"clubhouse" poems
Kevan Fuchs died today in his sleep
In a similar way as his father of one
And actually, also my father did too
Of those bitter, big cancer scourges
Which always come in unexpected
In this short enough life, a bit early
I've known him ever since first, when
We were knee high to Dad's shotgun
Throughout our small neighborhood
We would all roam to see and look
For ***** toads and such other fun
Without any known end in our sights
We often, came all together, at once
In his parent's, little Clovis back yard
In the under ground, in our deep dug
Wild little clubhouse of our new pride
Approved by our jealous Dad's stare
Made all by ourselves, with great care
Eight by eight, with three feet of deep
Shagged carpet floors, walls around
And places to hide stuff with those
**** magazines we wished to remain
Unseen by our parents, although they
Surely lived through similar wild times
Black lights , fluorescent mod posters
Fans to cool, while there in the deep
Kept the place comfy, from several
Hot summers in New Mexico's heat
Staying nights over, in conspiracy we
Came colluding, while hoping no fame
This place was our place, of known
Refuge from all of the big crazy, with
Frightening world still yet to come
Giving us our youngest freedoms
And also so much being in trouble
As kinda neighborhood hoodlums
Far up his Dad's, tall, two-way radio tower
One of us in care would climb
With binoculars to see the dark night
With our pair of walkie talkies held
Warn the others, carousing around
Of any plight, in appearing headlights
Kevan's brother, still alive, Keith
My other brother by another, Buddy
Also at first, a weird guy, named Chris
One other member, as second cousin
Who actually, was my very first kiss
When it was hard to aim, lips to miss
All bound as one, by made up signs
And part of something called PSO
Which, if you don't know well, what it
Truly means, then you were definitely
Not a part of the so very high bliss
Which we suffered through so often
Kevan's true nature is clearly proven
Finally, most completely, at his end
In the nature of his wonderful loving
All his family, who also so loved him
And all those other parties to trouble
Who also so loved, really all of him
© 2017 Jim Davis
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
They weren’t all cut from the same cloth
*vilified tenders of the iron *****
some were lovers
(or lucid dreamers)
stage romantics
hidden behind jackboots
and skull caps
and switchblade seams
Caste members of a forlorn pack
counting their patchwork and deeds
conjuring up demons
around the console
filling their dreams
with radio reds
and dusted quarries
and faded sepia prints
Brass knuckles
and marches of the few
lightening bolt cracks
from a chilling blood moon
death’s dark specter
cold and ominous looms
the cobalt sea swells
near the nestled, and lost
Clubhouse at Kiusta
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.
We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.
One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.
Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Iridium fastball pitches
from Zuni serpent mound,
bottom of the 9th walk-off homerun
over 30ft diving moai.
Slide to home base in volcanic lava
to congratulatory ***** Gatorade bath
from Kubla Kahn forefathers,
chanting psychedelic clubhouse anthems.
Levitate from home plate
and land atop Pyramid of Cholula for victory dinner;
for since we’re all artists in our dreams,
true dreams never come true.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Rock n’ roll music, Folger’s, and paint-smeared hands.
Dresser drawers filled to the brim with undeveloped camera film.
Blue bonnets and overgrown grass, pecans and crunching fall leaves.
Dirt roads and river-rocks, typewriters, polaroid cameras, and feather-quill pens.
Those hand-me-down blue eyes and brown ones that are “sometimes hazel.”
Crystal clusters and Lord of the Rings.
Countless mosquito bites and play-pretend games in the clubhouse.
Early-birds and night-owls.
Trudy; and Randy Hayes.
“Don’t touch everything you see,” and “If you say you’re bored, I’ll find work for you to do.”
Sweet tea and okra and southern dishes blackened and drenched in cheese or gravy.
Grandma always burned everything to make sure it was fully cooked, and to her, it was never burned, just “well-done.”
Cigarettes and carpentry and cookbooks. Wild blackberries and birthday parties at the lake.
Sleeping in all day and staying up all night and procrastination.
Shepherd's Pie, potatoes, and four-leaf clovers.
“Nil Desperandum. Never Despairing.”
I’m from a whole house that eats eggs for breakfast, and I’m allergic to eggs.
And trees as tall as buildings and buildings as tall as trees.
“You should never take the lord’s name in vain,” and “Jesus loves you, so you should love others.”
Day-dreams and stargazing and thunderstorms.
“All or nothing,” and “There is no try, only do.”
Old family pictures in dust-glittered frames.
We are crystals. We have facets, each one makes us who we are.
With only one window of our lives to express, we’d merely be glass.
I am a part of each of these things just as much as they are each a part of me.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 12:36 AM UTC
Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.
Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.
Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks
and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."
Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it
and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad
and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.
When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.
Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
The air was brilliant, crisp and clean,
as he in walked in on a sea of green.
Kerry Woods, old 34,
at Wrigley field, his field of dreams.
Upon a time, old Cubs fans say,
He struck out twenty in one day.
He stirred some hope the “curse” was gone;
the hope that Cubs fans live upon.
The surgeon’s knife put hope to bed-
his blazing fastball all but dead.
He could no longer start in games,
As a closer he achieved some fame..
He journeyed there, he journeyed here,
At times, in flashes, it would appear,
That blazing fastball on the gun
that time and surgeons had undone.
We all come to that final day
when we can no longer play.
Upon the mound for one last time,
What would be Kerry’s final line?
He threw three strikes, the last one swinging-
Kerry had that fastball singing
When coach came out to take the ball
Cheers shook the ivy covered walls.
He held his young son in his arms
and doffed his cap to cheering fans.
Old 34 then disappeared
In the ancient clubhouse beneath the stands..
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 9:17 AM UTC
Dedicated to Mike Evans & Wendell Griffin…for their great approach to the King of sports, Golf.
Loosen up, feeling good,
Back swing nice and smooth
Power stroke an easy glide
A solid thwack to move
That golf ball into orbit,
Disappearing into air,
Diminishing like angel dust
On a trajectory so fair.
Looking good, nice and straight
In parabolic curve
At apex point it hesitates,
No breezes cause a swerve
Plummeting to emerald grass
The ball bounces on the green
To travel in a perfect arc,
The best I’ve ever seen,
It teeters at the cup lip
To roll around the rim
And by the grace of God,
That golf ball vanishes within!
The day at once looks perfect
The morning light pristine,
The singing birds in trees
Throw brilliant shadows to the green.
I peer into the cup
To see my sweetest dimpled ball,
That darling Dunlop eight
Henceforth shall grace my trophy wall.
My name will feature on the cup
Atop the clubhouse shelf
And the bar room shout for all the boys
Should put a large dent in my wealth.
But the wonder, the wonder,
The spangled wonder of it all
Will have me grinning foolishly
Whenever I recall,
That magnificent stroke
Towards that iridescent green
When I scored a hole in one
And drank a toast to Golf and Queen.
Marshalg
@ the Bach
Mangere Bridge
12th January 2009
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
and the dripping water cross the pane
the dreams are hard to reach
thru the dripping water
of the clubhouse window
the dripping lives and the water mingle
the children in the clubhouse huddle
in the darkening shadows
as the dripping water
hides their dreams
they shall not die
the have made sacred vows
clubhouse vows
concerning eachother
and their dreams
Aug 24, 2010
Aug 24, 2010 at 3:54 PM UTC
On the fifth tee
A raven spotted me
He walked right up
Near my ball
He was arrogantly
Standing tall
I tried to shoo him away
I had golf to play
And on the 7th hole
He was there again
To pester me
Much to my chagrin
Jesus is Lord
I pronounced to him
And with that proclamation
I poured that four foot put
Right in
A foul and hateful bird
Of ancient lore
Was this the bird
That Poe found rapping,
Rapping at his chamber door?
And on the eighth tee
There he was 20 yards
Up ahead
I could see
Perched upon a branch
Perhaps spying on me?
And near the clubhouse
As I rounded the bend
There he sat
Staring into the distance again
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
Meet me in the forest,
what passes for one here.
Tell me your secrets and I
will tell you mine.
Over flashlight and
blood pacts we will
save our bottle caps
for our whispered projects.
In a notebook we keep the
page for decoding the
language we invented.
Each night we’ll bring the latest
chapters of our story.
In the morning we’re strangers.
We don’t talk, we don’t laugh,
we don’t look.
We’re each others best kept
secret.
One day we’ll decode love,
without the help of invented
language or spiral bound
notebooks.
My god, I miss the illusion
we had built around our
“Love.”
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 11:52 PM UTC
I recently went back to AJ’s
and bought two Charleston Chews,
a bottle of Moxie,
and a pack of Werther’s Originals.
You and I used to split our money
to buy that stuff, every time, the same thing.
Now, I’m sitting in the cemetery
by myself, in front of the faded
plastic flowers that we left for the
dead baby.
Miss Mary Mack echoes in my head, and
I take another sip of Moxie.
The wet copy of Charlotte’s Web is still stuck
to the floor of our clubhouse.
Nobody has been inside for five years.
All the sweat from that summer
drowned at the bottom of the mill pond,
along with our fish hooks.
Leeches stuck to our feet.
We hid in your crumbling house,
barely standing, we wrote our names
on the walls and read each other
Goosebumps.
I grew up with art and literacy.
You grew up with tubes in your stomach,
unstable families, the inability to shake off
the sadness.
A backup supply in your pocket,
in case of emergencies.
In and out, back and forth,
Sleeping bags and clammy
hospital sheets.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Sunset vine in the suppressed crowd
Heart's pounding so hard and loud
A whole thread with extreme machines
They're somewhat things I've never seen
Pigmented cheeks, numb veins, soul enchanted
These are moments that I've wanted
Gleaming stars from above are mesmerizing
Hours are enough and totally amazing
Giggles and screams, joy and beams
Hearing them is like a dream
Few blissful thoughts, we're off gravity
This lovely day shows pink sanity
Cursive words, laughing in snickered wheels
Blended soothing air and hilarious feels
Rising of stomachs with butterflies attended
Raw and pesky clubhouse but independent
Pale flowers blooming in most gardens
Typical teens with sneakers and Kankens
The finale is a beautiful screenplay
Looking forward to more treasuring portraits
Freshly made memories are quite unforgettable
Afterwards, I'd exclaim, "It's actually memorable,"
Neon signs glistening clear and bright
Locked sensation with the floating lights
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 5:06 AM UTC
I take my time
as time takes me.
Life is wildfire
For roots of the soul.
The flames will
eat the fossils.
The sea cooked
To perfection embodied.
Night's purple marrow,
Is ours to feast,
The meat is for
The shadow of a flower.
I've broken both knees
Building this fortress so
Sleep deep dandelion,
Dreams can't burn you here.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
There's a small girl
With a big heart
In a big world
With a smile like art
She laughs and she plays
She walks the right way
She dances and she sings
Happiness she brings
She was so innocent
Thought the world was magnificent
She saw the world as a colorful place
And never suspected it was black and grey
That girl grew up, though
As all girls do
Pain she would know
She'd know depression, too
That girl was now a young lady,
Spending her time crying
In meadows with daisies
Wishing she were dying
A man came along
And asked, "What is wrong?"
She said she didn't know
Oh, she did though.
When the young lady
Was still a young girl,
She saw a tall man
With lots of black curls.
He said, "Hello!"
And she said, "Hi!"
He said, "There's a clubhouse, you know."
And she said, "I want to see it. May I?"
He lead her to a meadow
And did terrible things
He had led her
To a place where no bird sings.
With every touch he took a piece of the child
When he saw her tears she saw his smile
With his hands on her delicate body,
Her soul started slowly rotting
She didn't tell anyone
What that man did
Nobody knew
The secret she held from within
The girl transformed
Into a young lady
And sat crying everyday
In that same meadow with the daisies.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
My loss of balance
I blame on evolution
I look around and see smoke
in the air from
pollution
and
my best friend's cigarette
I see different eyes
how they evolved into unique shapes
and how both people
still need to console themselves
with their man made vices
when i'm sober
I can only think of
the strong imprint
of the smell of whiskey
and the plans for its return
so I go find my old hide away
from the days sobriety didn't concern me
and see it surrounded by thorns
and feel it grown into the hillside
As I scrape my ankles
and sacrifice myself to these tiny threats
I wonder if this old clubhouse
represents what happened to me
Am I cruel for the same reason the forest grows thorns?
Though beautiful on the inside, we both want to keep the world out.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
The Mutual Admiration Clubhouse
Is a Hall of Carnival Mirrors.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
I don’t think about us too often anymore
I don’t think about the night at the clubhouse where I dared you to kiss me
I don’t think about the nights we stayed up late in my living room while my mom was on vacation
I don’t think about how we were up late waiting together, pacing, waiting for our SAT scores to come out
I don’t think about the adventures on the beach and the party at your house where I almost lost my virginity to your best friend
I don’t think about how I was always your second choice next to her
I don’t think about the times we visited college campuses together and you cried in my arms on the pier in St. Augustine
I don’t think about how we got drunk on four lokos and had *** even though your mom was in the next room
I don’t think about how we didn’t talk for two years when you left for college and moved away from me
I don’t think about how when you came back to visit we met up in the mid afternoons for summery, hot, sweaty hook ups
I don’t think about when we would roll down the windows in my bedroom and get high at 1 in the morning
I don’t think about how we grew up and still ended up meeting up years later to connect
I don't think about how we were mid twenties and still harbored so much love for each other
I don’t think about none of that, no not at all
But I get a taste of that fiery and ****** cinnamon flavored Fireball and it all comes rushing back like a punch in my face
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
He'd drag to hell
these daydreams do tell
a slow song, a love song
that i know too well.
He'd be my Romeo, and I Juliet
if I let him be the one to drive me insane and yet
My bed is his favorite
clubhouse
My legs is his favorite
clubgrounds
and My lips is --- his now
as i don't dare to ever care to think about
-another man.
I'd rather have no man.
My dreams are clouded with this man
let me pretend
I dont care,
he'd grab me, pull me close, whisper in my ear
he'd dare me to say "i don't care" again
he'd press his lips to mine.
conquering his sweet valentine
nonetheless, just invading my lips and thoughts with his tongue as he intertwines
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
*The first tee shot , the first drop
The first beer , an early morning deer
The course all to yourself with no one else in sight , the first hot dog after the ninth , the first cool day of fall , the first wooded hunt for the ball
The first bogey , a clubhouse steak and cheese hoagie
The first warm day of spring , the pleasure that a gentleman's sport truly brings* ...
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
Come one, come all
no children here, allowed
down into the clubhouse
of the rhythmic, poetically, endowed
We got furniture, and chairs
and a very large boudoir
we slide the words together
being either a wolf, or sexier, cougar
Yes, it's in the deepest sewers
***** in our minds
wallowing together
in the semi sinful, velvet slime
The pieces fall together
as commented evidence suggests
the mental state of all of us
thinking of our **** best
Don't knock upon the door
for clothes are on the floor
we'll be reveling mentally
cuming back, for more
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
On the Range
I saw the kind man
Tell the kind woman
That she had good form
He has a great smile
I saw her that other day
Having fun hitting *****
And talking with a friend
Good people
Hitting Putts
I saw the women with
Their colored dresses walk into the clubhouse
I saw the flock of white birds fly together
How they moved
This was the Tao
It was moving
In action
Ever present and in motion
I cried a bit
Tao is great
Heaven is great
Earth is great
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Out here on the Green
Reminds me of the
Garden of Eden.
Lush green everywhere
Peaceful
Tranquil
Serene
Here
You leave all your cares
Behind
At the clubhouse door
It is a time for
Fun in the sun
With family and
Friends.
It is
A time to
Bond
A time to
Connect
A time to
Laugh
Together
After all
Hakuna matata!
In quiet tones
We talk
Relaxedly
We walk
One hole to the next.
Out here on the Green
The birds sing joyously
The butterflies flitter
Doing their thing
The reeds sashay gently
In the cool, morning breeze.
Out here on the Green
Life is good.
Fun in the sun
Hanging with
Family and friends.
Hakuna matata!
Life doesn't get
Any better than this.
Out here on the Green!
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 5:27 AM UTC
.
( when we ... ... loved )
(
•
).
^^^
••
born on the streets before empty dawn
Nah
We don't go to school no more
( we dumb enough ALREADY ! )
••
We just waiting for the cops to bring us down
Waiting for fate
To do what fate does to a boy
Tryin to become a Man
<•>
She
Soaking wet and sick like a dog !
Hope we don't gotta take her to
The
Hospital
(-)
the day
Musical chairs !
Hope nobody has to die
•
Beauty !
The little puppy playing by the garbage cans
)(
Everyone is hungry
Hope nobody had to die
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC