Grampa? A tribute to fathers (especially the 'ol f**ts)
Grampa?
It’s a question usually posed with an inquisitive frown
On an angelic face with large, limpid eyes
And whatever I’m doing, I stop and put down
Peer sagely over bifocals and look grandfatherly wise
“Can you fix this grampa, ” shy tentative pleas
Red plastic toy held out in soft delicate fingers
Tear tracks on pink cheeks, scraped, dirt darkened knees
Touches deep to my heart, on child’s face my gaze lingers
Sad, liquid eyes under brows scrunched and worried
Timid, flowerlike smile slowly blossoms on small face
My broken toy examination, slow and unhurried
Parts and pieces put back together with exaggerated grace
Rose bud lower lip, bitten by tiny white teeth
With young brow furrowed with intense concentration
A wondrous thing, this childhood belief
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poem by David Whalen
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Getting to Know You
Poetry pretty much mirrors
Different stages and places
In one’s life
It’s given away… in what you say
In your sense
of peace or strife
Your words describe you…
They strip from your soul
The shrouds and lay bare…
Your true thoughts, your ambitions
Your insights, your inhibitions
You perhaps unknowingly share
It’s a venting perhaps…
A release from the restraints…
Of cold hard reality
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poem by David Whalen
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The Decline Of Man (And The Rise Of Women)
Throughout the ages until the recent day
Strength and size ruled the world
But those times have long passed away
The days when women truly needed men
Were all the norm back then
Now gone Ne’er to be back again
Machines that farm and till our land
Can make our goods much faster than
The hand of any common working man
It’s the age of women (perhaps long overdue)
It’s machines and technology and many
Men have no clue
So now it’s become a world of finesse
Where strength and size
Could matter less
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poem by David Whalen
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Are We Better Now Than Then (stand naked in front of a full length mirror)
Better Now Than Then?
(stand naked in front of a full length mirror and try not to giggle or gag)
We were then:
Small wiry bipeds on dry plains of Serengeti
Stringy, tight muscles, strong hands, with long slender fingers
Low, beetled brow over dark eyes, seeing distant
Long pointed nails, ridged and discolored, tip slender delicate digits
We are now:
Tall upright bipeds, on dry, sere, parking lot at Walmart
Folds of flaccid fat, fallow, loose, hanging over belts
Squeaky-clean, sausage-like, weak, fat fingers
Skin stretched tight over pudgy, pillow-like hands
We were then:
Hardy travelers, to distant mist shrouded mountains
Feet naked, soles hardened, over plains of rock, sand and gravel
Long slender bows, slung over lean shoulders and arrows in hide pouches,
Obsidian knives, tucked in scant leather loincloths
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poem by David Whalen
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Signs of the Times
Signs of the times in the good ‘ol USA
G.E and G.M downgraded to letters of the alphabet
People living out of their Hummers
U.S. economy outpaced by Tibet
Bank officers indicted in growing numbers
Drive-by shootings reduced to dissing and shouting
Between glassless windows of derelict cars up on blocks
McDonald’s dollar menu becomes haute cuisine
Waste paper refers to your savings and stocks
Insufficient funds refers to your bank’s money
Treasury Dept. seized by Asian lenders for late debt payments
Swimming pools used to grow real tasty algae
Grandkids moving in with mom and dad, who’ve moved in with their own parents
Having a job and feeling guilty about it
Not having a job and feeling useless and disrespected
Applying for jobs and feeling hopeless throughout it
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poem by David Whalen
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Ode to the worthy, earthy and free versey
Of what would Spring be
Of what pleasures to see
Were it not for the words
Of a poetic potpourri
A bouquet composed Of fresh
and e'er changing compositions
Of prose composed of flesh,
The heart, and earthy renditions
It's the blossoms of Raskin
Whom to me is a rose
In the pleasure in the reading
As is the scent to the nose
It's the petals Of JewelPhoenix
Which she scatters about
Wonders of her writing
Would be hard to be without
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poem by David Whalen
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The next to last pew
An old man was at church last Sunday
He sat in the next to last pew
I slid into the seat right next to him
And gave a him a friendly “hi-dee-do”
He gave me a nod with his time worn brow
Then swiveled his head all around
While his gaze sized up the parishioners
His ears seemed to soak up their sound
His sad gaze seemed to pick out each person
One by one, as he seemed to stare into their soul
To some he nodded, in an approving way
While to others his look was ice cold
I asked if he was a member of this church
I said I wasn’t familiar with him, was he new?
He smiled a soft smile and shook his head no
Said “I’m here most of the time…
here in this next to last pew”
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poem by David Whalen
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)
The Lonely Writer
Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers
The needy juvenile writer
Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
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poem by David Whalen
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Another New year, Another New Beginning?
Another new year!
Another new beginning?
Will we get this one right?
Will we have learned from the last one?
Will we treat our kids better?
Will they be healthier and better educated?
Will we be more prudent, save more money?
Will we even have a job?
Will we keep the one we have?
Are we gonna stop smoking?
Are we gonna start dieting?
Are we gonna start exercising?
Are we gonna stop watching so much TV?
Are we gonna walk more and stop so much driving?
Will we help someone who has less?
Will we be thankful for what we have?
Will we renounce war?
Will we live a little longer?
Will we want to?
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poem by David Whalen
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Never Too Old
You’re never too old to pop plastic bubbles
Never too old to have a twinkle in your eye
Never too old to stir up some trouble
Never too old til the day that you die
You’re never to old to sneak a few cookies
Never too old to give someone the ‘eye’
Never too old to like ‘Star Wars and Wookies’
Never too old til the day that you die
You’re never too old to enjoy a good dirty joke
Never too old to still wish you could fly
Never too old to think you could croak
Never too old til the day that you die
You’re never too old to splash thru a puddle
Never too old to watch a fire truck scream by
Never to old for tag football and to huddle
Never too old til the day that you die
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poem by David Whalen
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