This is a tribute to Niagara Falls and to Edgar Allan Poe
Niagara
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From the shores of Great Lake Erie, calm and fast, but never weary,
Niagara twists and turns and grinds towards Lake Ontario's golden shore.
Winding first past old Grand Island, hugging both sides of Goat Island,
Plunging fearless, from the highland, deep into Niagara's floor ---
Sculpting devastating beauty, filled with foam and mist galore ---
The canvas for Niagara's roar.
In the canyons of the city, nothing strikes you quite so pretty
As the rugged cliffs, so gritty, at Niagara's mystic door.
From the whirlpool by The Parkway, distant from the noisy highway,
Layered cliffs carve out the hallway leading to Niagara's door,
Nursing danger in each nook and in each cranny and each pore
Leading to that mystic door.
A famous point we call The Terrapin, standing stalwarl like a mannequin,
Like a sturdy, watchful mannequin, sentry to Niagara's door.
People picnic at its Table Rock whenever they are able
To enjoy and view and label wonders never seen before ---
Wonders that supplant the clamor with serenity galore ---
That's Niagara --- and much more!
And there's beautiful Goat Island, next to each Three-Sister Island,
In plain sight of big Grand Island, smiling at the New York shore.
There, the rapids from Lake Erie --- never tired, never weary ---
Slowly become ever eerie, scraping on Niagara's floor ---
Dodging rocks and bumps galore.
Where the rapids stop gyrating, you'll find water emanating,
Swirling water from the river, emanating to the shore ---
To the shore where moss is growing, deep and thick from water flowing
Like a wind that keeps on blowing, casting life upon the shore ---
Thus the cauldron in the river and the stillness of the shore
Bear Niagara's raw decor.
Sailing under the cascade, there is a boat we call The Maid ---
It will eagerly parade all sorts of people from the shore.
Some are tourists, some are local --- all of them become quite vocal
For a near elusive focal point that all of them implore
When they sail The Maiden deep into Niagara's mighty roar ---
To knock on Niagara's door.
Every night the lights are glowing, fixed upon the water flowing
Through the mist and wind that's blowing all across Niagara's door.
And each light is fairly dancing over raindrops that are prancing ---
Raindrops prancing and romancing all around Niagara's door.
An illuminated rainbow shines above Niagara's door ---
Far above its rocky floor.
Raging rapids of white water cause Niagara's mighty stutter,
And they rage and splash and flutter to the cowering, leery shore,
Where some locals enjoy fishing, in their minds, no doubt, they're wishing
That their wistful day of fishing from the cliffside might restore
The magic of the youthful dreams their parents passed down years before ---
All steeped in Niagara's lore.
And, of course, there's lots to do --- a grand old golf course, maybe two,
On The Parkway's scenic route that leads you to Niagara's door ---
Where a pause to stop and rest yields scenic views --- among the best ---
Among the very best The Parkway has to offer from the shore ---
Each view scenic and distinct from observation decks galore,
Up and down Niagara's shore.
On the way to Skylon Tower, near the plant for hydro power,
Lies a clock whose every hour is adorned with flowers galore.
And dispersed among the flora, in the clockface lie the quora
Of assorted local flora, each with springtime at its core ---
A core that spins so silently in contrast to Niagara's roar ---
This you'll see and so much more.
Tales of joy and tales of woe, high above or deep below,
Left their marks from long ago, that now adorn Niagara's lore.
Some went over and lost their lives; a blessed child somehow survives;
A scow with two brave souls contrives to keep The Reaper from their door,
Using skill and breeches-buoy, safely pulled themselves to shore ---
Metres from the ravenous roar.
Casinos, also, can be found where once daredevils did abound,
On Niagara's hallowed ground, near its broad cascading core.
David Munday, Annie Taylor, Red Hill and an unknown sailor,
And perhaps Niagara's jailer were around in days of yore ---
Even Blondin, artful Frenchman, rode his tightrope shore to shore ---
Inches from Niagara's door.
In the winter when it's freezing and Niagara's cold and sneezing,
Chunks of ice are sometimes seizing on each other, with rapport;
Soon an ice-bridge forms by chance and quickly becomes an expanse
That lurks with danger and romance and links the river shore to shore ---
Where, one time, a group of tourists fell into Niagara's floor ---
Metres from its frightful roar.
And the Stateside Parks Commission, to this day upholds tradition
To preserve its designation as historic to the core.
Tourists daily gather there, some in groups, some solitaire,
Others bring their secret there --- each one hoping to explore,
In this place that they adore, the secrets to life's metaphor
Concealed inside Niagara's lore.
Niagara Falls is so alluring, so attractive and assuring;
It can also be demurring when it beckons, with its roar,
People who keep reappearing at its doorstep, never veering
Very far from its endearing replica of Heaven's Door.
Amidst the rumble and the roar, Niagara lets me greet once more ---
The child relinquished years before.
This is a sincere conversation with God
No Offence, My God
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No offence, my God, if I lay bare
My need to know that You're aware
Our faith, once proud, has now begun to fray.
There was a time we were united,
Good Will always was requited,
And we packed our Sunday pews to sing and pray.
But something changed along the way ---
A few of us began to stray,
Some claim our faith is not contemporary.
But there are still those such as me,
Who see Christ's death on Calvary
As having led to something extraordinary.
Is this, perhaps, a brief sojourn?
Or the point of no return?
I'm at a loss and filled with turmoil too.
Will this chapter have an end?
Is our faith doomed, or will it mend?
I'm fearful, Lord, and I bring my plea to You.
I hate to say it, Lord of mine,
But I really need to see some sign
That You want guys like me to take a stand.
This poker game requires endurance,
I'm desperate for some reassurance ---
I need for You to show Your Mighty Hand.
For what might the alternative be?
No faith? No rules? Some anarchy?
Are we to all square off and fight and feud?
We've built our lives on faith and creed,
Respect for man and honest deed.
And two thousand years of peace have since ensued.
I hope it's merely temporary,
I pray to Jesus and Mother Mary
To show us how to heal a spreading rot.
For if we've lost our way for good,
That Mighty Cross made out of wood,
On Calvary, will have been carved for naught.
Moses, too, kept asking You
To help him get his people through
Ordeals that Pharaoh sent them in his wrath.
And You, in fact, delivered him
In Your due time, though things looked grim;
Perhaps You have us on that very path.
Forgive me, Lord, if I am crude;
I really don't mean to be rude,
For I live in Blessings You've bestowed on me.
But I must know, when I stand up
To defend Christ's Sacred Cup,
That You're still there, standing up for me.
Oh Lord, I shudder as I speak
These words that make my knees grow weak;
But only You can keep us from imploding.
If we continue down this road,
And our beliefs start to erode,
Our faith might become victim of self - loathing.
I've tried to turn the other cheek,
But it only makes our faith look weak ---
I've seen Your Likeness dipped in human waste,
Done in the name of liberty ---
But oh how deeply it offends me!
Such disrespect for all that I've embraced.
The Merry Christmas we used to say
Has become a Happy Holiday!
I can't concur or I'll feel just like Judas.
Does it really have to be
That, to live in harmony,
I need to take my Christ right out of Christmas?
And the list goes on and on;
Are we facing a new dawn?
Are we giving up our faith without a fight?
For there are places in our land
Where evil has an upper hand ---
Will once bright days surrender to the night?
Lord above, I re-iterate,
Is our hour becoming late?
I know no way to put it delicately.
I hope You don't misunderstand
My plea, so urgent, for Your Hand ---
Without it, Lord, we'll sink into iniquity.
So Lord, my God, take no offence
If my plea is too intense ---
I'm merely fighting for Your Ten Commandments.
This modern world is now replete
With those who'll make faith obsolete ---
Don't let our faith march towards its obsolescence.
Oh Lord, forgive me if I lay bare
My need to know that You're aware
That I will gladly give my life to Thee.
You sacrificed Your Only Son
For my sins! Kyrie eleison!
In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti ...
This is a Tribute to The Blessed Mother
Mother of God
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Blessed Mother, I hear God call
Each time my back is against the wall
Or I'm bobbing in a stormy sea ---
But I never know if He hears me.
So many times I've turned to Him
When my horizon starts to dim;
I state my case, word for word,
But prayers, it seems, can go unheard.
There have been times, I won't deny,
When I've been tempted to defy
The One Who says I need to trust
That He is Good and Right and Just.
I know it sounds like blasphemy
To question God or His mercy;
But in my darkest hours of need ---
Oh how I wish He'd intercede.
Should I continue to believe
When there is no sign of reprieve?
That's the question haunting me ---
It's drenched with faith and agony.
You see, each time my light grows dim,
I always seem to turn to Him;
Yet, all I learned in Catechism
Now harbors doubt and skepticism.
Wary, I came to Fatima,
Hoping that I might redeem a
Promise uttered long ago
On a farm in North Ontario.
In Fatima, Your apparition,
Shared, with three young shepherd children,
Things that needed to be done
Along the path to God the Son.
I saw many pilgrims there ---
Some on their knees, some pulled their hair,
Some full of hope, some in despair,
Some crawling with their soul laid bare,
To a spot where a meager tree
Became a Shrine that honors Thee.
The faithful in that Holy Place
Pray: "Hail Mary, full of Grace ..."
They mostly pray for spiritual healing,
That their life might have some meaning.
From there I journeyed on to Lourdes
And saw the Grotto filled with hordes
Of believers scaling their life's mountain,
Who paused to drink from the Holy Fountain.
Some were rich and some were ragged,
All were nursing something jagged
In their heart, that took its toll
And hurt them to their very soul.
Some stared at You in solemn prayer,
Some collapsed and grabbed their hair;
Faith was etched in every face
That prayed: "Hail Mary, full of Grace ..."
Within Your words to Bernadette,
About not losing hope just yet,
I saw what I had never seen,
And found a place I'd never been.
Perhaps it was the Holy Spirit
Saying: "Go to the fountain and drink from it."
My heart, once heavy, then felt light,
Like the breaking dawn eclipsing night.
I, too, dropped down and hid my face
And prayed: "Hail Mary, full of Grace ..."
When twilight fell, I saw a sea
Of people reciting The Rosary;
Clergy sang the Latin Creed,
The faithful followed in their lead.
Those voices loudly raised on high
Brought pangs of conscience to my eye;
Thousands sang Your praises via
"Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria ..."
Oh Blessed Mother, I've heard Your call,
Though exactly when, I don't recall;
But it is strong and beckons me
To a place I still don't see.
I sit and pray and wait and yearn,
With no desire to return
To where I've been and to what I've done,
Where life is sin and favors no-one,
Where those like me feel so alone
And live in fear of the unknown.
Because of You, I still adhere
To tenets that my faith holds dear;
If not for You, I dare to say,
I might regress and go astray;
Your message, never in disguise,
I see it, clearly, in Your eyes.
Those loving thoughts You send to me
Quell the doubt and misery.
Dear Blessed Mother, it ame to be ---
In finding You, I've reclaimed me;
The arduous path to Heaven above
Is surely cloaked in a Mother's love.
I pledge Your Holy Name to laud,
Oh Holy Mary, Mother of God,
With renewed faith and fervent breath,
Now and at the hour of my death ...
The Life, Passion and Death of Jesus
Thirty - Three
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He was only thirty-three
When He died for you and me,
And 33 were all the years that He would need.
From Virgin Birth, He was the One
Chosen to be God the Son,
So that man, from that first sin, he could be freed.
From modest means, His Mother came,
From Nazareth to Bethlehem,
With Joseph by Her side, they were to roam.
Guided there from quite afar,
To give Him birth beneath a Star
That led Three Wise Men far away from home.
The Star led them away again,
Evading Herod and his men,
So The Little Boy could grow into a King
Whose reign would not be of this earth,
But of a place of untold worth,
Where goodness blooms, love consumes and Angels sing.
A dozen years went by since then,
He shared His views with learned men
In temples all across the Sacred Land;
And listening to This Adolescent,
One thing soon became apparent:
This Child must surely be The Lord's Right Hand.
He preached, in love, His Father's Word,
And touched the soul of all who heard
That faith and hope and love should replace strife.
He'd come to pay, for man, the debt;
But in His words, some saw a threat
And devised an evil plot to end His life.
They gave in to misguided fear,
Rejecting all that they held dear,
And in due time their plan would sprout its root.
Twelve came to pray, one to betray,
For one friend had a role to play,
And soon their evil scheme would bear their fruit.
In Gethsemane, the traitor pressed
Lips to the cheek of The One Blessed
As Son of Man, who'd come to save the world.
The sin of man, from that point on
Was washed away in His Passion,
And the fall of Eden could be then unfurled.
The cost was great, the time was nigh,
The Divine Plane came from on high,
And He would have to die for me and you.
And when He knew His time was near,
His human side expressed some fear--
As any man of flesh was prone to do.
He asked His Father, if it be His Will,
To let The Cup pass from that hill
Of trepidation and of sorrow, now forlorn.
But the Son of God is Divine too,
His sacrifice then gave rise to
The Cross of wood on which our faith was born.
When He was tried at Pilate's palace,
The crowd all chanted for Barabbas,
Good-willed men cried out: "He's done no wrong!"
"My hands are tied," the governor lied,
Allowed Him to be crucified,
And then released Him to the angry throng.
The Cross was heavy, He stumbled and fell,
But labored on to save us from Hell--
He would love us as Himself until the end.
Friend after friend lined the Sorrow's Way,
Some came to mock and some came to pray--
All watched Him lay His life down for a friend.
And when, at last, the time drew nigh,
Those who gathered wondered why
The life of One so good should end on Calvary.
He'd preached in peace, He never spewed ill,
Fulfilling faithfully His Father's Will--
This man surely did not warrant misery.
Beneath His Cross stood His Blessed Mother
And a young disciple He referred to as brother--
Thenceforth, John was to be each of us.
A thief nearby, in a twist of fate,
Proved repentance for sin is never too late--
For at Heaven's Gate, waiting, we'll find Jesus.
Now you and I can live forever,
And neither death nor whatsoever
Can keep our soul from choosing to be free.
For He was only thirty-three
When He died for you and me,
And our great sin died there with Him on that tree.
This is dedicated to the little girl who inspired it in 2016
Sheriff Dee's Times-Table
© 2016 by Dominic Spano
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On a dark, stormy night she rode into town
And the name 'neath her badge read Sheriff Dee Brown.
She said she was comin' for to set me straight,
Teach me 4 times 7's gonna be 28.
The look in her eyes told me something was up;
Then she spoke and her foot stirred a silver stirrup.
"You botched it for both boys and girls alike,
You must be the old fool that there's no fool like."
Suffice it to say that my jaw hit the floor
And I told her I taught kids to count and much more.
Like 6 times 8 will make 48
Or 9 times 12 will be one–oh–eight,
And 6 times 3 will add up to 18,
While 57 is 3 multiplied by 19."
But she shook her head and clamped her foot down
And I first glimpsed the wrath of Sheriff Dee Brown.
"Why, how do you mean," I asked in a huff,
And without hesitation she said, off the cuff:
"I'll tell you exactly just how do I mean;
If 2 times 8 will equal 16,
Then 2 times 9 must equal 18,
While 7 times 2 will give you 14."
"I taught all of that," I replied, "and lots more,
Like 8 times itself will be 64,
Or 3 times 6 is also 18,
Not to mention 26 is 2 times 13,
66, as you know, is 6 times 11,
And 49, of course, is 7 times 7."
Still, I felt very shaken, right down to the core,
So I searched for all factors that make 44,
Like 4 times 11 and 22 two's,
But all sorts of numbers now gave me the blues.
I collected myself but still felt aghast,
And I felt very nervous, my heart beating fast.
"I've been teaching," I said, "32 is 4 eights
And I've taught it all over the United States,
In Norway and Sweden and Germany too,
I've taught 64 is twice 32."
But she jabbed, with her finger, at me through the air
"The word on the street, boy, is that you don't care,
So I swear by my badge and the steed that I ride,
That before the next sun–up you'll be back in stride,
Teaching 9 is eighteen divided by 2
While eight 9's and six 12's both yield 72."
She paused for a breath and stared me back down
While I cowered in the wrath of Sheriff Dee Brown.
"You've been ineffective," she went on to say,
At teaching kids math in a meaningful way;
Whether 8 times 6 or 7 times 3,
To commit them to memory, repetition's the key."
I repeated I taught kids to count and much more
Like 3 times 8 will make 24
And 3 times 9 is gonna be 27
And, of course, 21 equals 3 times 7.
But with arms akimbo, her gaze bore right through me
When she said twenty–one's also 7 times 3.
I opened my mouth to bolster my point
But she flashed me a frown with her nose out of joint;
Then she reached for the holster on the side of her hip
And said: "Boy, don't you dare give me none o' your lip,"
She added one thing, I guess for good measure,
And said with the grin of the feline Cheshire,
"Ya'd better get wise to numbers galore
Like 12 times 12 is one–forty–four."
Now I felt I was getting a double–thumbs down
On account of the wrath of Sheriff Dee Brown.
Perturbed, I asked why she shows me such ire;
She replied with a smirk and her eyes filled with fire,
"Your students, in town, just haven't a clue
That 14 times 3 will be 42
Or 11 times 12 is one–thirty–two.
She added she'd come to communicate
2 sixes are 12 and 2 fours equal 8.
I started to shake and I thought I might cry
When she said, "I'll make sure that you learn by and by,
That 3 times 11 must yield 33
And 7 times 9 will make 63.
What's more, 6 times 2 is like 4 times 3.
While 9 times 2 equals 6 times 3.
Then she drew from her holster a Colt 45
And I said, "Surely you'd rather I remain here alive!"
But she twirled its chamber with a mischievous grin
And said I was teaching the 5–times–table quite thin;
She added, quite frankly, I was getting her riled,
By botching 5 n's with every young child.
"The answer of 5 times an n," she went on,
"Is simple to teach, if you're not too far gone;
It ends in a five if the n number's odd,
And ends in a zero, if even, by God!"
After rolling the barrel of that silver gun,
She said 11 times 11 is one–twenty–one.
But 'twas the 7 times table that drove her insane,
'Cause I'd taught 6 times 7, but always in vain;
Although 6 times 7 must make 42,
Most of my kids found it quite hard to do,
And though 28 comes from 7 times 4,
Some thought it 4 sixes, which make 24.
I tell you, I wished that she might tone it down,
The wrath and the scorn of Sheriff Dee Brown.
She went on to say kids depended on me
To help them become the best they can be,
And that is why she had come looking for me,
Plus, I hadn't been teaching the table times 3;
Like 3 two's are six and 3 sixes eighteen,
And 3 eights, 24, if you know what I mean.
I'd also ignored the table times 4,
Like 4 threes are 12 and 4 sixes, 24;
28 is 4 sevens and 4 twos are 8,
And, of course, 4 times 12 will make 48.
At the end of her rant, I looked up to heaven
Then showed her 56 is like 8 times 7.
She stared me back down, like a tenacious hound,
Adding: "Ensure you retain these lessons profound;
Or six groups of 7 will come riding through,
That's 42 gals a–gunnin' for you,
For if you mess up you'll just add to your fate
'Cause 6 more of my gals will be lying in wait,
And you'll know 6 times 8 will yield forty-eight."
I replied with a nod, for I thought I was able
To impart to my kids the entire times–table;
Plus, the rumor was spreading right across town
Of the wrath I'd survived from Sheriff Dee Brown.
"Remember my words," she glared back towards me,
"And this will be the last you ever see me."
Then Dee rode back into the dark, stormy night
And before I knew it, she was clean out of sight,
But her cold, hard words still filled me with fright,
I'd better teach the times table or it's…Dominic, Good-night!
Galloping to the times-table
Inspired in 2009 by 2 brothers, aged 5&7, now drafted by NHL
The Hockey Player
© 2014 by Dominic Spano
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He sits all alone, his back to his name,
Equipment laid out, three hours 'fore the game.
His duffle bag's open, he sits there a while
And says not a word, breaks nary a smile.
Alone with his thoughts, he ponders his role
In this game that has claimed both his heart and his soul—
This game that he's played since before he could walk,
When fate had decreed he'd be born a Canuck,
Has taught him to lead and to share and to vie,
It taught him to win and to never say 'die'.
He straps on his armor as gladiators do,
Then pulls on his socks and his home jersey too;
And with supreme reverence he ties on his skates
In exactly the manner as did all the greats.
Half-hour to game time, the warm up is nigh;
He'll fine–tune the skills he'll employ on the fly.
With gladius in hand, marked with nicks and a dent,
The blade fully taped and its edge slightly bent,
He starts for the rink filled with fans and with noise,
His demeanor demure evokes assurance and poise.
The clamor now builds in the arena aglow
With the cheers of the fans chanting row upon row.
The gate's fully opened to welcome the players
Onto the ice, resurfaced in layers
So clear and so smooth, like a fresh pool of wax,
Not a scar, not a chip and without any cracks.
"Look, here he comes!" sixteen thousand fans yell,
Their cheering as thund'rous as mad hounds from hell.
Just steps from the gate, he commences to trot,
Then quickens his pace and jumps through the slot
Not far from the blue line on his side of the ice
And skates in broad circles, counter–clockwise,
To warm up his muscles and practise his aim,
His focus intense to prepare for the game.
Then he draws in the puck and skates towards the crease,
Firing wrist shots and slap shots with lightning release.
At last it is time and the game's underway;
He races up ice and he joins in the fray,
Then quickly returns to defend his blue line,
His plus–minus ranking he'll not undermine.
The fans hold their breath while the game still is tied;
The tension keeps building, for they want the home side
To pull off a win, hand their guests a defeat;
But they, too, show great heart, it's now 'edge–of–your–seat'.
His will's undeterred, he creates his own breaks,
He speeds towards the net and the goalie he fakes,
Then he flings up his arms way into the roar
Of the crowd on its feet chanting he shoots and he scores.
His team's up a goal and the crowd is intense;
Surely their side will not sit on the fence.
And he grits now his teeth for it's down to the wire—
That point in the game when his belly's on fire;
But with one minute left and by all that is holy,
The visitors grow desperate and pull out their goalie.
Now it's six against five so he turns on the jets
And picks off a pass near the empty net,
Then with a quick backhand brings the guests to a screech,
Down by two goals, their game's out of reach.
And the fans, they erupt and they jump to their feet;
Their guy pulled if off, their warrior elite
Sent them home thrilled and fulfilled their desire,
This hero revered whom they greatly admire,
Their next Hall of Famer with jersey retired.
Back in the team room, he still sits alone,
Though teammates high–five him, he maintains his tone
And strips off his socks and his damp jersey too,
Then removes his armor without further ado;
For he knows that the morrow will bring a new day,
And the fans start each game in the same fickle way.
Redoubling his efforts will quell their desire,
While anything less will kindle their ire.
So before he departs and calls it a day,
He ponders a moment the price still to pay,
Then glances again at the name on his jersey
And affirms in his brain, with no hint of mercy:
"One day", repeats he, "engraved, you will be
With the greats before me "sur La Coupe Stanley."
If it's to be, it's up to me
A salesman's tongue-in-cheek view of life
Life's A Pitch
© 1992 by Dominic Spano
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He began as a cell determined to sell,
To meet his desires each day.
But he quickly discerned, 'fore nine months had turned,
He'd be selling each step of the way.
Right there in the womb, there wasn't much room,
And his head got reversed with his feet.
But negotiation plus determination
Lead a breech to consider retreat.
In the Maternity Ward, they severed the chord
And with it his tie to his mum;
Then a slap on the rear, which reduced him to tears,
Prepared him for what was to come.
You dirty rat, I'll get you for that,
He vowed when he started to wail;
But mom took a stand and reached out her hand,
And, voilà, he had made his first sale.
Life goads and it baits, it necessitates
Strong will, some guts and some zeal.
Or else, it was obvious, he'd remain anonymous,
Though endowed with brains and appeal.
For him to achieve, he needed to weave
A plan that was aimed at success
By metamorphosing or quickly disposing
Each 'no' to a resounding 'yes'.
As a toddler in school, so calm and so cool,
He'd sell a thought here, a want there;
And both teachers and students, they saw the emergence
Of a salesperson extraordinaire.
The youth grew secure, with plenty allure,
Each sizzle with fanfare he sold.
Unmoved and undaunted, his talents he flaunted,
To each Tom, each Dick, and each Harold.
The spring turned to fall, the youngster grew tall,
And he fervently took up his place
In a world vast and cruel and with scarcely a rule,
It would show him no mercy or grace.
His will interceded, he always succeeded
To cold-call right down to the wire.
What I need, he reasoned, is to become seasoned
And to sell like a fast gun for hire.
Then early one morning, without any warning,
The pangs of first love came a–prowlin'
It was unrequited but, being far sighted,
By no means would he throw the towel in.
He courted and courted but never aborted
His longing for closing the deal.
He brought her some roses and used trial closes
To measure his state of appeal.
He hotly pursued it and before he knew it,
She witnessed the charm of his ways;
The charm of a closer who'd never oppose her—
A salesman whom she couldn't faze.
The tempus did fugit, he chased and pursued it,
With fervor and joy and with grace,
Which brought him success, and much happiness,
And he spread it all over the place.
Folks appreciated and regurgitated
How grateful they were for his skill.
They assured him with glee that he'd never be
A salesman that's over the hill.
The day finally came, Reaper called out his name
And the salesman said "surely you jest.
For my destiny is determined by me
And not by some unwelcomed guest.
I'll make you a pact", said the salesman with tact,
"It's a basic tenet of science.
You can come after me, the day that you see
That I've finally run out of clients."
Said the Reaper, "okay." What else could he say?
His visit has one basic glitch.
He cannot compete, he's forced to retreat,
From a vastly superior sales pitch.
Rushing towards my destiny
In honor of the game that addicts nearly everyone it touches
Some Folks Call it G-O-L-F
© 2014 by Dominic Spano
a video / slide-show version of this poem may be seen at:
https://rumble.com/v76dy0o-some-call-it-g-o-l-f.html?mref=4os1tw&mc=3lxof
other videos may be seen at:
https://rumble.com/user/CalabrianCornerMusings
In the prime of my life, She brought heartache and strife,
Now I drink and I wonder and worry.
What sort of ingrate would first desecrate
Me, then act as both judge and then jury?
She is only a game that drives me insane
And I'm caught in the grip of Her spell.
But I quickly found out what She's really about,
This torturous prelude of hell.
Lest you think I jest, that I'm merely obsessed,
You'll see, from my sad tale of woe,
That She goaded and baited, then regurgitated
My heart and what's left of my ego.
'Twas on the first tee, from where I could see
The fairway in all of its glory;
And I knew that my drive would run three–oh–five
And I'd play the first nine under forty.
But my shot was a flop, I went over the top
And, like Casey, my hero at bat,
I said to my chum, "my best stuff's to come
And maybe I hit that one fat."
It could not be me, so I looked round to see
What had spoiled my first drive for show.
It was dimpled and round and it sits on the ground
And as white as the wind–driven snow.
Alas, what was worse, it taught me to curse,
And every swing battered my ego.
I yelled and berated, Oh God how I hated
That crafty, though small, dimpled foe.
On a nasty par three, on account of a tree,
I needed to go on offence;
But that white, dimpled thing, on a prayer and a wing,
Ricocheted off the path, through a fence.
An onlooker might think that I was on the brink
Of losing my mind and my wits.
But he'd be mistaken, 'cause I wasn't fakin'
Those shots that were giving me fits.
Depressed and degraded, then inebriated,
I knew this was no tale of woe;
As I previously stated, Oh God how I hated
That nasty though small, dimpled foe.
Then the ball said to me: "Monsieur, don't you see,
'Tis not I but the Game that's to blame.
She beckons and lures, She humbles and skewers,
Then piles on the doubt and the shame."
I paused for a moment, for this game does foment
A spectrum of doubts and of fears.
And there's no denying I've seen grown men crying
Out loud, right in front of their peers.
I quickly caught on that my ball was dead on
When it shifted the blame to the Game;
For no matter the shot, it all seemed for naught,
'Cause all of my shots came up lame.
I went deathly white when my eyes gleaned with fright
What awaited me on the eighth tee.
The fairway looked tough, with plenty of rough
And I prayed 'Lord Almighty, help me!'
'Twas not a good sign when I turned the front nine
Quite a bit over par and then some;
For ten through eighteen would be tough, if not mean,
So I topped up my Coke with some Rum.
Down and deflated, I negotiated
Just how I might finish the round.
But my foe nurtured fears and reduced me to tears
Without uttering nary a sound.
Each one of my drives seemed to harbor nine lives;
But the problem, at least as I saw it,
Was that each of the nine brought its own paradigm
That was hell–bent on making me quit.
And all my approaches told me 'buenas noches',
Each one falling short of the green;
Or they'd land in a bunker where I'd hit a clunker
And even heaven could not intervene.
Hole after hole decimated my goal,
And my score, it continued to rise;
While putt after putt was a kick in my gut
And my card was a bundle of lies.
At the end of my round, I made not a sound,
For my ego, it needed to dwell
On all the excuses for all the abuses
It took on that playground from hell.
I came out of it jaded, beat up and degraded,
And I swore I would never return
To this Game that could only leave me feeling lonely,
Whose lessons I might never learn.
And yet one week later, I no longer could hate Her
And I returned as though nothing had happened.
I guess I'd forgotten how I had felt rotten
And how my demeanor had dampened.
I suppose I'm addicted, though feeling conflicted,
And folks claim She's now my religion.
For I keep going back, taking more of Her flack,
Reminiscent of Prof. Skinner's pigeon.
And right upon cue, my goals I pursue
In this Game that I'm sure I adore.
Now I'm manic–depressive, and I make a mess of
My swing, my esteem and my score.
Forget about tact, let me give you a fact,
Dear Monsieur et ma chère Mademoiselle.
She's haughty and naughty and sometimes quite snotty,
Did I say She's the Game sent from hell?
The setting is prime, the view is sublime,
But gentlefolk, please hear my plea.
Let me be blunt, when read back to front,
This Game is spelled f–l–o–g.
Persevere * * * persevere * * * persevere