It is hard to write
About Dad.
I feared him
As long as he lived,
Still do.
It’s sixty-two years since he died.
He’s still alive in my dreams,
A little shorter,
Just as bald,
Never a smile.
Dad expired when I was nineteen.
His disdain for me outlived him by four.
My fear has abated little,
Terror is a trap that clamps tight—
If you amputate
That part of you dies too.
Failure, anger, and resentment
Not all setbacks make us sour.
You’ve had your share no doubt—
I hear you keep your cheer.
Dad hired on as the church gravedigger
(a job that suited him).
First holiday I came home from boarding school,
He asked me to help dig a grave
For Uncle Joe, his brother-in-law.
Watching me peck away at the ground
Frozen four feet down
He seemed, for the first time, content.
Next time I saw him look
Satisfied was at his wake
The priest mumbling prayers,
Mother wailing, tears in my eyes,
One hundred fifty at his side.
I saw a twinkle in his eye,
Someone else had dug the hole for him.
One hundred fifty calories
in twenty-seven Cheez-its.
Unless you chew one at a time,
they go fast; best believe it!
Since the year fourteen five,
In a little Swiss town,*
There’s a job that will earn
All who do it renown.
From the top of the church
(A cathedral, no less)
Someone calls out the time
In a formal address.
Once an hour, this guard,
Called a “night watch” will yell
Just as soon as the sound
Fades away from the bell.
With a lantern held high
He will scour the land
Making sure that no fire
Or crime is at hand.
This employment has been,
Since the year it began,
Meant for all who applied,
Meaning any loud man.
But a change has occurred
And, ignoring the past,
Now a woman’s been named
As the “night watch” at last.
Up the one hundred fifty-three
Steps she will climb
Where she’ll do what she can
To make up for lost time.
*Lausanne
It was called “Spy Rock” in my day
Said you could see for miles around
The encampments of Confederates
From this large rock on higher ground
When the men in grey invaded our land
Brawling, looting, burning, and pillaging,
Everything got completely out of hand.
One-hundred fifty and eight years ago,
Much blood was shed in this community
To maintain the union and our liberty.
I wonder how much we have surrendered
In the past decade to give up being free.
written November 8, 2021
You've been comin' to me live since I was six years old
Part of almost every single summer that I've known
You tell us when it's Miller Time and that was just a bit outside
For almost fifty years and one hell of a ride
Chorus:
You must be sittin' in the front row
Thank you for bringing us along
We're all sittin' in the front row
Get up get up get outta here gone
Beer made this city famous and our team's named for it too
But neither one would be as much fun if it weren't for you
Come on out you boys and girls while there's still some daylight
We'll roll out the barrel and make some memories tonight
(Chorus)
Some will say our pastime's day has been here and gone
One hundred fifty years of history tells me that they're wrong
So sons and fathers, moms and daughters let's all raise our glass
And toast to Mr. Baseball and tell them to kiss our {EDIT}
(Chorus)
Opening Day - March 29, 2018
I was there for the "frenzy"
On the Padre Island shore
The day the park rangers
Set the tiny turtles free.
Eighty-eight babies
Struggled to the gulf,
And I was there to see.
They paddled and pushed their way
Toward the morning sun.
One hundred fifty watched--
I was only one.
A net extended over them,
Protection from the gulls.
Flags on long poles waving
Made the bandits mull.
The babes like bite sized cookies
Sanded with brown sugar.
They moved away with purpose,
Each one near the other.
In a decade the "arrabada"
Will follow a storm ashore.
Each will leave a "clutch" behind
Of maybe a hundred more.
Forbidden Pleasure
This morning I had a Hash brown
Something I almost never do
It was greasy and hot
And I liked it a lot
I was sorely tempted
To go back and buy two
The girlish squeals from my booth
Were embarrassing in truth
But I simply could not
Contain my delight
The smile on my face
Could not be erased
As it only grew wider
With each bite
One hundred fifty calories
Seemed as naught to my belly
As I scarfed the last morsel down
And I was not really conscious
Of regret or guilty conscience
Only the memory
Of that Heavenly
…Hash Brown…
At thirty-five imperial gallons
Or one hundred fifty-nine liters
Match a barrel of crude
Which every day, millions you export
To the disappointment of all others
Fellow citizens, to whom your gluttony assaults
Still, to Mother Nature
We should be grateful
Despite much energy resource
With which they generate poverty
And all sorts of mistreatment
Each and every corner I turn
In this concrete jungle
I face myself with a sad panorama
Where the crowd
Restless, complains
Of the public treasure, that old rogues
Without fear fleeces
O flabbergasted, but indifferent
How many of you
In the restless crowd review yourselves?
he threw out runners
over one-hundred-fifty
plus twenty- seven
A shaman prays, the Spirit hears
While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits
Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate
Their animosities, and their fears
As the blue coats begin to circle...
Their wrath begins to circle.
That shaman saw but a single Spirit
That was split between different beliefs
He could accept the white Spirit Chief
But the white men would not hear it
They would not blend their God
With the red heathen God.
Anger explodes behind powdered shot
Spraying death from muzzled shame
Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame
Painted heroes claim a tainted spot
History claims the Ghost Dance...
As death claims the last dance.
A Dakota creek runs darkly red
Forever silencing the Ghost Dance
A chanting shaman dies in his trance
One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead
Now, only blue coats remain...
Only the blue remain.
A creek ran red with Union shame
When a shaman called the Spirit Great
And that Spirit did not hesitate
He fell on Wounded Knee and came
To take His people home...
His people swiftly home.
Timothy I. Brumley
Sleep number sixty-five,
get a set of Ginsu knives.
One hundred fifty all time hits,
a rowing machine to make you fit.
An amazing chamois to dry your car,
a GPS to tell you how far.
A contour belt to tighten your abs,
a portable treadmill melt away flab.
We'll teach you to buy a foreclosed home,
buy a new phone for wherever you roam.
You can buy a coin, straight from the mint,
even a brush,for removing the lint.
You can buy a new vacuum,for cleaning the floor,
or another machine to open your door.
Buy an electric wheelchair, to get you around,
or a tiny new radio with stereo sound.
You can get all the things you want today,
right off the T.V. that's what they say.
Just pull out your VISA, for your payments times three,
We'll deliver your stuff, wherever you be.
Infomercials !
Her love
Fall on me.
I am not sure!
Between
One Hundred fifty
And three inches of snow.
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