Long Clubhouse Poems
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So, our house is supposedly haunted?
The rest of the crew laughed their petootsies off
Didn’t everyone watch Channel 5 News?
ghosts, monsters, ghouls, goblins and one witch resided here
She was the ringleader of the burglary ring
Sent them in and out of houses pilfering and looting
If anyone gives you trouble, use my cell number, she said
Homeowners always back down when faced with a flying witch
Their clubhouse was at 2300 Pennsylvania, and it was filling up
The gremlins had not paid rent for a year; they were getting tossed out
Two sheriff’s deputies were at the door now, demanding to see them
The witch stuck her head over the banister
Give the officers candy, she told the ghost who had answered the door
She wanted them to come back next month to kick out the gargoyles.
Every so often, my mind wanders back to the summer of my youth, where a specific memory awaits.
Having completed my first year at University, I’ve come home. My younger brother John, fifteen, seems all grown up, so different. He’s gotten taller but it’s more than that.
I'm surprised when he offers me a tour of his new ‘Boyz Only’ clubhouse. I almost wonder if he has missed me while I was away, likely not. The shell of a hand-me-down camper has been converted into a hangout. When I mention that he keeps it surprisingly neat, he snickers and reveals his stash of hidden girlie magazines, safe from the inevitable parental inspection.
I am impressed, and at the same time, I can’t help but feel like I’ve entered a time bubble, a door, a transition. On one hand, it feels surreal; on the other hand, it’s simply an honour to just sit here as a guest.
I talk to John about what it was like to adapt to life in the big city. He talks to me about his recent exploits and his adventures with his friends. It isn’t long before we reminisce about the escapades we shared when we were younger. In our pauses, we’re somehow cognizant that we’re one step closer to adulthood, to what we might call freedom.
In the past year, I haven’t thought much about home and our countryside fields. For me it’s more about what the future has to offer. But on this day, it’s tangible how John and I are setting out on different journeys. He is next in line to fly the coop and I'm sure he realizes it. As we spread our wings, it’s obvious that the gap will only grow.
This precise moment clings golden to me, ever so close to the surface of my heart.
at the forest’s edge
by the old baseball field
youth within reach
AP: 1st place 2024, 2nd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on September 1, 2025 for contest 2025 POETRY MARATHON MILE 13 sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 1ST
and on November 15, 2025 for contest 2025 POETRY MARATHON QUALIFIERS' FINAL PLACEMENT sponsored by MARK TONEY - RANKED 14TH
Oh station , station
Yee of intermittent locomotive
thoroughfare
Once standing proud now
sadly scheduled surplus to
moderna
Redundant made it's ticket
booth , collector and so to
it's master
Resigned and destined for
graffiti spray to patch it's
walls
With it's clock battery powered
down
It's fate a clubhouse for tomorrows
youth to wreck and frequent gather
in and under
Smoke and try initial cigarette
plume cough and alcoholic
spirit drunken after shock
hangover
It's track's to be repatriated back
to nature 6 foot overgrown by
scrub , weed and bush
No click no clack no whisper
harking back
Visitation only by means of
historical scholastic dissertation
It's final lesson thus if willing to
accept
Everything once valued once
it has seved it's purpose and
past it's exasperation date
Will in fact so to in future be
cast aside and face this
exact fate
And maybe if nothing else
but for death will be saved from
Seeing all the things we
treasure and keep as memories
most dear
Disappearing before us and
and so to point out
That the light at the end of the
tunnel is fast becoming dimmed
by the milli-second
The village has grown bigger
The way that villages do
Parts have been demolished
And parts of it are new.
The Hotel has expanded,
Very little is the same,
Except the warm atmosphere
And they’ve kept the name.
Nearly fifty years gone since
We were last together there,
Faces changed and wrinkled
And some have lost their hair.
But, these aging bodies house
Minds that are young at heart
So much reminiscing to do
To cover all those years apart.
Thoughts of those friends
We’ve lost over the years
Absent friends toasts made
Eyes maybe holding unshed tears.
There’s a walk around the area
And on up to the camp site
Retracing those footsteps
Made after many a boozy night.
Most of the buildings are gone,
The Square weeds and grass,
Sure sign of a changing world
As time has steadily passed.
Most of it now new built housing,
An upmarket residential estate
No longer a guarded entry
No longer a guardroom and gate.
The operations block a clubhouse
For the eighteen hole golf course
Now a recreational area once
Inhabited by a military work force.
For years she guarded democracy
Kept an ever watchful eye
But priorities perceived to have
Changed as years have gone by.
We have walked around our past
Taken note of the changes seen
Each awash with his memories
Each glad that he’s been.
Then we part at the station as
Our reunion finally ends
After all those years glad we took
A chance to see some old friends.
There is a group of us that live around
the cul-de-sac of our neighborhood.
Jimmy is ten years old, the same age I am.
He has a big tall live oak tree in the backyard
with a treehouse we use for a clubhouse.
Marty is twelve years old.
He always wants to boss everyone around.
He has a younger sister named Becky
that always wants to join in all the time.
We try to run her off, but she is always underfoot.
Marshal is ten years old.
He wears blue jeans with a large silver
western belt buckle with a galloping horse,
cowboy boots, and a black straw cowboy hat.
The hatband is adorned with silver conchos,
and it pretends to be a cowboy.
If the weather is nice, we gather and pretend
to be cowboys and Indians and chase each other around,
or pirates on a sailing ship.
Or play marbles and see who loses the most.
If the weather is bad, we play video games.
If we fight, after a while we are friends again like brothers.
2/23/2023
At the Preakness, horses race;
The crowd is quite excited.
After winners are declared,
Observers are invited
To witness a tradition
Which, since nineteen hundred nine
Has been special to all racing fans
And cool in its design.
See, atop the Members’ Clubhouse,
A historic weather vane
Of a horse and jockey waits there
For the colors it will claim.
Lawrence Jones, the current painter
(At his job since ‘88)
Climbs a ladder to the cupola
To bring things up to date.
He applies the owner’s colors,
Which the winning jockey’s worn,
On the weather vane to show the world
A champion’s been born.
So today, for Cloud Computing,
(That’s the winning horse’s name)
Red and white have just been painted,
Horse and owner’s claim to fame.
Berms rise high to the left and right,
they’ve created a wide gully,
another berm squares off the back,
so no stray rounds ever get free.
There’s a metal spinner back there,
sits just short of two hundred yards,
I squeeze back and the bullet flies,
recoil jolts shoulder and arm.
I hear that small, metallic ping,
and thrill that I’ve gotten a hit,
may not be hard for a marine,
but I am quite happy with it.
I’m a civvie with iron sights
on my Winchester ’94,
I don’t get out here that often,
so or me, I call it a score.
Around me, on this low platform
others folks are working their guns,
two boy scouts shoot their.22s,
are plinking away, having fun.
An older woman sports a Glock,
a pistol, it’s for self-defense,
seems hesitant, she’s new to this,
but rightly fears criminal men.
A guy that I know hunts big moose
shoots slowly, sighting in his scope,
he gave me some ground meat last year,
will he give again? (I can hope!)
Blasts come from a much wider field,
shotguns destroying sporting clays,
after they’ll brag about their scores,
as some boast about their golf game.
Behind it all is a clubhouse,
there is a big elk-head in there,
a meeting room where they teach class
for new shooters still unaware.
They sometimes sell hot dogs inside,
or chili, when they have events,
mostly it is a hang-out place,
a space where men still can be men.
And of course the good ol’ 2nd
hangs above the big fireplace,
what are other rights without it?
Just notions evil will disgrace.
I cycle through my magazine,
pick up the brass for my range bag,
I’m reloading much more these days,
with inflation prices are mad…
Pleeeez… stop your whining and complaining
Agreed, dog days of summer are straining
Let's make the most of these hot sunny days
Might as well call friends, be entertaining
Come and sit in our air conditioned house
Remember your swimsuit and grab your spouse
We'll pretend we're on a resort island
Cool off and have some fun at our clubhouse
Let's appreciate the sun from inside
Where from the scorching weather we can hide
Sipping margaritas and coladas
Let's have fun so come along for the ride
Let's enjoy the cool waters of our pool
Stop being negative, don't be a fool
Later in the shade enjoy the evening
Remember what's summer's number one rule
Remember your whines when winter winds blow
And you're out shoveling a foot of snow
This stretch of heat'll be over soon enough
Make yourself useful, open the Bordeaux
We can't be wishing all our days away
How quick will come the Christmas holiday
Years fly by without any extra help
We sure can't wish our life away
Read on air by invitation ~ June 9, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: Honorable Mention 2023
This gentleman's sport,
Brings up my youth,
To stadium transport,
Fans and emulators of Babe Ruth.
When I was young,
We sat in the cheap seats.
Big family among.
On metal bleachers, a butt heats.
At our feet,
Peanut shells in piles,
So many we eat,
While the game beguiles.
I watch the balls fly,
Trajectories rather vast,
Oh, look! How High!
While the baserunners move fast.
Dad would talk at games,
Which we did not witness a lot.
He knows the player's names?!
His vocabulary is more than I ever thought.
Injuries occur,
But tis not a bloodsport,
Which is what we prefer,
For spectator comfort.
A moment in time,
We root for players to succeed,
Hit a homer, catch a fly, sublime,
And the other team's score impede.
Some fans want their team to win.
Others enjoy watching the game as a whole.
Whatever the reason,
This game our heart stole.
If the game is long,
Better conversations can be had,
Fans try to get along,
Or don't, and that's bad.
Japan's favorite sport,
Provides America many a powerhouse,
A valuable import,
And welcome addition to the clubhouse.
A sport that makes fans sing,
Stretch, move, and dance,
Up collective tookis bring,
All the more body condition and game experience to enhance.
Let's go to a ball game,
With fans abound,
Expletives exclaim,
Until the winning team is crowned.
On Fireworks Night,
Music and vision astound,
Phosphorus in flight,
Friends and magical experience surround.
Placed 10th in the contest 2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 by Mark Toney. Contest was judged on September 3rd, 2025
The First of the trilogy that continues as "The Sober Dawn" and "Tonight Will Soon Be Over".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Afrobeats played in the background,
his sweet breaths drying my sweat.
Palmwine rested on his shaky left palm.
Then he said the nonsense
that drunk men usually mutter—
an alcohol-soaked “I love you.”
He staggered within arm’s length,
already reeking
of eight calabashes of liquor.
The drink painted his handsomeness
into
a mocking caricature of a clown.
His trembling right hand brushed my chest.
I felt good—
as if the hot tropical sun had frozen,
and my heart raced
to his sheepish smile.
My feet quaked as sweat soaked my shoes.
The ground vibrated under dancing legs,
the overcrowded clubhouse
minding its own business.
“African Calypso!”
thundered an inebriated fellow,
his chorus landing ten seconds early,
ahead the mimed song.
My new guy copied him.
He dragged me to the dance floor.
We were both drunk,
so we both fell over.
Bottles of palmwine broken,
calabashes shattered.
Everything was messed up—
except the Afrobeats,
the only joy that remained.