amateurish, unimpressive poetry

This is going to be a hectic week. I make no promises about my diligence as a blogger. I will do my best.

Today, my best consists of 2 poems I wrote in college. The last English class I had to take in college was Senior Portfolio, in which we had to choose half a dozen or so things we'd written in our high school careers for a portfolio. Most of that (i.e. "'I really don't care about the white audiences': Satirization of Western Culture in Thomas King's Green Grass, Running Water") would not interest you. But I put 2 poems in there that I wrote in Creative Writing: Poetry, and they might be good for a laugh. Plus I don't have to do much thinking. So enjoy.

"For Elton John and My Mom"

Dad says a dank, dark garage is no place to spend a Friday night.
He hates Dylan and the Stones. And me.
He doesn't want to hear what we have to say.
There is so much pain in the F sharp minor chord.

He hates Dylan and the Stones. And me.
If he lays one more finger on her, so help me...for the thousandth time.
There is so much pain in the F sharp minor chord.
Is there any music in him at all?

If he lays one more finger on her, so help me...for the thousandth time.
She cries tears of bitterness and fear in the background.
Is there any music in him at all?
Brother is in a basement somewhere high, laughing at his life.

She cries tears of bitterness and fear in the background.
Sister buys a train ticket for somewhere. Anywhere. Freedom.
Brother is in a basement somewhere high, laughing at his life.
Meanwhile, I play "Tiny Dancer" in the garage till morning.

Sister buys a train ticket for somewhere. Anywhere. Freedom.
I remember being six and eating ice cream, watching the ducks swim in Mill Pond.
Meanwhile, I play "Tiny Dancer" in the garage till morning.
The pain, the hate, the rage--what a great song it would make.

I remember being six and eating ice cream, watching the ducks swim in Mill Pond.
He doesn't want to hear what we have to say.
The pain, the hate, the rage--what a great song it would make.
Dad says a dank, dark garage is no place to spend a Friday night.

"The Pen"

Here I sit,
with Morgo and Fauker and Zitty and Tom,
just a hundred feet from crafty pitchers and graceful middle-infielders,
towering fly balls and suicide squeezes,
in the bullpen.

The bullpen smells like a guy who hasn't washed his uniform in four days
chewing a thousand pieces of bubblegum.
The bullpen sounds like chatter and dirty jokes.
Hum, Kid. Ring the bell. You'll do it.
Same stuff
every
single
day.
The bullpen tastes like day-old sunflower seeds,
salty and dry.
Occasionally a splinter of the shell gets stuck in your throat.

The bullpen feels like it looks--
a bunch of tired ballplayers with three-day beards
swimming through the humidity,
anxious when Coach points a bony finger their way.
Get up, Lefty, he'll say.
And Lefty will hop the chain link fence,
deliver a few pitches to the bullpen catcher--
Pop. Pop. POP!
Then he'll jog to the mound to the cheers of a dozen parents
who don't know his name.

And Morgo and Fauker and Zitty and Tom
will sit.
With me.
In the bullpen.

Later gators.