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Best Poems Written by Mike Liquori

Below are the all-time best Mike Liquori poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Opening Day

Bronx bound on New Jersey's Transit tracks,
Direct no stops,
Penn Stations up next,
I jumped on the "D" express to 161st,
Opening Day,
Yeah, the kid in me is filled with glee...

The Sky is Blue,
The Green Grass cut
The interlocking logo well shaped and sculpted, 
Some even despise... 

Ah the joy of opening day,
Where every team has the right,
to still hope for the epic season on this opening night,
The ceremonial first pitch,
The Cheers,
A Salute,
Play Ball,
Tomorrow is Game number 2,
The Dog days not far behind, 
Ready to bark,
But today...
Today we have our...
Opening Day! 

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

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The Rocket

Ignition Button Lit,
The Light Glows Bright, Eyes intense, focused 
Your little thumb presses, waiting 
Switch engaged, fuse is smoking,
The engine fires and spreads its hot red flame across the launch plate.
Lift off is slow at first and then.... 
in a blink off the Pad 
Eyes pop with delight.

Laugh of satisfaction as it climbs higher, higher and even higher yet...

"Oh man"!!! "Look at it"!!!

The climax of the arching Rocket, 
the pop of the nose cone, 
the main fire of the engine now out. 
Main Deployment of the shoot.
Parachute out, canopied, 
Safely floating down

"I can catch it"!
"Come on"

The Rocket recovered

"Let's do it again"

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem

The Mallards of Bedford Springs

The late night storm rushed into the valley,
Pouring down, 
Creating the sleepy ambiance only a mountains lull can provide.  
The crisp damp air crackles to life at lights first caste over the mountain,
into the valley's scenic overlook.
this was the type of Bedford Morning Dr. Andrews must have thought of when he first bought the land...The springs, the mound of lime stone.
The thousands of guests were all calling from the trees past rings,
to go for a hiking,
walk around the springs.

The Kids,
our travel compatriots,
their kids,
All heard the call... 

The mountain hike,
the incline to Sulphur Springs modest collection of water,
Green and grand in view,
The fresh, moss damp smell of the mountain air. 

The river below is filling with the run off from the storm soaked dirt mounds,
cascading down the mountains terrain 
Swelling the constricted Red Oak Lake, 
creating the water flowing over the normal rivers edge....
not to be contained,
cresting over its banks...making a liquid withdrawal.

The rivers water, as we approach, is more akin to a rapid,
Albeit white cap small,
not swimming, 
or lazy river tubing,
sun daze type of action.

As we walk down,
our cadence as fast as the river, 
...there they are in the distance,
two bobbing duck like flotations....
The Mallards of Bedford Spring's

Two partners in a turbulent overflow of delight,
a life battle to navigate,
Not believing what we are seeing, 
We rush past the Iron Spring,
up the 200 plus year lime stone, slippery staircase,
on to the walkover bridge,
Prime upper deck views for this Bedford matinee.  

The Mallard mogul team more visible,
Heading down the rivers gaining rapids, 
projecting human fear on them....
But these two dudes had a way different view...

Why Fly when you can cruse? orange billed buddy looks up as he hears the kids screams of excitement at our natural present.
Right on..said the second, with no words, 
Just tipped back wings,
dragging the water like the paddle of the kayaker resting his tired arm. 
A Splish and splash,
Turning to the rivers edge, 
Snacking on marsh grass and larva from the fly's near hatch.  

Hard Left,
Against the rivers watery grain,
Cut to the rivers side, 
Nailed it! 
Perfect 180, in current, with the caught grass,
Tasty treat secured,

This Duck Duo,
Surfers on the rivers edge,
Purveyors of fun, 
under the bridge the little orange feet kicking,
the tell tale sign of life's delight,  
more speed, and a hard right turn,
one last sign of proof,
What a great ride for... 
The Mallards of Bedford Springs 


Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem

The Catcher

Toiling in the dirt, 
looking down as if the ground had all the answers.
Waiting for the wind-up,
Delivery is birthed like each throw is its own child coming into the world.

The lonely moment fleeting as the swish of the ball is cutting the air 
punctuated by the Snap of the mitt.

Framing the pitch,

"Ball 1!" Umpire screams 

Still framing the ball...
a sure sign of non-agreement 
Defense of your pitcher.

Soft tossed back to the mound,
flashing a sign,
reading the game, 
The base-runners,
The batter steps in 

Talking to yourself the body shows the conversations highlight.
"Come down main street", the catcher sits up in her stance.
"No crazy dives into the dirt, runner on second" ...the mitt is open like a hippos mouth in water to show the target.

The Pitch,
The Mitt Snap
Soft toss back

Squatting behind the plate, 
toiling in the dirt,
head down,
flash a sign,
read the game,
the situation
2 out, man on 2nd, 3-3 count

"Lets do it again" 

The catcher kneels,
waiting for the strike!

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem


You marketing types love us.
Blue all over, fear of nothing a man can throw,
Quick to bow down when the boss come by...
not the one paying me...., 
but the one who rules my roost. 

Day breaks looks nice,
especially because the roads aren't covered and filled with the yuppie douche bag lawyers, bankers and brokers all on phones missing the opening of the days first gift. 
you know these soft handed men!

Your commercials applaud our ethic, 
our muscles,
our attitudes, 
our jacked up 4 X 4 
Our dick swinging genuflection to manhood's blue collar ways.  

Toughness is forged by the cold weather winds, 
Sun baked and burned backs, 
Red tipped noses from over drinking the days end the night before 
while being educated at H.K.U. 
Not Hong Kong University...its Hard-Knock University

We learned in fields where sweat meets will 
'cuz you cant fail. 
Blood and callused hands complete the job, 
the well, 
the pipeline,
the boat,
the building,
Grown in fields of corn, 
on oil rigs surrounded by the deepest blue oceans,
as blue as the collar around the neck.
tight, knowing there is nowhere else to go 
and nowhere you would rather be. 

Women feel the attraction, and we see it in your eyes...
Awakening the primal sense in you. The roughnecks and dirt covered crew. 
You know your manicured husband just don't have this....or could do that! 
You may want a well put together,
prepared and pampered over, 
buffed and polished man,  
but your desire fixates on men in blue who can do it all, 
from fixes of the sink,
to kissing you tender pillow top lip,

Big and small, blue collard boys do it all!  

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem


The wind blows the butterfly, bouncing in the air.
The butterfly does not fight it,
it coasts and rides the wind, 
opening its wings 
as if it were in control of this personal wave of wind. 
It reaches its destination.

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem

It's Enough

It's ugly out here and getting worse

The winters wind blows cruel harshness upon on our own humanity,
scarring with images the brutality of our most innocent
The degradation of ourselves, 
by ourselves.

Righteously wrapped in the shadowy shroud of God,
The harshest of the verdicts,
handed down,
administered as only we can,
as only we understand. 

What is one more,

Black life,
Muslin life,
Jewish or
Christian's Life?

What is one more.
drug addict?

When does spring bloom on this winter?

When will humanity shine its light,
its hope, 
its future 

In each other?

When will it be time to say
It is enough! 

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem


You see them all the time,
the Stepford wife 
and her counterpart,
the bronzed over, buffed high sheen,
man bun walking in skinny jeans,
so tight they squeak...
HIPSTER as they pass on by. 

With a flower in the beard, 
the artisans musk hinting the air,
bees wax soap and a scent of irony,
the newfound Stepford-hipster syndrome,
Both are the same
but from different sides,
one glossy eyed,
injected perma- grinned. 
The other a living Subaru commercial,
planting city trees, 
while in the not so distant future 
a real life Bancksy dog will pee.

The urban sprawl,
the shame of it all,
the 1%,
the cost of the gas,
that gets her to the shore
while texting and calling in her oversized Cadillac Escalade,
that was beeped violently at it drove right past
A city zap it rental,
Toyota Prius hybrid sport,
on the Garden State Parkway
with a flowered bearded hipster
driving slowly with thick black glasses,

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem

I Held Marys Hand

I Held Mary’s Hand 

I held Mary’s hand as John covered his face,
So still,
At Peace,
Faded are the slapping sounds of the whip against his flesh,
Gone now are the shrieks as his crown was pegged into her child’s head,

I felt her hand, as it twists into mine, 
Dry, strong to the touch.
As the arms release, her grip is firm, ridged,
As if hers are the spiked arms being released, free from pain

Her tears roll, 
Silent, still,
As her son is now

Shrouded body moves like a holy ghost,
The linen and cotton, dotted with the sin of man,
Mary awareness, that they not know what has been done, 
The future,
Presented in their presence and decided with each lash mark,
Each step of the walk with 300 pounds of wood nailed to fashion the Christ cross,
Foretold this day to her,
All the years before

I held Mary’s hand as we walk to the tomb of our King of King’s.
I see her resolute,
No fear of our future,
Brilliant in the light of God,
Mourning the natural, 
The body,
Her Son, her boy, her baby
Now Devine providence for us all,
In his sacrifice,
Her sacrifice, as told to her all the years before, 

I held Mary’s hand,
As the Stone closed,
Sealing in the body, 
Releasing the spirit of the Christ-Child,
Tears dry by the kicking sands and dust of which all men will return.
Stoic we look upon the dotted trail,
Our long winding road back thru perdition

I held Mary’s hand as she leads me,
Pulls us to our destination,
Resolute our steps gain purpose.

Divinity and destiny intertwine to our hope’s yield,
Everlasting Salvation. 

Step by Step,
The confidence and purpose,
Re-delivered as if the Spirit, 
Advising of the greatest of gifts,
By God,
Would be delivered from Mary,
As the vessel,
To one day go back to the Alter of God,

Each step rekindles the awareness,
The divine need for all this to happen,
For the upcoming Majesty,
Behold the power of Gods mighty hand,   
As told to her all the years before, 
In the light of the spirit, 
Of the holy divinity to come

I held Mary’s hand 
As we eat unleavened bread, sipping from the cup,
Waiting and listening, the shock of her son’s disciples,
Explaining the sight their eyes will not believe, 
When the arm extended,
 Hands open and out,

I held Mary’s hand as we move past time, space and place. 
I show her the words of her son, spreading across the lands,
I show Mary the hymnals, 
We hear the choirs of angles singing, 
Wrapped in their robes,
The praised sounds that are holy ode’s of joy

I held Mary’s Hand,
As we enter….
Together seated next to God.

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Details | Mike Liquori Poem

Night Breeze

The quiet breeze is gently blowing this spring night.
Wonderful twilight, dancing colors,
Trees bloom, unfolding the fresh born leaves,
Spreading it's spring time umbrella. 

The air is delectably highlighted with grills meats galore, 
smokey fire pits of mesquite, hickory and maple burn. 
All these sensory projections twine together
into the spring solstice of final release,
The night's day's end. 

Honeysuckle is hinted in the air with each inhalation of life's breath. 
Laying back on the edge of the seated chair, arched back to see the sky,
tickling my face with the spring Breeze. 

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015