Best Fitz Poems
This was written a few years ago for St. Patty's Day and posted:
If your favorite color is green and of the Emerald Isles you dream,
you might be Irish..
If you believe in leprechauns and fairies and hidden treasures that lay buried,
you might be Irish..
If you like your lasses bawdy and tell jokes a little naughty,
you might be Irish..
If you can dance an Irish jig and at the pubs your whiskey swig,
you might be Irish.
If your mom cooked an Irish stew and you just happened to be Catholic too,
you might be Irish..
If your name is Fitz, Riley, or O'Keefe, your definitely Irish, good grief!!
If not then just for this one day, we'll say your Irish any way..
Happy St. Patty's Day!!
Categories:
fitz, holiday,
Form:
Rhyme
A cocooned cacophony of crickets serenades overgrown fields,
drowning out the creaking of rusted cars long since abandoned.
Maroon and sable tents blot the dilapidated ground—
bloated and weathered,
strips of fabric flapping in the harsh elements.
Legends of wraiths wander,
replicating whispers of infected insanity.
Laughter lingers in suspect echoes,
Rippling from pasts reborn in presents: futures to be later replaced by the past.
The smell of burnt sugar crackles with the purr of buttered kerneled corn: invading the nostrils with senses whose stimuli feign belief.
A faint humming of Entry of the Gladiators creeps in loudening crescendos, adding to the cacophony deigning dormancy in the field
Fragmented timelines intersecting by the call of the Barker
Stained cotton candy melts, reconstitutes, melts once more
Saturating replicating stands with insidiously sticky omens
Ghastly sickeningly sweet mori mementos
Resurrecting the dead from preternatural slumber.
Within fractured milliseconds, the cycle of the tormented deceased rise
From the ashes of unburnt airwaves,
Rippling through screaming minutes yet frozen in the midst.
A varicosed bearded woman floats aloft grassy overgrowth
Reanimated tigers lurk and phantasmal elephants howl,
Rings round the air in gaseous hush, like cigars puffed by moustachioed men of game,
Insufflating smoke with striped suits in candied reds and white.
The air rises to the resurrected show,
Cries confused for laughter tickle cochlea of the living.
Categories:
fitz, dark, death, gothic, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
The Great Lakes Engineering Works built a new boat
S. S. Edmund Fitzgerald, t'would soon be afloat
The people that owned her needed a name
President of the company was given that fame.
One of the largest boats to sail on the Great Lakes
Was a solidly built boat and had what it takes
September twenty fourth nineteen fifty and eight
Was her maiden voyage, laden with freight.
The 'Mighty Fitz' was the nickname they gave her
'Titanic Of The Lakes', sadly that would come later
For years she shipped freight from town to town
Crossing the Great Lakes, left, right, up and down.
The lakes weather worsened in the month of November
Ferocious storm's that would pull ships asunder
That fateful day 'The Fitz' took a route
Sailing to Detroit from a port near Duluth.
A hurricane force storm was heading their way
Other ships took refuge in Whitefish bay
Captain McSorleys last message, " We're holding our own"
What happened thereafter isn't quite known.
The storm battered the boat with thirty foot waves
And sent all her crew to their watery graves
November the tenth, nineteen seventy five
The 'Mighty Fitz' sank, no one did survive.
Lake Superior was where the tragedy occurred
When the news got out, church bells could be heard
The Reverend Ingalls twenty nine times he did toll
For the crew of 'The Mighty Fitz' every lost soul.
A memorial service is held once a year
The bells are tolled, they pray, shed a tear
Stories have been written, and a ballad too
Dedicated to the men of 'The Mighty Fitz' crew.
A Noteworthy Ship Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Robert James Ligouri
Written 18.12. 2017
Categories:
fitz, memorial, natural disasters,
Form:
Narrative
I am interplay; Scottish-Irish
Interchange of loved-up time
With kilt and shamrock soft
And folds of flowing name:
I am he who drew his name in
Unknown place, where O’ and
Fitz, Campbell and McDonald
Loved and played their deadly
Game. I am interplay….
Where for me the distant pipes
And fiddler’s lilt, whisper to my
Ear, uncertain when to come or
Go and spoil my English sweet
Veneer.
Categories:
fitz, identity,
Form:
Rhyme
If your favorite color is green and of the Emerald Isles you dream, you might be Irish. If when you kissed the Blarney Stone you knew at las you were at home, you might be Irish. If you believe in leprechauns and fairies and hidden treasures that lay buried, you might be Irish. If you like your lasses bawdy and tell jokes a little naughty, you might be Irish. If you can dance an Irish gig and at the pubs the whiskey swig, you might be Irish. If your mom cooked an Irish stew and you just happen to be Catholic too, you might be Irish. If your last name is Fitz, Riley or O'Keefe, your most definitely Irish, good grief! If not then just for this one day, we'll say your Irish any way. Happy St. Patty's!
Categories:
fitz, 1st grade, holiday,
Form:
Light Verse
Sanofi now and then
Friends I’ve made so many
Working so hard saving every penny
First guy on the scene
Angus he was great
Made me feel welcome
That I appreciate
Joan and Annette
Tom and Dan
Lynn and Fitz
Irene and Anne
Alison David Glynis and john
So many friends have come and gone
Eric and Raymond Norman and mick
Fred and Sharon Doreen and dick
Irene had a spill me and Norman laughed
She looked like a snowman covered head to toe
Highlight of the day if the truth were known
Helping one another to make it through the day
Looking to the weekend and of course our pay
Ally and Diane Alan and Graeme
Angie and martin Jim and Phil
Margret and Helen bobby and Steve
Just so many hard to believe
Tracey Jan Paula and Leslie
Oh of course Elvis Presley
Memory’s I hold so dear to me
Pat and Alex Miley and dee
Tony and Norma Val and Jackie
Always trying to keep us happy
Sue and Gail Jeanette and Gordon
Simply the best us lot at Fawdon
I wish you a great future from the bottom of my heart
As one chapter end a new one starts
Categories:
fitz, friend, future, work,
Form:
Rhyme
Pro life chop shops
sanctity botched
chain your baby makers
inspect your baby’s crotch
laws ban
lives hang
hangers wrought and bought
the worst of how we’re natured
belts
you’re just another notch
fit in
or sin
resisting a rest
existing erased
pop up chop shops
for furl of brow and fraught
the worst of how we’re natured
belts
you’re just another notch
Composed for Emo-Music Inspired Poems
Poetry Contest by B.J. Fitz
Categories:
fitz, abortion, gender, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
Welcome to Gloucester, a city of once great traditions.
A city where our heroes were once the brave fishermen are now our drunkard sports captains.
A city where art was once seen as the great works of Fitz Hugh Lane or a finely crafted schooner is now rapping behind a computer screen or a "perfectly" rolled joint.
A city where our women were once strong and beautiful, but now they are just girls hunting for sex and alcohol.
A city once revered as a place of close bonds and hearty people now has a renown of heroin addicts and pregnant tenth graders.
Gloucester, I love you and it is true that you have changed, but I have one question for you...
Did it always have to be this way?
Categories:
fitz, age, change, corruption, deep,
Form:
why am I so different?
am I?
I'm beginning to think
that I just have a blown up ego,
metamorphisis metabolic
untrancible genetic
generic flow flaw
a reconditioned range
of freedom gizz
that's stuccado in yr craw,
a wild and willy wondrous
and silly piece of turd -
that is the word,
a point to this eternal ephemeral joint,
that makes me doubt
what it's all about
A waste in a basket,
hovering over a casket...
nearing a fatal mask of death,
what do I mean,
the unobscene?...
too tubular to be inbetween...
gives me fitz
to glamourize
the sh!#^ty arses on TV,
when what I really want
to say is what
I really want to mean...
I'm in a trance now...
a Holy Cow...
a place to recognize
and over despise...
the simpleton lies....
the public cries
for they fear no evil,
and see little
of what I know...
they understand little,
of what I hold
under my big toe
crap...my beer is warm
Categories:
fitz, angst, on writing and
Form:
Free verse
Every year for seven now I’d helped me mate Tom Cooney out,
along with Laurie ‘Fitz’ and Barry Dore when asparagus did sprout.
We worked our shifts ‘til knock off time, then off we’d quickly dart,
to cut the spears and stack them up for Tom to load his cart.
But this year the crew Tom had so long was now back down to one.
Laurie ‘Fitz’ is driving trucks and Dorey’s gone and chased the sun.
I alone can’t put the hours in for Tom that’s needed on his block,
so he had to find two cutters, and he employed young Rod and Jock.
And if they aren’t a pair of Hillbilly’s then I reckon I’ll go ‘he’.
They talked real slow, wore bib and brace, and often disagree.
But they worked as hard as ‘Fitz’ and Dorey once they learnt the trade;
Tom reckoned he had made a coup ‘cause Rod and Jock had made the grade.
With fleet of foot between the hills; their knives decapitate the spears,
and Tom gloated in a week; he had a pair that matched their peers.
That comment stung me in the gut for I’m supposed to be the ‘gun’,
and to keep me ‘possie’ to the fore they forced me to cut and run.
But alas one morning smoko when the four of us were drinking tea,
from somewhere out of nowhere there came the need to referee.
I held back Jock while Rod took off; then Tom kicked up a fuss,
for it seemed that feuding’s more important than his asparagus.
It was a useless conversation with a passing questionnaire,
and a slipping of the tongue that now made Jock aware,
his trusted friend behind his back coerced his wife to stray,
now Tom and I are holding Jock so Rod could run away.
The topic Jock bought to the fore is based on the family tree.
He said to Rod “Hey listen mate, see if you can help me.
If your wife and me made love and then her belly got inflated.
When she had my little baby would it mean that we’re related?”
Tom looked at me, and I at him, then all of us at Rod,
who rubbed his whiskers, tipped his hat, and gave a little nod.
He took a breath and stood up then began on tempting fate …
“Related Jock, I’m just not sure - but it would make us even mate”.
Categories:
fitz, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Jewel layer templates
gilded upstream sigh
winsome eyelet skimmed
scorning dawn orb
Delphic mustard sketch
on sapphire sequins
Appalachian awning
bearing flimsy nuggets
surreal slender straw’s
amber seam gore
lentil seed pod float
upon cashmere shrub
rainbird doleful cry
of damp gray epoch
amid citrus rind
cloud form sun drench
flabbergasted bard now
flailing as tinted
backscatter orange
alert impacts
banana belt script
beleaguered poet yens
tangential sepia pitch
for effervescent voyage
golden jug muse
saliva whorl thimbleful
as earthly thoughts
shimmer edgeways
while the isthmus
of indented arcades
random periwinkle
brushed aside by
spineless green matrix
adapted pun bound
to lace immersive
benign rapt plumage
hedgerow chirper squall
willow warbler, goldcrest
red bunting, greenfinch
broader scope anon
spotted flycatcher fitz-bew
amongst Glen thicket
a subdued tumult
but latent twitter
mint coda riot
paper craft adrift
hankers after worlds
ethereal and
neon-wrought ploy
incandescent dream lure
suburb tang visceral
round acorn strip
fenced circlegram
hub, imbiber of
fluctuating shade
and swerve corridor
of urban transit
where pavement
clad mosaic flaunts
its pear cut diamond
Categories:
fitz, celebration, city, creation, deep,
Form:
Free verse