Stone, Sand, and Dirt

 —Poetry by Thomas M. McDade, 

Fredericksburg, VA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

FEET, NOSE, MOUTH

Her empty wine and whisky jugs are young
but they evoke antique bottle shops and old
lighthouse lenses standing tall in museums
when the windows unveil and the moon
is right with candle flame high on nights
foul weather chases us off the beach sand
cork silence, twist-off cap the same
after a bouncy prelude
 
Sitting by a fat candle
that smells like evergreens
as window winds toss drapes
like veils of fleeing inhibition
we smoke Camels and talk
like a couple of old timers
jogged by a shard of sun
lighting a champagne magnum

An aging wind reminiscing
gone gusty Chicago days
discovers dump glass
with our fingerprints
recalls playing the mouth
of our first fifth of Gallo Wine
and whirls and whistles
funneling a toast. 

 

 

 

 

STONE, SAND, AND DIRT

The Boys’ Club
Athletic Director
Who’d named me
The fittest kid
In M-1 Gym

Off my pushup
And sit-up prowess
Wasn’t so flattering
When he switched
Hats to take control

Of the summer
Anybody And Their
Brothers Can Play
Baseball League
As I’d failed

To field the team
In the Jr. division
That I’d signed up
To do: didn’t think
I wrote on stone

I tagged myself
The biggest loser
In Federal Housing
Couldn’t roster nine
Using cash I bet

Weakling flashing
All over his face
I considered
A slew of pushups
For redemption

Man, it was as if he wanted
To kick beach sand in my face
Or at least on my sneakers
As an MLB skipper might
Diamond dirt on an ump’s

 

 

 

 

MENDOZA LINE

My friend Mike
Had gigabytes
Of baseball stats
In his head so
When I told him
Of my feeling
About a number
Off a memory
Of a Route 114
I used to drive
In Rhode Island
I expected him
To say that’s 101
Points below
The Mendoza Line
But he handed over
A half a buck
Without a word
And the digits hit
For $330 and I was
The one said
Nice average
He added
215 over Mario’s
Dismal go-to Poor
Plate Performance
Standard that’s
A crock anyway
When Mike died
On the 335th day
Of the year 2001
I thought of the
NL and Al
Batting champs
That season
Both hitting 350
But played his
Birthday 1.17
And struck out

 

 

 

 

THE STEPS

Take a bus to a beach town
Slowed to an off-season crawl
With all you own filling half-
A-half-century-old seabag, faded
Stencil naming you in caps
You’ve got a slim stash
And you’ll last in a room
If you lay off the hooch
Find a church, worship
Confess, take communion
Daily as your mother did
Kneeling tall, praying hands
Like a rocket or arrowhead
Become as familiar as kin
In case of a slip or a brawl
While prepping for summer
Gull stepping in
On Memorial Day
Cadences:
Vagrancy
Left
Panhandling
Right
Fear
Left
Hope
Your right

 

 

 

 

WILD BILL

Called Wild Bill
From his high
School football days
He stayed that way
Off the gridiron
While looking
After his beautiful sibs
Sometimes fisticuffs
He took care of his
Aged mother and when
A young bully staged
A hate-filled road rage
Over her light foot
Bill found a way
To track him down
And execute a perfect
Tackle as if the August
Asphalt were a playoff
Field and the jerk
Was a running back
Guilty of stalking
Bill’s lovely
Cheerleader sister

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

—Robert Frost

__________________

Newcomer Thomas McDade, a graduate of Fairfield University, is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran, serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA, and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). He is a liberal Democrat and a vegetarian. [And, I might add, a poet.] Welcome to the Kitchen, Thomas, and don’t be a stranger!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Thomas McDade

 

 

 

 

 

 

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