poetry critical

online poetry workshop



Lets go just to get some cake (repost, revision)
netskyIam

There's nothing like the present
 1
 
 
tense to play a baseball
 2
coach's son's sixth birthday party
 3
fun
 4
in 'idylic' 1961
 5
 
 
where Miami trees are palming
 6
balloons and crepey streamers
 7
at the backyard of the Honored One
 8
(hereafter mostly termed "H. O.").
 9
 
 
'Long the wooden picnic table
 10
ice cream feeds we dozen guests
 11
Birthday Boy's commanding
 12
from his head
 13
 
 
of the table
 14
that we wear sideways
 15
 
 
conehead hats and blow
 16
the party tickler
 17
tongues—hello
 18
—the cake is come:
 19
A baseball diamond white and green, not rec-
 20
 
 
tangle—uh oh—the candles are not lit
 21
because today's a breezy day.
 22
 
 
He wants his candles lit.
 23
 
 
Poppa coaches, "We can't light the candles."
 24
 
 
H. O.'s short wick flares up redder
 25
"I want CANDLES"
 26
—pitching two into a double-header.
 27
 
 
Poppa Coach is wincing awful
 28
at his son's base bawling.
 29
 
 
Our coach now steps behind H.O.me plate,
 30
hooks mighty arms hard under
 31
sweaty H. O. pits and hoists—
 32
 
 
Birthday Boy! In the air!
 33
 
 
We non-players—define Silence
 34
as rapid cleated feet windmill
 35
deliberately, perfectly,
 36
striking out our cake that
 37
we practically paid for
 38
with our presents
 39
to eat that cake that that
 40
jerk just gave to a party
 41
 
 
                                     .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
 42
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
of ants.
 43

15 Jun 06


(define the words in this poem)
(181 more poems by this author)



Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha

Comments:

Your breaks are off, though the subject is fresh. I've worked within those confines.



There's nothing like present tense to play
a baseball coach's son's sixth birthday party
in 'idylic' 1961, where Miami trees palm

balloons and crepey streamers
at the backyard of the Honored One
(hereafter mostly termed "H.O.").

Along the wooden picnic table
ice cream feeds a dozen guests:
Birthday Boy commands the head

of the table. We wear sideways

conehead hats and blow party ticklers:
Tongues—hello the cake. A baseball diamond

white and green, not rectangle—

uh oh—the candles are not lit
because today's a breezy day.

He wants his candles lit. Poppa says,
"We can't light the candles."
H.O.'s short wick flares: "I want CANDLES"

—pitching two into a double-header.

Poppa Coach winces at his son's base bawling.

Our coach steps behind H.O.me plate, hooks
his arms hard under H.O.'s pits and hoists—
the Birthday Boy!

In the air, non-players—define silence,
as rapid cleated feet windmill
deliberate, perfect, striking out

the cake that we paid for with our presents.
 — DianaTrees

My bad.  I should have prefaced the poem as "screwball" in its deliberately goofy breaks.  These enjambments are meant to set up a surreality of a really horrible
experience for us all.   Might as well make it funny.  But at the time, we were little kids
in shellshock.  wham bam bash, end of the fuckin' party, right then, go home.  I walked it.   Thank you Diana!  Reid
 — netskyIam

2.611s