"mulligan" poems
remember...
when you were young,
very young,
recently untethered from
proximal parental strings...
that liberated freshman
rushing into a .... cave
of independent studies
and uninhibited sexuality...
that mulligan phase
of impulse and irrationality
and...yes...experimentation...
of wide-eyed science interns with
mother's cheeks, daddy's visa
and the best animal-testing lab
on the planet...
with live uncontrolled studies of sleep deprivation,
orgiastic tolerance, *** toxicity
and the effect of extreme jello-shooting
on graduation rates...
and, of course, the ultra-rad LUG/GUG philosophy,
the ultimate pregnancy-avoidance plan
guaranteed
or your STD back...
then you got a degree,
a real job,
and a surreal 5-figure
student loan balance...
or was it 6?
or maybe you just
dropped out
like
bill, steve or mark...
and started a revolution...
~ P
(7/21/2013)
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
I believe in second chances, no matter who you are
You deserve a second chance to show your worth
If it weren't for second chances, we'd have never reached the stars
And we'd forever be stuck down here on this earth
A second chance is crucial when you're learning something new
It's the time you use to fix all your mistakes
You need that extra effort to do what you must do
And if you're injured in the process,.....them;s the breaks!
If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be stuck at home
Our employers would have sent us home to sit
They'd say that we are useless and we've no brains in our dome
And to put it to us nicely....we were ****
Second chances make us stronger, better than we were before
Because we learn a lesson when we fail
They teach us to get better, and to break on through that door
And we learn that we'll be stronger...just exhale
In sports a second chance keeps the game well within our reach
It stops it all from going all to hell
To give that extra effort, it's something you can't teach
And you just know you can do it, you can tell!
In love a second chance means we will not die alone
Unless of course you haven't got a clue
We play the cards we're given, we play the dice we've thrown
And the only one who can change it all is you.
I'm happier the second time and wouldn't change a thing
I know that I am better this time round
My reason is my Megan, with her I'm like a king
She tells me daily, and she doesn't make a sound
My second chance is special and I'm sure yours is too
She's my mulligan in this game of life
I'm sure you feel the same way about somebody who
Has relieved you of your lonliness and strife
Now, thanks to second chances we all can understand
That the first time out we all were just too young
But now, we're off the sidelines and we're marching with the band
And we're singing the best song we've ever sung.
So, please believe in second chances no matter who you are
You'll thank yourself for going that next mile
Without my second chance, I'd have never got this far
And with Megan I have learned again to smile.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:58 PM UTC
DEATH OF A JAZZ MAN
( for Jazzman John Clarke )
It was as I
expected
there was these
angel chicks
playing on harps
on Cloud 9
other angel dudes
playing trumpets and horns
but man
there was the Big Guy himself
playing a mean baritone
saxophone
like he was Gerry Mulligan
or something
the lyrics were
you know
hard to catch
"...you are the music while the music lasts..."
or something
Eliotish like that
I strode up
to the Big Guy
checking his *********
with a grin
"Man, that's real
solid gone!"
"I shall be made
thy music..."
The Big Guy
smiled...blew
one long long
final note.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
THIRTY-TWO Greeks are dipping their feet in a creek.
Sloshing their bare feet in a cool flow of clear water.
All one midsummer day ten hours the Greeks
stand in leather shoes shoveling gravel.
Now they hold their toes and ankles
to the drift of running water.
Then they go to the bunk cars
and eat mulligan and prune sauce,
Smoke one or two pipefuls, look at the stars,
tell ****** stories
About men and women they have known,
countries they have seen,
Railroads they have built-
and then the deep sleep of children.
2.1k
~
***pitch an putt I never worried about
'cause all my drives were long and stout
now off the tee it doesn't fly so far
and all I can do is hope for par
on my card 3's are 4's and 4's became 5
oh how I long for a 300 yard drive
it's only a game some say unkind
but it grabs at your heart and messes your mind
it's only a game still others proclaim
front nine was fun the back nine shame
so before I tee I ask my Lord
just once put my name atop the leader board
so now it's early to bed so I can dream
of birdies and eagles and a jacket that's green
written by my caddy
Sir Duffy Mulligan
FOUR!***
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
Listening to Dave Grusin,
"Mountain Dance," vintage 1979.
The thought strikes:
"Why is it that only the
Early Jazz Giants are deified?
Of course, we need Chet Baker and
Miles Davis in our pantheon, &
Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker
Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales:
"Smack. I told you not to mention that!")
Coltrane or Stan Getz.
And yet, we're all getting long teeth and
there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come,
Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or
George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and
What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton?
Let's not forget Spyro Gira &
The Daves: Benoit and Koz.
And we would be remiss
To miss Chris, young Chris,
Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti.
But I digress.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Gaze into the mirrored face
of the aging drunk man.
See the blurred innocence of
the departed boy. There are
no other worlds to conquer.
This one holds danger enough.
War, women and whiskey
dance their destruction.
We only get the face we earn.
A man becomes what
a man does, but sometimes
that can’t be helped.
Eternally recurring Mulligan,
of boundless hope.
The turning Dharma wheel.
Perhaps a thousand more
lives must be lived
to undo this doing, to
break the bonds of Karma,
to finally sink into
the warm, welcoming
arms of peace.
A weary trek but worthy.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
Hornbridge likes to see girls undress.
But slowly. Their thin fingers and thumbs
Holding the cloth and taking off. Especially
The black negligee held just so. He fully
Dressed waits until the final article of
Clothing is removed and she stands gazing
At him with her bright expectant eyes.
He likes to have music in the background
Playing. Jazz or classic. Gerry Mulligan for
Some types or Mozart for others depending
On their breeding or class. Occasionally a Rock
Chick makes it through his defences and he
Puts on the Stones or something of their ilk.
He likes it when the girls place their hands on
Their hips as they wait for him to undress.
Yet there is always some disappointment.
Some flaw in either ******* or waist or legs
Or *** Gloria spoilt him. Hard act to follow.
Those eyes. How he could swim there in that
Blue liquid of the two eyes. Those *******
How could he ever forget them? His dear friends.
The way they would be waiting. Her hands soft
And warm and gentle touching him. And how
She loved to disrobe to the tones of a turned
Down Vivaldi from the hifi. Sad she left. Final
Curtain. Big cancer. No fond slow goodbye.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
brighter than a thousand suns...
Helicopters scud the night. Syllables penetrate deeply.
Mulch has no value. Fingers curled softly in sleep.
Style marks the spot. Weapons hidden beneath kilts.
Pinpoint errors. Know where you are. Charlie Parker got lost.
You're a little teapot. The cat ponders these things.
Glamour a kind of architecture. National Enquirer a house.
Her only idea disastrous. He entered from behind. Stealth.
Take it any way you want it. ****** distillations of poison.
Something longer perhaps? Squash blossoms lovely. Preferences.
Ferns are not intentional. He wants a mulligan. Sentences question.
Ahead engorged. The color purple. Glance. Not quite wet.
Humpty-Dumpty the primary archetype. Master Coder. Triple Helix.
If this gum be stale: do not chew it;
If you are a window: draw the blinds.
Or writhe in orgasms of meaningful.
Come along to Carthage and Burn.
~mce
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Eulogy for Justin Bradley, Age 22 who committed suicide 2/28/19
My Sweet Boy
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
You had so many friends, but still felt alone.
Your friends were everything,….But which one to text, from your seven phones???
Great Falls, DC, Road trips, Museums, Golf, or Gold Cup
You were always … I’m down dude, just hit me up.
You lived for cheese pretzels, chicken nuggets, Chipotle, Mac and cheese or JUST turkey bacon….
Why were you taken?
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Supreme,
Who needs to spend big bucks?
When you can get it from China, even though the quality *****
You flew, flipped and twisted,
Off buildings with no fear
Luckily you found an outlet in cheer.
You had a curiosity and intellect beyond your years.
But how the hell did you become a Republican?
For that… we will give you a mulligan.
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
You were struggling to make sense
Trying to figure out YOU.
We tried to reach out.
We tried to break through.
So, my message to parents and to young adults who choose to be,
Giving love and hugs every day, should be your reality.
Their room may be messy, their hair uncombed,
the recycling not taken, and clothes on the floor.
But don’t jump on them the minute they walk through the door.
Depression is a disease not to be dismissed.
Get help for your child.
Try to assist.
Remember to celebrate their brightness and light.
And take a moment to enjoy these gifts, each and every night.
You had a beautiful soul. You had a tortured soul.
So go to that ultra festival in the sky
And As you flip over those Pearly Gates, we wave good bye.
I love you Justin and I will miss you forever.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
There's a parallel universe where I have abs
And cool hair.
Where I ride the bluest wave Back to shore.
Where I tell people to **** off
Because I hit every ball
They ever threw at me.
Instead I give myself a mulligan.
And surf the green waves of the flatline.
And hum the same B flat
Until it sounds like
B
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
Not by random will these Faces compare,
These Sovereign Dainties blend just for you
Though slaved, willing to burn a Worthy Stare
And apt to earn your Felicities true
After all, Honour deserves worthy besought,
Worthy as Valued as Mulligan's Cat
Forchance, win your rare and clawful Grace wrought
Your Link once Opened by Reservation's at
Yet for these Faithful and Endangered Few
Whose Active Translation misunderstood
Tend the Forest still; And tendered the Hue
To filter your Baby's Innocent Good.
Perhaps on my Mind's own Weather debate
Your Judgment the Sun; Your Jury the Rain.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
There were a surfeit of items
Sufficient to raise eyebrows or cause comment
Among the few staid members of the Mulligan clan:
The appearance of siblings or cousins assumed (or at least hoped)
To have preceded Thomas to the choir invisible
Two or three women genuinely surprised
To discover the existence of one another,
One young man with an extremely disconcerting resemblance
To his “Uncle Tommy”,
But the entire affair carried on with something akin
To the requisite solemnity
Until such point that a couple bottles appeared
(The consensus being that the good Mulligan
Had somehow found a way to secret them in)
The end result being the proceedings
Subsequently devolved into an Irish cop wake-esque teleplay,
And in the midst of this fol-de-rol, Tippy Phelan,
Who had framed walls for generic bank buildings
And grunted and swore while cobbling together
Unnecessary cupolas and wholly superfluous cornices
On the McMansions of the small town well-enough-to-do
With Tommy (as well as, on Friday lunch-times
During the slow season, sharing a thermos
Containing a mixture which drew narrow-eyed stares
From lenient if still unhappy foremen)
Stood the final toast for the good Mulligan,
Intoning *There’s a land of the quick and the land of the lost,
The trick being to build a sturdy span between them
So it’s only proper that Tommy was a ****** fine carpenter*.
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 2:26 PM UTC
I walk out into traffic, laughing
with my arms out
I spin as the cars are passing
they say there's no atheist in a foxhole
but I've been in one my whole life
realizing it, took some time
I couldn't imagine making it to where I am now
if I were to have been blind
I can't wait to be buried
with a tree planted over me
I'm taking a mulligan
and next time I hope I plant better seeds
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
Virginia Lee Burton
It’s all in there, a blueprint
for living, my sacred text
perfect replacement for a world
of tired hotel Gideon’s, this tale
of a plucky fellow with an Irish
surname, unencumbered, set free
to roam at will, picking up work here
and there, more hedgehog than fox, a man
who did one thing and did it well. He
wrestled with private doubts in the dark,
stretched out on top of Mary Anne,
the nights warm and clear, sky smeared
with stars, a man who knew how to
back up a claim, take a risk, court failure
and humiliation at the bottom of a deep,
perfectly excised hole, all four corners
neat and square. My idea of a perfect ending,
a second chance, a mulligan, quietly tending
the boiler with a pipe and a good book,
waiting for you and your homemade pie.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
I would like to mulligan the hand life dealt me.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
-------
As a mortal may, I may imagine
I let myself drift with circumstance
and dance with the other half of me,
who gets this chance, just once
in a lifetime and lets it pass,
meaning nothing more,
than a thought,
fit to an instance.
We all have two minds, you know,
and those two think differently, alone;
but as we grow old and learn patience
perfecting persistance fitting instantiations
of the algorithmatic weform, we form upon
agreement, left hand sees the letters writ
I and e, left best and right best intentions,
combining minds to make a polimental me,
and whatsoever such agree, makes
aggravation heavy enough
to squeeze a mysterious fluid from
the first living stone to presume life's no fun,
yes, we be the augmented, minding wisdoms,
falsely called sciences of religion, using assisted
memory machinations, virtual how to persistence,
with go backs, and do overs, Mulligan's, to some,
mere next in truth, a step taken is never taken
back. In truth, each life's lived in go now mode,
later is as one might expect, having had days
like this in times past, spectator status revoked,
insanely great ideas fed crumbs, smile slightly.
Jun 23, 2024
Jun 23, 2024 at 5:45 PM UTC
You don't get it, do you? You still think your money
is your merit, your mansion is high fashion, your limousine
the only car you'll never have to drive , your wife only a
trophy. These falsehoods are like thick pieces of prime rib;
you suffer from emotional and physical gout. I shout, but
you don't hear me. You are spiritually deaf. Your worth is
deep within you, but buried by layers and layers of fat
and fatuous values. At the Country Club, you are not
bothered by blacks and latinos and Jews. Your only tenet
is to keep your left arm straight. You consecrate Red Label
instead of red wine. You cheat when playing poker, but it's
OK because no one notices. You take a shower, but use
no soap. What the **** Who cares? I am above all
others! I'll take a Mulligan on that last shot. Boy, get
me another ball!
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 6:45 PM UTC