"pocketa" poems
I know how it was in that time
sixty years ago when roads seen
from above were little more than
two thin tracks through grass.
My mind has heard the noiseless roads
cutting unfenced fields, passing cherry groves,
skirting steepest hills and flat lakes,
making settled burgs where roads cross.
I know how it was in that time
when many-handed harvests,
sweet smells and back breaking work
were wrenched away without referendum.
Wrenched away by Ford's cast iron.
Wrenched away without option of staying
to enjoy the scale of day-long trips
on foot, in wagon or buggy.
Our innocent grandfathers too,
wrenched away, not unwillingly, from plowfields,
to be told by newspaper and newfangled radio
of the one-day Atlantic crossing.
I know how it was in that time.
I've seen it from three or five hundred feet;
the quick shadow and lake-mirrored
image of fabric covered wood and wire.
I've gently flown, pocketa, pocketa,
in that time; in a ship as much a product
of those shifting decades as of its tinkerer/
designer, builder, pilot, Pietenpol.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
Pocketa, pocketa
Christopher B. Behrens
pianist, classical
fell on his assical
shattered his spine
Married his sweetie
Recovered completely
six kids and two keeties
all keep him line
Yacketa, yacketa
Christopher B. Behrens
Loves his Lord Jesus
Who loves us and sees us
Through thick and through thin
Lots sixty pounds of fat
Jumpin' Jehosaphat
Some might think that proves that
he's full of win
Ceteris Paribus
Christopher B. Behrens
Is deeply musical
sometimes confusical
Plays on guitars
To kids at their bedtime
He sings "You're my Sunshine"
And sometimes at nighttime
he smokes a cigar
Hexasyllabically
Christopher B. Behrens
Econ and Business
But software's like Christmas
And work is like play
Deskwise, a Latinist
Cat-In-the-Hatinist
Vobiscum Dominus
Have a nice day.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC