucky than merely a crackpot;
or like Ruth you’re better at drinking
than at dieting and thinking;
or perhaps like Andre Agassi’s
your triumphs are really your tragedies . . .
though The Judge might call you a sinner,
society’ll proclaim you a WINNER!



Tremble
by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,
juts.

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.

Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse

Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening



Y2k: The Score
by Michael R. Burch

You should have known
when you were giving us wedgies,
pulling down our pants
in front of the cheerleaders,
playing frisbee with our slide rules . . .

that the years are exceedingly cruel.

You should have seen,
dashing across the gridiron
(as the cheerleaders screamed
in a *****-show of ecstasy),
playing the hero, the bull-necked **** . . .

the hands on the face of the unimpressed clock.

Though you were popular,
the backseat Romeo, the star
who drove the flashiest car,
though you lived out our dream
and took the prettiest girls to the dances, the prom . . .

you never had a chance.  Something was wrong.

We missed the big dances and proms
as we hissed and we schemed,
as we wrote and re-wrote our revenge
while you partied like Stonehenge.
Now your business is in debt to the hilt.
It’s too late to cry: Foul! Unsportsmanlike! Tilt!

One statement of ours and yours are all lost!
Your receivables, aging and gathering dust,
will yellow like ***** one soon-coming day.
While you were scoring, you missed this play—

Jocks: Zero. Nerds: Y2k.



Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times
in football it's Dallas
with it's lone silver star

in baseball it's Atlanta
Ted's Super Station reaches far

basketball is a toss up
between east and west coast

the Lakers have flashy Magic
Irish Celtics of Bird they boast

hockey is another story
the Canadians have it there

but Gretzky's defection to LA
is an answer to a King's prayer

Lion King:
I Just Can't Wait to Be King

jbm
NYC
9/15/88
I am from the old world
    From over the waters
I am from old houses
    Majestic, kings and Celtics
I am from Mountains and Lakes
     Mozart, Music, Stereotypes

I am from red-white-red
    And what once was a monastery
I am from skiing, snow and sunshine
    From Schnitzel and pasta
I am from almost Espresso
    And people speaking fast
I am from languages
(Servus, Srečno, Ciao)

I am from a house with a mom
   And a brother, little me
I am from a family with 4+21
   I am from a field, tough but still a passion
   And rivers with the moonlight

I am from climbing
  And the top of the world
I am from kilometers and kilograms
   And from long nights

I am from Rap
       And the school where it’s never quiet
I am from a mother
       That says goodbye with the wings of a bird  
        And white roses
I am from a dad that helps me keep focused
        On the important parts of life

I am from singing people
That I left over the clouds
Far away
Some of it might be hard to understand, unless you are from Austria
Styles Nov 2014
Nic wack
patty  fat
Give a dog a bone.
Forget that
Six flat
I'm getting in the zone
Coming off the dome
To elevate my holmes
I'm flipping different styles
an breaken colla' bones
Freestlying for a while
Then killing microphones
reading palms then writing poems
Stay preying for my foes
The more they hate me,
the more I these brughs
these haters forgotten woes
Makes them hate me even moes
they thought my star dumb
But I shine bright
jaws dropping through the floors
And breaking done doors
Playing my cards like a maverick
I'm wild slick like an Olympic
pushing sic whips, taking picks
with my dogs
Like l'm boy filthy rich
went from a chip on my shoulder
To flipping chips at the Ritz
eating liver and fish with
Chip and dip with one of the Celtics
who's selling tic-kets to see the old
Knicks turning tricks  
over at 5th
off of 6th
by Saint and Patrick's
Instead
I'm tipping bartenders
When I flip it with the tip
**** like I'm a **** kid
I blow their mind when I say something
wicked like
"Time is money"
but give me a look
with no more specifics
Then I take another sip
then walk off all prolific
then look in the air
My hands flair like I ....
see something futuristic
then look at you like...
I could you miss it.
I know what you are thinking
and I am so pist...
This is bullclip
I meant
full clip
I won't bite my tongue
but just bite my lip thinking of inking
Something linking in link inn
with link king linked in link with ink linking king with lincoln
linking the link king
With lincoln against a kingpin
and that kingpin was me,
u pinned him got the quick won
Then took a knee
As he hand it down to me.
with me. All linked into the same thing

"Don't Plan for your future,
and you could end up like this."
Then take another sip and then I dip
All ripped off some old English breathe that smelt like he been punched in the mouth by a fist full of ****, then bit, then swallowed the ****. Then didn't brush since 1986, he could a deadly virus if it took a swift. Got on my motor bike, and slide off like a brit, a villian, and I'm swift. My lines tailored quick, step out of line, the bottom line, is flat line then a ditch. Get a bottom *****, and breed her with my pit, then cruise and take a pic, ***** clues we label it, now enough with the funny **** now let's spit something sick
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2021
Death is annihilation
Truly, truly scary

I still shoot midnight free throws
I think of you, Rick Barry

I'm not underhanded
Larry Bird ( Hey, Larry! )

He could shoot the 3
I wait, but do not tarry

I wish they did exist
Yes, I mean the Irish fairies.

                 Celtics!
Tea May 2013
Today I ripped up that inked paper
Crafted, inked sketched
To shorted the distance between our difference
Something that hasn’t happened yet
Negativity, is all it brings me
And it lays in pieces by my bed
Seeing what is there
Instead of what I made
Lays
Alone
In pieces
No one ever appreciated you
Not like me
Not like I do
In some ways
It was perfect
Celtics player
Patterns
Green sprayed across
A piece of paper that struggled
To say
It doesn’t have to be perfect
But I took it down
Because they never understood
What it stands for
Stood for
…. No shorter of a distance
Paper doesn’t make a bridge
to cross the gap
between the difference
of you and me.
today I ripped that paper
Charles Sturies Aug 2017
There was the backfield tandem of Doc Blanchard and Glenn Davies on several West Point football teams of the UOS.

There is that power hitting duo of the modern day Yankees - Gary Sanchez and Aaron Judge.

There were those great power hitters of the 70s, I believe, that seemed to come in clusters like Mike Schmidt, Breen Downing, and yes, I believe, John Milner.

There was, of course, Ruth and Gehrig that stood out on the 1927 Yankees.

There's Hawke Leonard and James Harden, an unsung pair of the San Antonia Spurs and the Houston Rockets, respectively, in pro basketball that stand out.

There's Stephan Curry and Kevin Durant, a Mutt and Jeff combination in the Golden State Warriors.

There was a couple of gifted first to play on a University of Illinois basketball team African Americans that were tantalizing good at that time - Mannie Jackson and Governor Vaughn.

There was those 4 great old time Boston Celtics guards; Bob Cousy, Bill Sharman, K.C. Jones, and Sam Jones.

There was Bill Bradley and Dave Debusschere manning the wings of the New York Knickerbockers pro basketball teams of the late sixties, I believe.

There was Ron Kissinger and Glenn Becker, the keystone duo on the Chicago Cubs of the sixties, I believe.

There was Mainstay, reliable pitcher for the Casey Stengal dynasty teams - Vic Raschi and Allie Reynolds and there were great teamsmen of Vince Lombardi's pro football Green Bay Packers Super Bowl team like Dave Hammer, Forrest Gregg, and Boyd Dowler.
Charles Sturies
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2021
Father Greeley gave me Ireland
I gave Trinity him

Larry Bird alone
In the Celtics gym

My youngest son is Cambrian
Cambrian can swim

Katniss Everdeen
Takes the place of Prim

       The odds. Slim.
Qualyxian Quest Oct 2022
The little way is hidden power
Power in paradox
No man knows the hour
My name Todd means Fox

French couple in Dublin
I listen on the bus
Territory troublin'
Just the three of us

The Celtics played tonight
I like parquet floors
Moroccan mint tea
Dusky Spanish Moors

          37 floors
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2023
Protective prayers
From the terror in the night
The arrow that flies by day
Keep him safe from harm
Keep him. Callooh! Callay!

Celtics on the break
Wizards surely May
Friends and teams, good dreams
Melville y Taipei

         Yea verily. Yea.
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
They took the cities
But we had better songs
Boston Celtics. Boston strong.
Calvert House. Alex Nava.

                Ping Pong
Qualyxian Quest Jan 2021
Boston Celtics basketball
In the 80s: Danny Ainge

American politics this Fall
Deranged, deranged, deranged

From London to misty Wetheral
Then flight to Dublin too

An afternoon in sunlight
The San Diego zoo

When the Darkness comes a-calling
I like to sleep it through

                 Y tu?
Qualyxian Quest Sep 2021
12:21
That was a good dream!

If wishes could come true
Things not as they seem

Solitude is blue
At Springsteen shows I scream

The 80s Boston Celtics
Still my lucky team

               Fairy tales
               Irish green
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2019
Charlotte skyscraper
           Dragon wallpaper
                      Twilight time taper ...

                                Celtics cross.
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2023
In Medias Res
Frederick, Maryland
Irish. Batman. Green Arrow.
Francis. Mexican.

Lovely sunny day
Not much goin' down
Everybody knows
I am the newsboy of this town

Vegetarian burritos
Another Diet Coke
The time will come to fly
To foment, to provoke

Orange fade on my drive home
The cat and the bat
Touched a tiger in Thailand
Boston Celtics hat

                Turner. Nat.
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2023
America Magazine
Decay and Decline
Until gay people can marry
I will not drink the Wine

Until there are female priests
No Bread of Life for me
I walk past St. James
Father, come and see

My children are not baptized
They like Indian food
Shiva lingam in my son's room
Lake Linganore interlude

Rubies given to Krishna
Protection on the Left Coast
Boston Celtics basketball
I remember Johnny Most

         The 80s. A toast!
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2021
I seek but cannot find
I walk home all alone

Such sorrow in my mind
Goodnight telephone

If time is an illusion
And life is but a dream

I wish for kind collusion
Someone on my team

              Celtics!
Qualyxian Quest Nov 2021
Sometimes it's *******! to this ******* world
A world that's done me wrong

Sometimes it's tenderness, womangirls
A little sweetsad song

Truly it's a madhouse
I do not belong

Icy Charles River
Celtics: Boston Strong!
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
Best to stay out of the limelight
Lee May probably right
Tom and Daisy we're careless people
Sor Juana's mystic flight

Gatsby's Platonic view of himself
I too see lights of green
University of Chicago Divinity School
I read aloud Things Not Seen

Fear of forever forgotten
Fear of sins remembered
Yes, I will let you in
When I'm soul Septembered

San Francisco Zen Center
English breakfast tea
Boston Celtics basketball
Boston Episcopal Trinity

     She and I. I and She.

                Oui.
Qualyxian Quest May 2021
When I finally do stop writing
Gonna ride those ferry boats

Sent her several letters
Unusual the notes

Time keeps on passing
Nothing really changes

80s Boston Celtics
Larry Bird's and Danny Ainge's

Play is necessary
Too serious is not good

Music is like basketball
The sky is a neighborhood
I'm not gonna figure it all out
Gonna die unknown
Agonia, Agonia
Little black cell phone

All the King's Men
Alone with the Alone
Honeymoon in Florence
Honeymoon in Rome

My son watches basketball
At my father's home
Go Celtics! All the way
Victory to own.
Qualyxian Quest Sep 2019
6 sacred Savage dragons
one ancestral County Down

Father Greeley's Chicago
Kells' sweet Seattle sound

Trinity conversation
Celtics points, assists, rebounds

Donald Trump was up
Now the tyrant gets thrown down
Qualyxian Quest Sep 2020
I play for the Celtics.
I don't play for Boston.

He said.
Qualyxian Quest Sep 2020
Three rings for the Elven-kings under the sky
Seven for the Dwarf lords in their halls of stone

I seek a great quest befor I die
I would like companions but now I'm mostly alone

In London the man said, See you later
I had my Celtics shirt; he had a Yankees hat

I am quiet, not a boisterous debater
But I am curious about what he meant by that
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2020
Celtics bedspread
        Conversation in the night
                      Safety

— The End —