Best Seventy Four Poems
Born in Ireland in eighteen seventy four
He was a remarkably brave explorer
Three times to Antartica he did go
To that barren wilderness of ice and snow.
Once with Captain Scott and twice on his own
And it was on his third visit that his bravery became known
The expedition was to reach the southern pole
For all the great explorers, it was the ultimate goal.
The Weddell sea was freezing and tightened its grip
And crushed the Endurance, the expedition ship
The crew saved all the equipment and food stores too
They were stranded on an ice floe there was nothing they could do.
But the floe breaks up and on the sea it floats
So the order was given to launch the life boats
They set sail for Elephant island in the southern ocean
And with worsening conditions approached it with caution.
It was a temporary move, they knew they couldn't stay
Shackleton had to get help, there was no other way
Except for five crewmen all the rest did remain
On the island for four months with its inhospitable terrain.
South Georgia was the place that they needed to get to
From there they would be able to launch a rescue
Eight hundred nautical miles they had to row and sail
Through gigantic waves with snow, ice and hail.
Stromness whale station, it was their goal
But on their boat the harsh conditions had taken their toll
South of the island they had to land on a beach
Thirty six hours north was help, they needed to reach.
Three of the crew were taken ill, no more could they take
So Shackleton and two others, a long trek they did make
They trekked in conditions that could have caused harm
But they reached the whale station and raised the alarm.
The three sick crewman were rescued, thankfully still alive
And the twenty two on Elephant island were struggling to survive
Penguin and seal meat was what they had to eat
But they kept their hopes up not admitting defeat.
On August the thirtieth in nineteen sixteen
A Chilean navy ship on the horizon was seen
It was Shackletons fourth attempt to rescue his crew
Their ordeal was now over, but hell they'd been through.
Written 9th January 2018
There are mornings when I’m doom and gloomy,
Other days I can wake up with joy,
But there’s one thing that I know for certain
No one feeling can define the boy!
Almost seventy-four I have critics
Those who judge never are that well versed
Most especially those on the sidelines,
God, those arm chair athletes are the worst!
Now if we should meet in the arena
And you’re beat up and sweaty like me,
Then your voice might be one worth a listen,
For your knowledge was bought with a fee!
I would rather have human connection
Than to try to find just happiness
To be vulnerable to the future
Give up shields spawned by man’s craziness.
One can’t block loss and not limit real gain
Or ban hatred and not limit love,
Let me give up my pride and stay open,
Prefer warmth to protection of glove.
Long Tooth
August 8, 2016
So I revel in being alive,
at the age of seventy four,
with no tangible boundary,
long and longer one does yearn,
for life’s garden of pure health,
my blossom, bloom, and bliss,
devoid of serious ailment,
that bristling spirit undimmed,
I still savour with such abandon,
verdant sights, scenes, sounds,
profuse vista, azure skyline,
wondrous rapids, bright streams,
tender love and human passion,
sheer late phase zest enduring,
my olden yet golden proud march,
year on year earthly nirvana
During childhood
It was all about imagination,
As in opening a window
For a fun, medieval war with full set of armor and a sword
And fighting the foes who comes to fight.
I'd always made it unfair
For my enemies;
Seventy-four to forty-seven
And scoring a victory for my land.
As each war was fought, many men were defeated and killed
But with the stakes of losing my country and throne,
Losing or surrendering was not an option.
But a new enemy came, stronger than any other foe I fought,
And his name was Evil Ken,
A dark figure, with the same body tone as mine,
His eyes were bright red,
Both hands were sharp as kitchen knives,
And his energy was pure darkness.
Not only Evil Ken came,
He put his contagious plaque
Over my countrymen;
One claw from his hands
Feels like a painful parade
Full of little ants
Crawling into your skin.
I'd thought in my mind
That my soldiers can be healed
And fight by my side,
But it was too late.
The meadows of my imagination
Became little voices,
Similar voices of fallen men whom I killed,
And my muscles in my right wrist,
Which had the power of democracy,
Became the voices' weapon
Of mass destruction
And turning it against me.
The percentile of me winning this war was 3:1,
Favoring Evil Ken
And fear came through me
Like a man was getting executed by be-headed.
I feared that I will be next on the chopping block
Of iron and steel.
So for this "Never-ending war"
Between Evil Ken and his plaque
Against me
Multiple names were firing at me,
Like ***** and a juvenile delinquent,
But an unfamiliar voice came by my side,
Like an angel from the sky flew down,
And gave me evidence
On how to defeat Him and his plaque.
This evidence was
Leadership, motivator, and a
Survivor.
The war ended with his plaque
And Evil Ken was finally disperse.
I may have won this war,
But more will come in time
And more men will be defeated.
Summer nights in Centerville, sleeping on the top bunk bed;
A transistor radio playing low, lying right there near my head.
The Big Red Machine was in their prime; those boys could sure play ball;
I fell asleep every night listening to the play-by-play of Joe Nuxhall.
I entered my life of puberty with Charlie Hustle running to first;
Davey Concepcion turning two and Joe Morgan with a speedy burst.
Johnny Bench throwing out would be stealers, Pedro Borbon with a bending curve;
All happening on the summer of my first kiss – once I finally worked up the nerve.
With Tommy sleeping in the bed below – nary a care in the world,
George Foster launched an enormous shot while I tried to figure out the girls.
Jack Billingham was striking them out – an apt metaphor for my chances,
As I fantasized about dating girls while two bases Ken Griffey advances.
Tony Perez was still strapping them on; Don Gullet piled up some wins;
Cesar Geronimo owned center field while my hormones multiplied within.
Coming of age in Centerville, back in nineteen seventy-four,
Meant listening to the Cincinnati Reds while thinking about the girl next door.
Just like the football I am
small on the ends and big in the middle.
Sharp as a tack and fit as a fiddle,
seventy four (in the waist) and can still bounce back.
Of course it’s pretty hard on the sacroiliac .
I think my shape is no big concern.
Some say, I look like a pregnant earth worm.
I’m bald on my head and have hair ‘tween my toes.
I shave with lectric scissors,
but, sweetheart I braid the hair in my nose.
Now, I do pluck those awful ones growin’ out my ears
cause when I turn sideways, heck
If I’m too close to you they might wrap around your neck.
Then where would I be with a obeasty charge to cover.
Shucks, I ain’t no beast, I’m a lover.
and I play football, when I get a dare.
© Steal this one, I don’t care.
cgh for Kristen Bruni’s “football” contest
My dearest Anna,
It has been three Tuesdays since I lost you.
I will never forget seeing you, just lying there.
I went to our regular coffee shop, at the regular time.
For the second week in a row I ordered both of our drinks.
It has been seven episodes of that show you like, since I lost you.
For that matter most of the things on the DVR were yours.
I’m just not ready to delete them, it’s the little things.
I don’t think I can just yet.
It has been nine Saturdays since I lost you.
The drugstore called yesterday and said
your medicine was ready.
I picked it up.
It has been four paydays since I lost you.
I roamed the store parking lot looking for a space
that didn’t remind me of you.
Bought the peanut butter you like.
knowing how you crave your midnight snack.
It is the first Thanksgiving since I lost you.
Dinner at my parents was nice
but not one person mentioned you.
I called and canceled Christmas with your parents.
They said they understood.
It has been nineteen Sunday
walks in the park since I lost you.
More than once my friends told me
it is time to pick up and move on.
What is so important about moving on?
I lost someone I love. It’s not like I can stop
loving you and find someone else.
It has been half a year of mornings
waking up and not seeing you asleep.
Many a morning I watched you sleep.
You are more than someone
I wanted to spend my life with.
You were a comfort, a constant, a habit.
It has been five months since
I have heard you tell me you love me
and the memory is starting to fade. I can’t lose it too.
It has been one hundred seventy four days,
sixteen hours and twenty-one minutes since I lost you.
To him.
When I am seventy-four
I will apologize.
It will be a narrative
of explanations,
an elaborate blush.
I will say
“oh God”
to smooth the past.
I can remember a February
away back in nineteen seventy-four
'Twas a first meeting of my family
and my intended whom I'd spoken for.
Two hour ride to Kentucky's western part
with a basketball game planned to follow
home-cooked meal - key to a son-in-law's heart.
The tension on both sides, hard to swallow.
Driving home after the game my sweetheart
suffered an attack, much worse shall we say,
than a mere gastrointestinal fart.
Gas stations, closed; fast food stops, gone astray.
No rhyme nor reason fits distension's distress;
My beloved sensed a connection, right off -
key to dad’s workplace suspended a big mess
as mom wonders, "Was it my rice pilaf?"
written February 9, 2018
THE JOURNEY OF A REFUGEE
Running from an economy full of hate
hunger will place him behind bars unless he relocates
war and crisis lingering with the hope to end soon
have pocketed young lives since five bloody Junes
a new home is the dream where kindness isn’t dormant
and challenges of life, soft and not adamant
reality of a visa will be in the next September
a time, the grave will add him to its number
the territories of the waters have no love
risk is never straight, always a painful curve
a space in the traveler’s harbor, sent is the request
paying in full, survival by all means, a conquest
every wave of the ocean, death teases
tossing the fragile boat as it pleases,
risk is watered, its grasses are green
a hundred and seventy four displayed on its screen
landing at the border, safe and unscratched
his painful stories on his head attach
moving into camps, acceptance is not immediate
not a problem, since from hell, he has learnt to integrate.
BY JONATHAN a refugee from DRC staying in UGANDA ( KYANGWALI REFUGEE SETTLEMENT)
EMAIL. [email protected]
How I recall the day we saw
The running of the train
A booming voice filled all the earth
"Behold the great Ron Dayne!"
As did their forebears once of old
The enemy contain
So did these Spartans hope to hold
The thundering Ron Dayne
Could this ferocious force be checked?
The answer quickly came
For the first four plays alone did yield
Seventy-four yards to Dayne
Alas, State gave their best defense
Yet their efforts were in vain
Two hundred fourteen rushing yards
Amassed by mighty Dayne
"Thank you Son", said my ol' Dad,
"For our time at this game"
And I will treasure evermore
The day we saw Ron Dayne
Sept. 3, 2016
Commemorating Michigan St. vs. Wisconsin - Oct. 23, 1999
Final: Wisconsin 40, Michigan St. 10
demure pink panties
orange in the glow of the streetlights
d
a
n
g
l
i
n
g
from a petite
cinnamon colored ankle
the bronze back of ghetto lust
flexes and glistens
above the writhing form of sensuality incarnate
battle of the sexes
the incubus versus the succubus
in a seventy-four chevy
write your name on the window
has you pass by
“Seventy-four is about apology,” said Ferdy.
“Well apology and memory.
If you have literary pretensions, it's about
apology and narrative.”
Ferdy's class sat there dumfounded.
This was a little different from the usual class.
“The only question left is
how much apology is needed? when can one let up?”
Doth it not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
By Richard Le Gallienne
(The Passionate Reader to His Poet)
Mama had a purple leather book
Of Henry Longfellow’s poetry.
She let me read it if I was careful,
And thus honed the love of poetry for me.
I memorized “The Village Blacksmith”
As well as “The Children’s Hour”.
Read “The Song of Hiawatha”
When chased in by a summer’s shower.
I never saw my mama reading it,
For she had to work no end,
But perhaps as with her daughter now,
It had once been her childhood friend.
Literary snobs sniped at Longfellow
As a writer for the masses,
As opposed I guess to the elite
Who penned for higher classes.
He was the most popular American poet
Of any poets of his time.
He could write in many different forms,
In lyric and in rhyme.
He was born in Maine in eighteen ought seven
He died in eighteen eighty two.
For all of his seventy five long years
He knew what he wanted to do.
He was a student of languages
And a highly educated man.
As Harvard professor, earned eight hundred a year.
Just picture that now if you can.
He quit his prestigious position
To devote himself to his art.
An established poet by then
He was successful from the start.
He was receiving three thousand dollars a poem
By the year of Eighteen Hundred Seventy Four.
He’d accumulated a sizable fortune
When he died in just seven years more.
Joyce Johnson 10/30/11 Won a no. 1
For Constance--My Dear Heart's contest The Passionate Reader!
Green Gremlins were all the rage in nineteen seventy-four.
I am not talking about creepy fat-headed full bellied tiny beings.
I am talking about cheap cars with a V-8 and four on the floor.
Everyone had one, so common, most of us were tee-heeing.
Painted a variety of colors, and riding in them made you kind of sore.
We wore hip hugger bell-bottoms and had a hippie-like look.
This was in ’74, and believe it or not, this is no folk lore.
If you do not believe me, just look up a Gremlin in a picture book.