I Miss Ol' What's Her Name
I miss her complainin’
Makes me cry in my beer
I’m so miserable without her
It’s as if she’s still here
My pickup and coon dog
Give me a lil’ cheer
And my ma getting’ out of prison
And me drinkin’ more beer
Catchin’ some ol’ catfish
Makes me wish she were near
To clean em’ and cook em’
And bring me more beer
I miss her cute lil’ ol’ mustache
That hides the wart on her chin
I miss her high piercing voice
Tho It gets under my skin
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poem by David Whalen
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In Winter... I Think Of Summer
In Winter
I think of summer…
Of feverish glow
Of summer sunburn…
Of sunshine seined
Through disordered trees…
Of summer sun
The color of
Undercooked egg yolks
cool and warm
Both at once…
Of growing tree roots
Gently tilting sidewalks
And warm raindrops forming
Crystal necklaces
On the nape of the wind…
Of haloes round the moon
And rain rings on the river…
Silvered, tranquil surface, dimpled
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poem by David Whalen
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Ode To Autumn (I'm in awe of Fall)
Ode to Autumn
Pumpkins on porches, cut cruelly into ferocious faces
Wisps of white smoke melting into cold clear skies
Hands held out as if praying, to crackling fireplaces
Odors of allspice waft from plump pumpkin pies
Cold swirling winds, skirling leaves in the lane
While a few golden stalwarts, in tall trees still remain
Clinging and quivering, making restless, rattling sound
As if In anxious anticipation of graceful descent to the ground
As Haunting apparitions, appear the skeletal trees
To spook little kids into feigned, fun-filled fright
With witchy appearance, bare limbs wave in the breeze
Scarecrows wave back with ghoulish delight
Autumn leaves burning, create aromatic auras so sweet
Crisp air numbs kid’s noses, toes and their feet
Once strutting Tom Turkey now reclines in the oven
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poem by David Whalen
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Dads, Lads, And Granddads
Lads, Dads, and Granddads Free verse
My grandson,
skipping along, an eight year young kid
Behind his Dad, his hero, his idol,
his bright shining model
Sees him tall, straight, tough and confident
Sees a McMuffin buyer, a baseball coach and a dad
My grandson
sees not…. a loser, a slacker
Mostly absentee father,
lazy and irresponsible
Two days a week of being a dad
Providing little or nothing to ex-wife or son
My grandson,
I see in myself, skipping along
Following behind my dad
Who is tall, straight and confident
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poem by David Whalen
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Evening conversations...Small town U.S.A.
Barbershops, beauty shops, front porches, fireplaces and bars
Like ol’ men and women
Jabbering away
Arguing like ol’ friends do
Tryin’ to absorb other’s happiness
Tryin’ to give away
A little of their sadness too…
Remnants of the glow
Of summer sunburns
Meet winter’s white
on wrinkled necks
Some enjoying the Fall flush
Of immaterial nature
Others await the arrival
Of social security checks
Some live close to joy
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poem by David Whalen
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Voice Mail From Mom
Voice Mail From Mom
Buzzing sound awakes me
I pull covers up over my head
Chiming ring irritates me
I burrow deeper in my bed
Voice mails chime finally placates me
Sleep returns in it’s stead
Alarm clock’s buzzing awakes me
To a day of despair that I dread
This day when my mom would be buried
To hear from, to see never more
Loneliness and regret overtake me
As I numbly start out of the door
The feel of the phone on my hip makes me recall
And remember the call from last night
When I look at the screen my jaw starts to fall
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poem by David Whalen
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Easter Sunday (and not a word from McD's)
Today I solemnly resolve to say nothing
Not to observe nor write a single line
I won't even mention the man dressed like a cowboy
Nor that voluptuous chick lookin' fine
I'll not fixate on the fat,
nor lay praise on the lean
Not one single comment
Be it kindly or mean
The tall skinny lady sitting opposite me
With the red fright-wig hair
Well today I shan't make mention
That she's even there
For this Easter Sunday
I shall refrain from writing
Of people no matter be they
Strange and funky
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poem by David Whalen
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Mother Nature Can Be Fickle
Winter’s cold is Mother Nature’s way
Of saying, lie with me now, lay your head on my breast
It’s snow, a blanket under which to lay
Neath a crystal cover, enjoying winter's cold caress
Frost rimed windows … Mother Nature’s art
Icy abstractions painted with frosty finesse
Crystalline concoctions that form only a part
Of Mother Natures wonderful winter largesse
Ice coated limbs of slope shouldered trees
droop drowsily down as if fallen asleep
Unable to sway in winter’s frigid breeze
Appear as white mounds, when the snow drifts deep
The stillness one hears on cold winter nights
Broken by the sudden crack of ice laden boughs
The ethereal essence of undulating northern lights
Headlights in the sky for Nature’s snowplows
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poem by David Whalen
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Invisible Children
Invisible Children
Their mothers can see them, but to us they’re invisible
These fate-cursed little creatures with long lashed, limpid eyes
In the poor part of town where hunger is permissible
Empty cupboards are opened with sad, hopeless sighs
Yes, we glimpse them occasionally, when famine strikes other nations
We see them on TV, broadcast from strange sounding lands
Hunger’s a democratic denizen, sparing no child it’s sensations
And welcomes our own crying children into it’s cold callous hands
Submission into malnutrition is the chronic condition
These hidden, unseen children must confront every day
Sentenced by hunger to a living perdition
On their mom’s leaden heart, these cruel conditions heavily weigh
While most of us worry about our kids overeating
About high fructose content, roughage and such
These kids, with ribs like infantile armatures, arms outstretched and pleading
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poem by David Whalen
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Let's Just Suppose
Let’s just suppose
That over four thousand young men
Got jobs and got married
Became normal Americans and then
Let’s just suppose
These same young men of our new generation
Stayed home and avoided
Nightmares and mutilation
Let’s just suppose
Over four thousand lives were sadly expended
In a hostile land, so far away
In a war built on lies, and is yet open-ended
Let’s just suppose
That many untold billions in funds
Had over four thousand of those young men
Building our country, in lieu of bearing guns
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poem by David Whalen
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