Best Toms Poems
In a show of manic one-upmanship
With my wife saying, “Just get a grip.”
I planned an adventure to show I’m well travelled
The spoiler to that is the whole thing unravelled
I looked at the brochures and boy was I keen
Determined to find somewhere Tom hadn’t been
That man is a nomad, he never sits still
He just grabs a suitcase and travels at will
[At this point please lend me a bit of your time
for this advance warning of appalling rhyme]
My legs are so white that I ought to be sunning ’em
I’ll find somewhere warm that’s eluded Tom Cunningham
I made a quick sandwich with pickle from Branston
And then thought EUREKA…I’ll call Richard Branson
I sold a few organs and Gran’s silver spoon
And raised enough money to fly to the moon
He said he does orbits then back down to earth
A trip to the moon was more grief than it’s worth
I grabbed Branson’s beard and said “Listen to me,
you’re gonna help me outdo Mr C.”
Well, long story short, I arrived on old Luna
Tom might have planned it but I got there sooner
Then a little green man said, “Is Earth where you’re from?
When you get back home again… say ‘Hi’ to Tom.”
Tom, do you know “THE CUNNINGHAM NEWS” is read by one and all,
The World anxiously waiting to celebrate upon hearing about Putin’s fall,
I can understand how Ukrainian deaths will dampen Ukraine’s victory call,
But winning this war with glorious hearts, their reward, to feel ten foot tall.
In our wigwams we hear tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons.
In the moon of red grass.
Let the white man come.
There is room enough for all.
In the moon of green grass.
Let the white man come.
There is grass enough for all.
In the moon when ponies shed.
Let the white man come.
There are ponies enough for all.
In the moon of strawberries.
Let the white man come.
There are berries enough for all.
In the moon when lilies bloom.
Let the white man come.
There are blooms enough for all.
In the hot moon, we will sweat.
Let the white man come.
There is heat enough for all.
In the moon of wild rice.
Let the white man come.
There are bowls enough for all.
In the moon of falling leaves.
Let the white man come.
There are leaves enough for all.
In the moon of rutting deer.
Let the white man come.
There are deer enough for all.
In the moon when deer shed horns.
Let the white man come.
There are horns enough for all.
It is the hard moon of strong cold.
Let the white man come.
There are lodges enough for all.
In the moon when wolf packs run.
Let the white man come.
There are more than enough for all.
In the moon of sore eyes.
Let the white man come.
There will be enough for all.
The prairie wind is blowing chill,
Wildly waving through the grass,
Erasing signs of Indian trails.
In the moons of the white man,
Strong hearts seek Indians return.
Is there room enough for all?
Will our wigwams hear the tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons?
TOM’S TURKEY ANTICS
Tom Cunningham, cunning with his limericks.
Slick and sassy, a bit devilish too. If he were
Santa, his bag would be full of not toys but lists
of sensational poetics for adult boys and girls.
Tom’s turkey antics have him roasting Polly,
handcuffing Santa, whip-creaming Rudolph.
Oh the things this guy won’t pull on Christmas,
like pranking and impounding Santa’s sleigh.
Ho! Ho! ho! Humor is the game that Tom plays!
12/11/2019
Tribute to Tom Cunningham
Tom’s Surprise 80th Birthday Party
Haskell F.W.B. Church
12-5-2018
My spring of life contained pregnant clouds,
Almost as if suspended by parachute shrouds;
Now, winter has painted it with shades of grey,
But then, eighty years, has been a lengthy stay.
Now, last night, for me a surprise 80th birthday party,
Fellowship, gifts, and cake / cookies were hearty.
While it had my pulse at an undefined place,
I enjoyed these friends that shared my space;
For I found myself surrounded by friends who care,
Those who have petitioned God, for me, in prayer;
I owe long life to the living God that I’m serving,
I’m blessed and highly favored but undeserving.
My witness for Him will not become diminished,
Until such time that He declares my life finished.
The soldier bravely trod the sod,
The sod he chose to tread was fine,
Until he trod upon a mine,
His apparel was left in disarray,
Because he chose to die that way!
Hold on, I hear you say or sigh,
He did not choose that way to die!
It was his duty, he had no choice,
But I listen to that little voice.
If you would listen like I do,
You would also hear it too.
It whispers, if he’d stayed at home
Into pieces he would not be blown.
And if the other million men,
Who took up arms had stayed in bed,
And told the man in grey and khaki
That they found all war a bore,
And would they go and knock next door.
There would not have been a bomb
To sink beneath the sod for Tom,
And our brave Soldier would not say,
"I got blown up by a mine today".
Toms scavenging hard
An elder, a young
Scraps, wraps and boxes
In gardens and streets
A meal of litter
A home is there
All clothes are worn
Love is alive
School-friends hunting
Strategy
Accomplished
Strong technique
“Got food?”
“Finished?”
Hungry
Food
She is a chubby dancer, but the toms don’t mind.
She has such pussyfooting moods, and she is fine.
This was said by a wild alley cat, a friend of mine.
He did not know it was a put down, for he is kind.
[I really must learn to read the contest’s rules
before writing the damned poem...
What follows is not twelve lines!]
It was a good morning until
My face was shoved under the grill
With only six lives left within me
This charcoaled cat shot up the chimney
I fell from the roof and went splat
A whopping great weight squashed me flat
But that isn't all, there’s a hole in the wall
That’s roughly the shape of a cat
I’m silent and so I can’t wail
I’ve got a rope tied to my tail
At least that dog wont hear me holler
The other end’s tied to his collar
Out, through the hole in the house
A tyrant the shape of a mouse
He struts right by showing no fear
And chomps on that sleeping dog’s ear
I’m running like mad... on the spot
I think maybe I’ve had me lot
The rope snaps and I make a dash
And crash into mountains of trash
I’m stuck here with bins for my bed
And a fish skeleton on my head
It was a good morning until
Jerry went in for the kill
We three toms of Laredo are
Running from a sheriff's star
Westward leading, still proceeding
Soon hiding in Kitty's fancy Cat House Bar
Tom’s Prayer
(From my archives)
Posted 8/20/21
Lord,
Give me a greater desire
to be as the tree,
One willing to stand all day
with arms outstretched toward you.
Doing those things for others
that only you will see.
Amen
Tom was not appreciated most of his life; neither was his fiddle.
He insisted on having it buried with him, a pillow in the middle.
At three a.m. the witching hour, he creates music for the others.
The lonely, the forgotten, the sad, the depressed, and the angry mothers.
They gather at their gravestones, appreciating the concert of Tom.
Last time his music was appreciated was May 1971, at the senior prom.
You will not catch him, or see him, unless you join the sorry others.
The lonely, the forgotten, the sad, the depressed and the angry mothers.
Tom’s Thoughts
August 22, 2020
2:30 AM
Sometimes, like comets, thoughts rush by,
as dust bunnies escaping from an unquiet mind.
Drinking from a pool that’s polluted by hate,
will leave a craving that’s never satisfied.
Those who bathe in entitlement’s pool,
remain each morning, a lazy, unclean fool.
We drink our fill from pools of success,
but our thirst for more is never sated.
Streets filled with protesters full of hate,
will find their thirst never quenched.
While many subsist on fine cuisine,
others are existing on crumbs that have fallen from the table.
Dark Lord of the Toms was a lone wolf
Hiding out in a cellar, drinking his red wine
The other Toms did not dare invade his turf
He had made it clear he preferred being alone
Women were scared, for he had a dangerous look
They tried to send their mothers in for an introduction
But even their mothers were too frightened to go
He looks like Count Dracula one of them said
She was not wrong