There Once Was an Irish Mechanic

There once was an Irish mechanic
Who was not very prone to a panic
When I heard this I thought
I might give him a shot
At a problem I knew was satanic.

Cars and trucks and bikes, you see
Are serviced every day
With logic and a diagram
You’ll soon be on your way
But mobile homes are different,
They’re relatively few,
And mine was even further rare,
There was no number 2.

For years I’d felt a growing pride
In my country, right or wrong,
And wrote a lot of glowing words,
I even tried a song
But the battle groups and radar domes
Could not be contained
The anti anti missle missles,
The rays that leave no stains

What concept could I summarize?
What image could I use?
To show the world the way I felt
That we’re not going to lose
The way of life so righteous
So pure and worry free
That paper bags or plastic are
Of no concern to me.

The seasons came the seasons went
And still the struggle grew,
My eyelid started quivering
And then my gums withdrew
But late one night it came to me
The thing our nation lacked
A symbol of the leadership
To get us back on track

A vision of the future
The way we must be led
A mobile home, of stainless steel
In the shape of Cheney’s head!

Our country’s been deprived of him
By those who make him stay
In that heavy duty bunker
So very far away
He must be safe from harm of course,
So this could be the thing
To bring his words and spirit out
And let the country sing
The songs of liberation
The terrorists must die
The weapons of mass destruction will be shot into the sky.

I shopped around and found a firm,
A family I could trust
To fabricate and execute
My vision of this bust

This rolling art would incorporate
The latest of today,
The cellular and satellite
And some birdies tucked away
For that special rare occasion
When good friends should happen by
If the urge should come upon us
To shoot at things that fly

The day arrived when it was done
It gleamed and sparkled in the sun
I took the keys
Sat in the mouth
Released the brake
And headed south

I took a route along the shore
Perhaps to hear the ocean’s roar
Instead I heard a sound most queer
Emitted from my hero’s ear
As I drove the volume rose
The sound now bellowed from the nose

I tried to place where I had heard
A sound so like that chilling word
Obama was, it seemed to me the cry
That soon enveloped me.

Where to go to fix this curse
I queried near and far
There’s only one can tackle this,
And he’s likely at the bar.
So many people said the same
I finally headed east
And set a course for sunrise
With hope to slay this beast!

I found him where they said I would
Seated on a stool
Sipping oysters from their shells
And looking rather cool.

I told him what had made me cringe
And begged him for some aid
He said it could be anything
I could not be delayed
He said I’d have to leave it
He’d look it over well
I bit my lip and trembled
My eyes began to well

You don’t know how important
This is to our way of life
Our country and our values
Your children and your wife

He slowly slid another oyster
Off it’s pearly shell
If I can’t fix it mister
I’ll send myself to hell.


For days I gnawed my knuckles
My hair came out in clumps
My lower lip was sushi
My fingernails were stumps.

When long at last the message came
To come and pick it up
I spilled my coffee on my leg
Then tripped upon the cup.



A Larry Craig was on each ear
A Ferraro on the nose
A Clinton clambered on each eyebrow
Grabbing with their toes…..


3/15/08
Ed Braverman

TO BE CONTINUED

Poker

There were five of us playing that night,
Padge, Kieran, Neal and me --
and, stretched out in his coffin, Uncle Charlie.
We dealt him a hand each time
and took turns to bet for him,
waiving his losses, pooling his wins,
for what good were coins to him?
What could he win but his life?
Still, five of us played that night
and when we stopped it was daylight.
We left the cards with him
to remind him, forever, of that game
and Padge, Kieran, Neal and me
went up the road to our beds
and slept until we buried him,
then played until we had to agree
the good hands had gone with Uncle Charlie.

--Matthew Sweeney [Nora O'Connor]

The Tree and the Garden

There was an oak tree
In the front of the house
Which blazes forth in spring and is
Struck by changing colors as though
It was lightning instead of time
Which brought the fall
It’s known to all rememberers
Who have ever
Suffered its shade

While out the back
There is a garden, which
With an unassuming, steady gait
Filled plates
And beds of marigolds
Accompanied tomatoes
In a forever dance
Keeping pace, without rest
With never a fallow season blessed

And as for time and passers-by
Who could know? that it was
Neither the sun nor water
Nor seeds nor spring that gave it such
Plenty while
Dispensing safety
But rather
The hoe and rake
And touch
And grace
And give and take
And tender love
Of the gardener’s hand.


Michael O'Connor

The Change

The season turned like the page of a glossy fashion magazine.
In the park the daffodils came up
and in the parking lot, the new car models were on parade.

Sometimes I think that nothing really changes -

The young girls show the latest crop of tummies,
and the new president proves that he's a dummy.

but remember the tennis match we watched that year?
Right before our eyes

some tough little European blonde
pitted against that big black girl from Alabama,
cornrowed hair and Zulu bangles on her arms,
some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite -

We were just walking past the lounge
and got sucked in by the screen above the bar,
and pretty soon
we started to care about who won,

putting ourselves into each whacked return
as the volleys went back and forth and back
like some contest between
the old world and the new,

and you loved her complicated hair
and her to-hell-with-everybody stare,
and I,
I couldn't help wanting
the white girl to come out on top,
because she was one of my kind, my tribe,
with her pale eyes and thin lips

and because the black girl was so big
and so black,
so unintimidated,

hitting the ball like she was driving the Emancipation Proclamation
down Abraham Lincoln's throat,
like she wasn't asking anyone's permission.

There are moments when history
passes you so close
you can smell its breath,
you can reach your hand out
and touch it on its flank,

and I don't watch all that much Masterpiece Theatre,
but I could feel the end of an era there

in front of those bleachers full of people
in their Sunday tennis-watching clothes

as that black girl wore down her opponent
then kicked her ass good
then thumped her once more for good measure

and stood up on the red clay court
holding her racket over her head like a guitar.

And the little pink judge
had to climb up on a box
to put the ribbon on her neck,
still managing to smile into the camera flash,
even though everything was changing

and in fact, everything had already changed -

Poof, remember? It was the twentieth century almost gone,
we were there,

and when we went to put it back where it belonged,
it was past us
and we were changed.

Tony Hoagland


Note: You can hear this poem read aloud by Garrison Keillor by clicking here and scrolling down a bit.

Make the Pie Higher

A poem in honor of our 43rd President made up entirely of his quotes.


I think we all agree, the past is over.

This is still a dangerous world.

It's a world of madmen and uncertainty

And potential mental losses.



Rarely is the question asked

Is our children learning?

Will the highways of the Internet

Become more few?



How many hands have I shaked?

They misunderestimate me.

I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.



I know that the human being

And the fish can coexist.

Families is where our nation finds hope,

Where our wings take dream.



Put food on your family!

Knock down the tollbooth!

Vulcanize society!

Make the pie higher!

I am the Decider!