Mover Mike

Della Kates and Thomas Hardy

Della Kates and Thomas Hardy
were a famous pair.
They starred on stage and screen
and county fair

But they were not always
altogether.
When they ordered Toilet paper
She liked soft
And he liked sand.

Magic Man

“Are you early or am I late?”
says the mommy who had a date
with destiny.
Vinny’s mom delivered Vinny fast
Then she stepped upon the gas
And sped away.

In her red Camaro.
Just this morning, a red wheel barrow
She had met the Magic Man this
Very day.

He granted her three wishes
Three wishes she should take,
But it would be a big mistake
To treat the Magic Man
Like he’s half crazed.

Dressed in black with big red shoes
The Magic Man has some basic rules

One of which is don’t be lying
Or you’ll see someone is dying
To have what you’ve just
wished away.

She wished she had a red Camero
Not the rusted red wheel barrow.
Wish two, she wished for Gold
How much? I don’t know I wasn’t told.
Wish three, she wished for three more wishes.

Dressed in black with big red shoes
The Magic Man has some basic rules

The second rule is don’t be greedy
She had told him she was needy
And on the floor she twitches.
Laid out there by the “half-crazed fool.”

Yellowbus Poetry Toilet paper Mover Mike

Update:

Direanna And Shaheem

Diarhea and Shaboom
Can clear out any room
their booming voices
Set on over drive.

It’s 30 paces to the door
They see who can holler more.
They are into making noises
And we are into peace and quiet.

Shaboom and Diarhea
Are not from North Korea
Till we stopped them in their traces
They couldn’t find the room to be polite

Yellow Bus Poetry Mover Mike

Little Jimmy

Little Jimmy had a shoeshine stand
on the corner of Fifth and Pine.
Men would sit and watch
him whip his rag
with a pop! and a pop,pop,pop!
a beat in double time

Johnny wanted to be like Jimmy.
He labored day and night
to slather polish in black and brown
so his shoes would reflect the light.

But no one could beat little Jimmy
he had a secret sauce
one part spit & polish
the rest was the way he'd toss
his hair from side to side
and ride the rag in double time
to the end of the watcher's line.

Yellow Bus Poetry Mover Mike

Aries

"Hey, bus driver, you have a bald head!"
said Aries with the perfect hair.
(What a way to start my day.)
It isn't fair to react to what the kid just said.
"I'll have you know, I've more hair,
than my father ever had."
And with that, I shook the curls
I wished that were still there,
Hit the brakes, when he'd stopped looking
And launched him through the air.

wig, comb over costume - $6.99

Yellow Bus Poetry Poetry Mover Mike

Dame la petita
said the lovely seniorita
to the Mexican Chihuahua dog.
"I can't", said she
I'm too hungry to be swell
Yo quiero Taco Bell?

Maria had been out late, trick or treating and as she was chewing gum with braces, on she said:

Maria

"My gum is sticking to my teeth."
In the flavor I love best
I'll be in trouble
with the dentist
More money to be spent
and Mom can't buy me Bubble
If it's going for the rent.

Poetry Hollyrood Mover Mike

You may recall that the Hollyrood third graders and I wait for the older kids at Fernwood. We may sit there 10 to 15 minutes, so to pass the time, I wrote some poetry for them and they howled with laughter. You can read my first two poems at "More Mike!"

Last week I came up with my third poem. This was the way I originally wrote it:

Carson

Carson's a girl who rides on the bus
From Hollyrood to home.
Either dad takes her from us
in his coat and his tie
or Grandmas meets her
while eating her pie.

You can see how I reached for that last line. The kids chuckled mildly. How quickly they turned on me!

So I revised the poem, my confidence shattered, and tried again:

Carson

Carson's a girl who rides on the bus
From Hollyrood to home.
Either dad takes her from us
in his coat and his tie
or Grandmas meets her
while eating pooberry pie.

Well, I gotta tell you. I was back. The kids rocketed off the walls with laughter. I Learned something. A good third grade poem has to have rhythm, rhyme and some possible "poo".

Today I tried again with this one:

Paul & Sylvia

My two backseat drivers are Paul & Sylvia
They came to the U.S. from Brazil-via
the Mexican border.
They speak Portuguese, not Spanish or Latin
English is used when they fatten a toad-or
a Moose.

It's doggeral, I know.
The kids love it, though,
and it helps pass the time.
Next time I'll try some Shel Silverstein.

I miss Shel Silverstein

Poetry Hollyrood Kids Mover Mike

I pick up my K through 3rd kids at Hollyrood and drive a short distance to Fernwood to pick up some 7th and 8th graders, Usually we arrive 10 to 15 minutes before the bell rings to end the school day. While we were waiting another bus driver popped her head in and asked a question about cars running her student loading lights. Now this bus driver has a pierced lower lip and a pierced tongue. I pointed it out to my kids and Devon said, "Yeah, and she has a lot of rings, Mike!" I made up this poem on the spot and the kids went wild with laughter.

She has rings on her arms
and rings on her toes.
She has a ring in her eyebrow
and a ring in her nose!

"Do another one Mike", they said. So I came up with a few more, none quite as good as the first.

The next day I got more elaborate:

A little girl with hair to the floor
asked the genie for just two more.
She wished for a big dog and a yellow cat, too,
But the genie gave her a hot dog...
And a tray of cat poo!

I have found my audience. They loved it and they keep asking, "More, Mike!"

Third graders can be so discriminating.

Wait until they hear this one:

A little boy dressed in a brown striped shirt,
Tucked in and neat,
Couldn’t sit still in his Bluebird seat.
He wiggled and he waggled
And he wobbled to and fro.
He shimmied and he shaggled,
And swooped high and low.
He dizzied as he danced
Down the steps to his Mom.
Stepped In a puddle
And away he was borne

poems Hollyrood Mover Mike

Late September

The mail truck goes down the coast

Carrying a single letter.

At the end of a long pier

The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then

And forgets to put it down.

There is a menace in the air

Of tragedies in the making.

Last night you thought you heard television

In the house next door.

You were sure it was some new

Horror they were reporting,

So you went out to find out.

Barefoot, wearing just shorts.

It was only the sea sounding weary

After so many lifetimes

Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere

And never getting anywhere.

This morning, it felt like Sunday.

The heavens did their part

By casting no shadow along the boardwalk

Or the row of vacant cottages,

Among them a small church

With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close

As if they, too, had the shivers.

By Charles Simic

I was there one year in 1990. My destination was Monument Valley guided by the magazine picture of The Mittens taped to my dash.

Alone, I was driving a big loop from Selina, UT to Moab to Ouray, CO, to the Four Corners then to Monument Valley, AZ and the Grand Canyon and then turn to home in Portland, OR.

I arrived in Moab about six pm and all the motels sported red No Vacancy signs. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't looking forward to sleeping my car. A search of the telephone book revealed there was an AA meeting near by and so I dropped in. I was called on to speak and at the end I asked if anyone knew of a place to stay the night. Well, one of the women had a daughter that owned a Bed and Breakfast and turns out, she had a room. They encouraged me to stay more than one night to see the sights. I ended up staying two nights and seeing Arches National Monument

and Dead Horse Point.

The daughter invited me and her family to dine at Dead Horse Point my second night. As the sun expired for the day we had an AA meeting there under the stars. I wrote this short poem about that evening:

At Dead Horse Point, great canyons stretch before me.

The setting sun backlights the scudding clouds.

A gentle breeze, loaded with the smell of Junipers, whispers of the desert to the south.

The shawl of evening cloaks the sandstone boulders.

Under the stars of Orion a red fox yips in the dying light.

I traveled much of a lifetime to this place to see a sunset.

Stanley Kunitz has died, one of my favorite poets. On July 30, 2005 on his birthday, when he turned 100, I shared one of his poems with you, The Portrait. Please take a look at this wonderful poem by Stanley Kunitz:

Halley's Comet

Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there'd be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground's edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I'd share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family's asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street—
that's where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I'm the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.

Most of the things people predict don't come true, but isn't there a fascination with the possible. That's why we watch the news about hurricanes and the earthquake predictions and why we go to NASCAR races. Many people are focused on the year 2012 as the End Date. The boy in the white flannel gown is in all of us.

Stanley Kunitz Poetry Halley's Comet

I have written about the possibility of a coming drought. Sometime ago trying to imagine life in the dustbowl of the thirties and the broken dreams, (maybe akin to the hurricane ravaged areas of the South), I wrote this poem called

Ash Wednesday

Wednesday has always been a good day to travel.
The Ford plump with boxes of worn-outs
right to the wooden side-rails, waits
for Ma, the kids and me. This fertile land
moved us like Magi, lies broken,
fine as flour, under the windows.
Dirt so dry it will wring the promise,
rubs our house sore.

The Sheridan Hotel is scoured clean
by the wind that Cowboys ride
on the theatre marquee, names leaning
like tombstones on Boot Hill. Auction notices,
the kerchiefs of wailing women, flap on poles
and dusky waves of Cottonwoods line wheel ruts
that crash like dreams on outcrops
sharp like broken bones.

Ash WednesdayN poetry Drought

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, this song, Hold You In My Arms seems so appropriate.

Hold You In My Arms

When you came to me with your bad dreams and your fears
It was easy to see that you'd been crying
Seems like everywhere you turn catastrophe it reigns
But who really profits from the dying
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you in my arms forever

When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions
It's my worried mind that you quiet
Place your hands on my face
Close my eyes and say
Love is a poor man's food
Don't prophesize
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
And I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever

So now we see how it is
This fist begets the spear
Weapons of war
Symptoms of madness
Don't let your eyes refuse to see
Don't let your ears refuse to hear
Or you ain't never going to shake this sense of sadness
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold on forever
And I could hold you in my arms
I could hold forever

There's not a bad song on the CD! Highly unusual.

The article says that Kooser, the US Poet Laureate, has started a weekly column called American Life in Poetry, whose purpose is

to promote poetry: America Life in Poetry seeks to create a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture.

The Wind Chimes

Two wind chimes,
one brass and prone to anger,
one with the throat of an angel,
swing from my porch eave,
sing with the storm.
Last year I lived five months
under that shrill choir,
boxing your house, crowding books
into crates, from some pages
your own voice crying.
Some days the chimes raged.
Some days they hung still.
They fretted when I dug up
the lily I gave you in April,
blooming, strangely, in fall.
Together, they scolded me
when I counted pennies you left
in each can, cup, and drawer,
when I rechecked the closets
for remnants of you.
The last day, the house empty,
resonant with space, the two chimes
had nothing to toll for.
I walked out, took them down,
carried our mute spirits home.

From "Thorns," published by Juniper Press, 1995. Copyright © 1995 by Shirley Buettner, and reprinted with permission of the author. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

UPDATE: Ted Kooser has a new book out: THE POETRY HOME REPAIR MANUAL: PRACTICAL ADVICE FOR BEGINNING POETS

One cowboy is quite the poet. His name is Steve Payer, who, when he is not working with horses, is a broker with RE/MAX, specializing in ranches. Here's his poem which I thought was quite good:

"Billy Two Hawks"

A Horseman he, beyond compare, I know not of another,
Perhaps amidst his DNA, An Equus is his brother.
With focus true and passion strong, his life he's dedicated
To the mastery of and the skills therein
A Vaquero, predicated
On one clear goal, on one clear choice,
To find the Harmony
'Tween horse and man he lives his life
For the Horseback Symphony.
I've known this man nigh even years,
And never has he faltered,
To give a hand, a word or spur,
To help with horses haltered,
Or saddled up, or trotting out,
But needing his firm hand,
To help a fellow horseman
Ride out across the Land.
He suffers not the foolish ones
Who want but will not master,
Those age old skills that come with Time
and Patience, not the faster,
Quicker, less enduring way
Using Fear and sometimes Force,
He is a man beyond compare,
This Brother of the Horse. Steve Payer 12/20/05

Now I live in Southeast Texas, where no fence could repel Hurricane Rita. Now, almost two months after the storm, the meager perimeter-defense of my cedar-plank fence has finally been rebuilt. The edges of my property are again defined from within and without. After two months of a fabulously free life, my dog can venture no farther into the world — and the rest of that world can venture no closer than my padlocked gate without my invitation. Whether this pathetic wooden fence is a rampart or a cage, it doesn’t matter. It comforts me that it exists again.

[...]

I’m not sure why it comforts me to be surrounded by fresh fences again. Maybe security? Maybe possessiveness? Maybe because what’s inside is mine

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.
” Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

Hurricane Rita certainly didn't love fences. Recently, I looked at pictures of the aftermath of Katrina on New Orleans, where parts of the city are left with no buildings standing, it would be comforting to see a fence. Maybe life seems too fragile otherwise.

rita katrina Mending Wall Mover Mike

Man Who Sold The World

We passed upon the stairs,
We spoke of was and when
Although I wasn’t there
He said I was his friend
Which came as a surprise
I spoke into his eyes — I thought you died alone
A long long time ago

Oh no, not me,
We never lost control,
You’re face to face,
With the man who sold the world

I laughed and shook his hand,
I made my way back home,
I searched for form and land,
Years and years I roamed,
I gazed a gazely stare,
We walked a million hills — I must have died alone,
A long long time ago.

Who knows, not me,
I never lost control,
You’re face, to face,
With the man who sold the world.

I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there!
He wasn't there again today!
I wish, I wish he'd stay away! --- Hughes Mearns

"David Bowie has confirmed this and basically refers to a man who has changed to a point as to where he is unable to even recognise himself...selling, out-selling his world. At the time that Bowie wrote the song, he was going through changes, and not all good, he was not being true to himself."

Somehow, to me, it reminds me of the stories in AA about drinking (or addiction) is a progressive disease. As long as you use, you are on a down escalator. Maybe he met met someone he knew that was getting better, while he was going downhill (wasn't there). He recognized his old friend and said I thought you died a long long time ago. After they parted he searched for many years for a way to control his addiction. You almost have to die, or the person you are has to die (hit bottom) before you can stop using. Who knows! What a great song. I am going to go listen to it for the 53rd time!

Update:

Update:

Men at Forty

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practices tying
His father's tie there in secret,

And the face of that father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

Update:

The Portrait

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

Stanley Kunitz

Happy 100th birthday, Mr. Kunitz. You prove that poetry doesn't have to be obscure to be good. And just because the ordinary guy or girl can understand it, doesn't make it bad.

Update:

Update: