Poetry Corner

 
 © 2016 by Dominic Spano
 

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! 

   © 2014 by Dominic Spano
 

 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." 

  © 1992 by Dominic Spano
 

 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.
 

  © 2014 by Dominic Spano
 

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.