dot ca

[I am experimenting with oral poetry for recitation in public. This piece has far to go before it can go into a public reading . . .]

dot ca
I’m there I say
bloggin’ on the internet
for all today
puttin’ out a message
for the word gourmet
lookin’ for some creds
on the dot ca

dot ca
dot ca
puttin’ out
for creds
on the dot ca

dot ca
feet of clay
politicians tell lies
it’s the way they play
puttin’ out some silliness
for soft word plays
didn’t check the message
on the dot ca

dot ca
dot ca
you can check
the message
on the dot ca

dot ca
I’m pumpin’ your way
sending you the truth
so the people can say
read it on the river
riverwriter ca
check the facts
and post’ em
on the dot ca

dot ca
dot ca
check the facts
and post ’em
dot ca

dot ca
dot ca
I’m bloggin’ and
I’m sloggin’ on the
dot ca

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Posted in Mild-mannered opinion, oral, Poetry, political asides | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Being Rocco

[At Golf’s U.S. Open, June 12-15, 2008, at Torrey Pines Gold Course in San Diego California, 45 year-old Rocco Mediate was played to a tie by struggling golf phenomenon Tiger Woods, who was recovering from knee surgery. On June 16, they tied at the end of the tie-breaking 18 holes, and the match ended with a determined Woods winning in a sudden-death extra hole. Mediate had captured the crowd with his positive outlook; and while he was certainly trying to win, he was just happy to be there.]

Implausible defined golf’s U.S. Open
that low-ranked Rocco could be so sublime
for eighteen holes he played as he was hoping
when Mediate faced Woods at Torrey Pines.

Now Woods, the Number One in all the world
was hacking balls and straying off the course
his knee’s third surgery left him playing hurt
without incredible putts he would be worse.

But Rocco, playing like a miracle man
was holding on and often out in front
yet to enjoy the moment was his plan
to win of course or prove he’s not a stunt.

He didn’t beat Woods, and yet he really won:
respect and hope and playing with Woods and fun.

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list

Some friends of ours
call the breakfast table
recitation of ills
an organ recital.

As we age
there are other lists
with generic names:
who’s dead
who’s dying
who’s sick
who’s taking these medications
who’s taking those
who’s going down hill
who’s lost his marbles.

The worst list
has to be
all the reasons to despair.

I have a list of my own;
it has no name—
but excuse me while I take in
that falcon gliding high overhead;
notice how the sunlight
limns its wingtips;
it reminds me of
the sky in Tuscany:
warm and lazy
over the soft feathers of cyprus
pluming the hillside—
where was I?

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Posted in lotus eaters, Mild-mannered opinion, Poetry, scapes, serial | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment