Long Frick Poems
Long Frick Poems. Below are the most popular long Frick by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frick poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep breathing walkers
stretch across the blue grass of early day.
The park is a Florida basin under river roots.
A native cracker jammed down in a no-name Ford
listens to a country station that’s mega-nasal,
tin-star shaped and boozy.
Alligators break the dark circular water,
try again to feed on egrets,
as usual the birds are too strong to be plucked.
Later on, a guy with a big belly and low belt
will grandstand for the daily on-lookers
while throwing chickens at them.
This early I am just down in the mouth,
still surfacing.
Restless night and my legs got jailed
by lidless dreams. Now the back of my neck
tingles as old sweat refries itself.
I’m here taking the soft wet breeze
making out with a cold one inside a soda bottle
waiting for the man
who will show-up like a pond swimmer,
weed clinging to his billowing tactical shorts.
Only I and Frick and Frack over there
supposedly walking and talking
see that the park is all too clear-cut
and faking it.
When the ankle-deep mist rises,
it will be certain that we are waiting for some,
and another much cooler tomorrow.
Alligators break the dark circular water,
later, a guy with a big belly and low belt
will grandstand while throwing half-frozen
chickens at them.
This early I’m still surfacing,
last night my legs got jailed
behind lidless dreams; the back of my neck
tingles now, as old sweat refries itself.
I’m waiting for the ‘man’.
A breeze combs damp hair
while I make-out with a Michelob
inside a soda bottle.
He’ll show-up in sockless Crocs,
baggies bulging
from the pockets of
his camouflage shorts.
I and Frick and Frack over there
fake an interest in the egrets
as the morning sun flickers through
snowy spread out, translucent wings.
The ankle-deep mist rises
revealing clearly
that we are simply here
as another form of park life,
waiting to be fed
one more far-out evening.
Where did you get that oatmeal cookie I asked Jack.
Off the oatmeal cookie tree, we keep it out back.
His mother gave the kitchen counter a tiny whack.
With her old-fashioned apron made from a flour sack.
I got into their frig and got myself some pepper jack.
Where is your other kid? Oh, she said, do you mean Zack?
I did not know about him. I meant your little one, Mack.
He is with my husband, eating lunch at Restaurant Jack Stack.
Jack got excited and asked “With Frick and Frack?”
They are his cousins; the three are usually a pack.
Yes, said his mother, and also with Uncle Hack.
The acks in this family, they simply don’t lack.
Click Clack Frick Frack Click Click Clack
I know better than to turn or ever look back
In a foreign land, I try to relax and watch the sights
But if we fly off the rails, God will turn off our lights
Click Clack Frick Frack Click Click Clack
I fish around in my purse and find my brown sack.
There are a couple of crackers, the cheese is all gone.
What if some psychopath has these timbers half sawn?
Click Clack Frick Frack Click Click Clack
The person across the aisle gives her child a whack.
This reminds me of home, as a matter of fact.
I am ready to return; not truthfully a traveling act.
Click Clack Frick Frack Click Click Clack
We are slowing down. Are we there, Jack?
I have to settle back down we aren’t even close.
But the train feels weird, as if I’m being watched by a ghost.
One afternoon as I walked by,
Saw Fred staring at the sky.
I stopped and shouted out a “Hi!”
Fred gave me a wave and beckoned me nigh.
I had no place I had to be.
So, I wondered over for to see,
What it was Fred wanted of me.
Would you like a beer?
I have a few on ice right here.
So, we sat beneath a maple tree
And this is what Fred shared with me.
“I’ve been cogitating on some numbers.
Ruth hit 60 back in 27
Took till 61 for Maris to hit 61
Ford Frick gave it the asterisk
Because baseball went from 154 to 162
Games that is, and it took Maris all 162
The record to break
Now it held up till 98
When Sosa and McGwire hit 66 and 70
In 99 they hit 63 and 65 respectively
All of this was undone in 01
When Bonds hit 73
All these homeruns seemed an anomaly
Then Conseco spilled the truth
All these guys were on the juice
In plain and simple terms
To break the records, they defeated
Each of them had actually cheated
Numbers often tell a story
When numbers shift in great proportion
There is always an explanation for the distortion.”
Then Fred reached down and grabbed a stick.
Waved it around as if he were performing a trick.
Next, he started writing on the ground,
When he was done, I looked down and found:
52.6 53.3 50.2 55.2 49.0 51.2 56.7 58.2 54.9 55.7 66.8
80 84 88 92 96 00 04 08 12 16 20
Now what is this I inquired of Fred?
This is what Fred said.
I first voted in 1980
So, each year’s voter turnout I have listed.
See in 2020 the numbers shift in great proportion
And I can only think of one explanation for the distortion.