Trump It Voluntarily

January 20, 2017
Leave a Comment


I’m calling a halt to the jive about Trump
I haven’t gone barmy, in need of my bumps
felt, but Yanks know him well for his time on the stump
and STILL put him up there and still primed his pump.

He can’t help his looks (well, apart from that clump
on the top of his bonce that appears like a dump).
And next to Obama he seems like a chump
Not charming nor erudite. More of a grump

With the press he’s been gifted you’d think he would flump
in the back of the bar or a faraway tump.
No, there’s too many trolls; and I’m not one to slump
Let’s just throw him some rope and see if he’ll jump.

Al Barz, Inauguration Day USA.


Athletic Endeavour

August 2, 2012
Leave a Comment

Here they come, the runners, hurdlers, throwers,
shooters, hitters, kickers, wrestlers, riders
divers, swimmers, lifters, leapers, rowers,
spinners, tumblers, balancers and sliders.

Arriving hopes of being at the top
when anthem and a pendant form a tear
and all the universe appears to stop,
respecting national pride and personal cheer.

Then there are those who come, not for the prize,
a nobler cause than gold on trophy shelf,
to be not just elite in others’ eyes.
Much more – to be the very best of self.

But oh the disappointment for the rest
expecting to be standing high and proud,
deceived by fate and falling from the crest,
humbly slipping back into the crowd.

The gold, the silver and the bronze will shine,
awards, rewards and accolades resound.
When lustre fades, the pride persists through time,
the day you took and wore your personal crown.

A Lost Voice

April 3, 2012
Leave a Comment

It’s the timbre of his voice I miss
a kiss from his vocal words to everywhere,
the stentorian meaning tucked in
a grin overgrown with quiet allusion

It’s the humour of his style compiled
filed with the night and day of his lifeline
David’s sure slingshot stone
full-blown smack on Goliath’s temple

It’s a library trip on a Tuesday morn
the worn coat that saw better days
the real-ale pint in the corner of Wetherspoons
before noon’s more expensive meal

It’s a green cloth bag rattling silver words
curds with whey expunged and sponged away
tender acknowledgment of not-there-yet-ness
and yes, barking at the moon in June

It’s loving the way that a poem hangs together,
as leather smells when tanned and cured,
appreciating other’s flowing lines
knowing lines well as the wrinkles on his face

It’s the timbre of his voice I miss