Short Worcester Poems

Some despair, a dash of desperado
a spot of Worcester rye

Seasoned with a tear
dried in  wind fried in  sun
scrambled in a flip of sky

Dressed in a lopsided smile
pressed inside the heart,

Set free

Making Poetry...

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here’stuh
the girls of Woostuh
the ones we usetuh
get closetuh
and pretendtuh
dancetuh 
the Sambuh

The girls of Worcester Mass.,
making our short training tour
in 1957 Fort Devens bearable.
There was a dance hall there.    
Public formal dancing is almost 
unknown in the South....

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Like children, pages
  drift away adolescent, 
  refusing what I offer

Defiant
  in their questions,
  beyond all answers in their parting

Forcing what’s left, to live trapped
  in the abandoned distance 
  between us now

All movement stopped
  and estranged, from the very things
  we used to know

(Worcester Massachusetts: March, 2011)...

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A fruity smell,
An apple smell,
A peachy, strawberry, grapey smell
Sugary, bitter and sweet.

Cream-like,
Soup-like,
Anything at all like,
That keeps everything cool in the heat.

You get brown,
You stay brown,
You get a lot more browner brown,
You remain this lovely colour of course!

Its not cream or spray thats doing all this,
Its lashings of worcester sauce......

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A spider dropped into my soup
oxtail it was
with a dash of Worcester
he popped right up 
and made for shore
not too hairy
nor too large
for a heart-beat
I could only stare 
as he bobbed about  
in my bowl of soup
released from my dismay
I reached in with my spoon
scooped him out
and tipped him onto the table
as I watched him scurry away 
all spidey-like
without so much 
as a backward glance
I dearly wished 
that I could speak spider.

...

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