Long Dave Poems
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Quite Interesting.
Why am I watching this show on T.V.?
Because it has Stephen Fry and he is so funny.
He is so intelligent, compared to me;
But QI is wonderfully informative.
I learn general knowledge and bits of nonsense;
But even the non-sensical starts to make sense.
Phil Jupitus and Bill Bailey say funny things,
Whilst Alan Davies just seems a bit dim.
This show is great; it’s so good to watch;
Thank Dave for playing QI so much.
They must be careful not to say the obvious answer,
Because the screen will buzz loud and bring much laughter.
They guessed you would say that,
When the real answer is stranger.
So stick your hands in a sharks gills,
To protect you from danger.
General Ignorance will catch them out
And make them say the wrong answer, no doubt.
So watch QI, it’s quite interesting;
It’s the comedy show that just keeps giving.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Students everywhere feel a close relationship with summer. It develops early and you never lose it. It’s durable.
Le’ts poeticize..
It was a youthful summer of unblemished mirth.
In play, our youthful hours were freely spent.
We bore such idleness - we were indulgent.
Until Lisa confessed, she was less so content
and longed desperately for a ‘wholesome reunion’
with her love (Dave) and to resume that courtship in the same
fevered spirit as when they last parted, in Paris.
“Life’s complicated,” Lisa offered, at the end of our talk.
“So complicated,” I agreed.
It’s amazing how quickly a plan can coalesce.
ANNND, we’re back in Manhattan, at Lisa’s (parents) 50th floor residence.
I asked Karen (Lisa’s Mom) once, “If you own this (a floor of a building) is it called an apartment, a condominium..,” my voice faded on the question.
“A residence,” she answered after a moment’s thought. She’s a lawyer.
Georgia got too hot. Not to dwell on the grotesque side of girlhood - but enough sweat already.
Shakespeare (Henry IV) wrote, “sweat extraordinarily, if it be a hot day.” Yep, done that - for really.
In lieu of all our pains, we now want AC, high-end amenities, constant concierge services and stunning views.
We’ll be back in New Haven in nine short days - and back in class in eighteen.
Call 911, someone’s stolen our summer!
.
.
Songs for this:
New York City Serenade by Bruce Springsteen
New York State of Mind by Billy Joel
One day, a jolly fisherman called Dave,
While sailing was shipwrecked, by a huge wave.
Still gasping for air, Dave only could stare,
At a gorgeous mermaid, with long blonde hair.
Who rescued him, as he clung to a rock.
By helping Dave, to recover from shock,
She sang a soulful, sincere serenade,
Luring seafarers, set sail to give aid.
Then she submerged, with one swish from her tail.
Now who would believe, this far-fetched regale.
For all of his tales, seemed jolly good fun,
Unless there is truth, in this latest one.
9 / 6 / 2022.
Sponsor Julia Ward.
A JOLLY FISHERMAN POETRY CONTEST.
I spent my early life
Looking out from behind
The chain link fence on the turkey farm
There they fed me right
Fattened up my thighs
After all, what could be the harm
If it was up to me
I would never leave
It's where I prefer to spend my years
But alas will come the day
When all good turkey's have to say
Arrivederci...I am outta here
I was born to be a Butter Ball
Unlike those sloppy pigs that live next door
To be a tender turkey is my call
And all you want to do is eat me
Yes, you wanna eat me
They just took Turkey Jack
To the shed out back
Where we never heard from him again
Just like yesterday
With my friend Turkey Dave
Strange they haven't messed with Turkey Slim
Am I the next in line
Could this here be my time
My head placed on the chopping block
As I say my goodbyes
To all the gals and guys
I gobble to Mary Lou as an after thought
I was born to be a Butter Ball
So delicious they're coming back for more
Tenderized to the very core
All they want to do is eat me
I was born to be a Butter Ball
A slap in the face to the Honey Ham
To be a tinder turkey is my call
Heavy on the gravy with a side of yams
Now that you know my tale
I hope I told it well
Enjoy this day with your family and your friends
So remember then
Don't leave the stuffing in
And dinner will go the way that it was planned
I was born to be a Butter Ball
The highest honor of them all
Into the open oven I must fall
Cause all you want to do is eat me
Yes, all you wanna do is eat me
Again!?!
Will this madness ever end?!?
Always young at heart and old in soul
never at ease in the linked up, stuck-up clichés
of childhood or the bizarre unfriendly world of adulthood,
I always roared…at five my boyfriend Dave was four.
He was a good kisser too.
Just about the only kisses I got [except from mom] till I was sixteen,
at which point a charming fifteen year old
and Irishman [black Irish rosy red cheeked
dancing black eyes and a curl which feel into them]
became my beau and to my junior prom as a sophomore
he went, returned the favor, he did, the next year.
I went as a senior to his Junior prom,
hair all done up like Olive Oil. “God it looked awful!”
My Senior prom, he was my Napoleon,
again and I in empire white his Josephine
[no we weren’t crowned King and Queen].
College saw me behind the eight ball again
With all my lovely new friends “hookers?”
[‘Well, Ma said!!! If you did that you were…]
Since I wouldn’t I had a slew of BOY friends
[Sometimes three would drop in on the same night
ahhhhhh the power of abstinence!]
Sophmore year I found true love, it almost killed me.
And yes Adonis was a freshman, an Italian dream
with a wrestlers Greco-roman body…lasted three years.
And, in walked the next Italian lovers [three years younger]
A few years latter we were married. Thirty years passed
Closeted cloistered years, over protected, smothered years
and with freedom came new loves, all younger than me.
Dear poet friends departed, as I ponder
the things I learned about you and the way
our time together made my heart grow fonder,
there seems so very little I can say.
As poets sometimes do, I’ll use a metaphor.
Your friendship was a lovely kind of bread -
a sprouted whole grain I like even more
when it’s toasted warm and then with butter spread.
Notes to each other warmed the bread! I got to know
the person underneath the poetry.
Your poems were splendid, but our special glow
of friendship was the butter spread deliciously.
Every kind of bread has its own flavor.
The taste of joy you brought me can’t be measured.
Each friendship is unique, and I’ll always savor
memories of you with all my others treasured.
Dedicated to Dave Austin and to other poet friends I met along the way who since have passed away.
Sept. 3, 2017
All lined up
In a single c rank
Twenty two cans of beer fit
Inside the barrel of a tank,
And driving a tank
Is an exhilarating thrill?
But at times you can’t?
Avoid some road kill.
Cookie comes behind
And what does he do?
Guts and chops and slices?
For a nice Range Stew.
When you’re tired and hungry
And really needing to eat
You gobble down the stew
Because meat is meat is meat.
And when its spiced
And cooked up well
A mouth starts watering
Just at the smell.
Just making sure
No Rupert is near
Off to the breech for
A few cans of beer
Range stew is fine when
Washed down with ale
And by and large they all
Live to tell the tale.
Given the choice
It wouldn’t be range stew;
When you’re tired and hungry
Any food at all will do.
Tired and replete
All give thanks
For the cans of beer that fit
Down the barrel of a tank.
My Veteran Cavalry friends insist this is true, so thanks Hobbo, Dave R and Harry for the inspiration.
A cool crisp spring evening,
as I follow the dog out
for her final ambulation.
Shades of the setting sun linger
on the western horizon,
with red Mars perched just above
and Ursus major arching overhead
but they only set the stage.
For comet Hale-Bopp is the feature,
white head and streaming tail
bright against the moonless sky.
I haul my wife and kids
from bedtime stories
to witness the splendor
as close to perfect as we can reach.
Later that night,
she comes to bed
warm from her bath
we kiss lightly, then deeply
suspended in sensation
as familiar rhythms resume.
Later, satiated, we linger
coupled to the moment
as close to perfect as we can reach.
1) Dave Rodgers, A Night Sky, March 27, 2013 (revised form earlier jottings)
2) For those who don't remember there is a stunning pic
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/df/Comet-Hale-Bopp-29-03-1997_hires_adj.jpg
I think it's genius
when a person can
see beyond the veil
as they used their gifts
in the most creative way,
in imperiling the darkness
in a jesting way.
This is what we call comedy.
There are many but
few will dare to speak out.
The few to speak out
are the most noble ones
with the heart of a lion.
Bernie Mac,
Dave Chappelle,
Kat Williams,
Eddie Griffin,
Richard Pryor,
Jim Carrey,
Redd Foxx,
Lenny Bruce,
Dick Gregory,
The Smothers Brothers,
There's more,
but I would like to say, gratitude
for carrying the torch
of illumination in
exposing the darkness.
Thank you for never
backing down when the
odds were against you
as you stared into
the face of temptation.
Heart pumping faster
than a cheater chasing
it victim. Blood on
the borderline of hypertension.
Out of the blue,
things became peculiar,
and frightening, as their
intuition, forewarned them,
ahead of time. Leaving
them in a state of distress,
they became agitated and startled.
As these events were unexpected,
it lead them, not to trust anyone
again, but it was to late.
Spiritually, they received
their rewards for their
bravery and courage deeds.
There's only a few of
them that still persist,
as the hyenas secretly
tries to silence them.
At the end of each summer day,
while laying there in my bed,
I placed a small transistor radio
under the pillow near my head.
Each night that the Reds did play
I listened to the baseball game;
Joe Nuxhall did the play-by-play -
youngest player ever, adding to his fame.
They were the Big Red Machine;
often in first place;
Pete Rose knocking out another hit;
Dave Concepcion fielding with grace.
Ken Griffey - the father -
roaming the outfield grass;
George Foster hitting home runs;
Joe Morgan sprinting in a dash.
Tony Perez, so consistent;
Cesar Geronimo had the perfect name;
Johnny Bench squatted behind home plate,
catching another game.
Through my little transistor radio,
Marty Brennaman and Joe Nuxhall brought it all to life,
as the sun faded away to darkness
on those hot Ohio summer nights.
And at the end of every night,
Joe Nuxhall would sign off all alone,
saying, "This is the old lefthander rounding third,
and heading his way on home. "