Monthly Archives: April 2012

Spring Train

This is a bit of fun I had with a list of names. All real people, all baseball players… and all with interesting sounds in their names.


Chippy Gaw, Frank Frisch

Paul Thormodsgard!

Razor Shines, Homer Smoot,
Choo Choo Coleman

Win Ballou!

Creepy Crespi, Sibby Sisti
Eli Grba, Carson Bigbee

Vida Blue!

Yogi Berra, Epa Rixey
Bomb Rivera, Barbra Chrisley

F. Tennaci, A. Szymanski
Estel Crabtree, Sig Jakucki

Showboat Fisher, Snuffy Stirnweiss
Country Slaughter, Schoendienst,

Willie Stargel, Casey Stengel
Fred Schemanske, Conrad Starkel

Red Schoendienst

Jake Stenzel
John Stedronsky
Jerry Schoon-maker

Oss-ee Schreck-en-gost

Homer Smoot

Vida Blue!


ubiquitous features,
interconnected, yet
singular during the moment
in their purpose.

the philtrum
is the vertical groove on the
median line of
her upper lip, slightly raised
in anticipation of another’s caress.

the joint between the nasal bones at the bridge
of the nose is called the nasion.
a union of features.

the glabella is the smooth
of her forehead between the eyebrows,
gently tensed before ascent.

but, the eyes,
the green shimmer in her eyes
give her away
each and every time.


Sashaying, as a kite
looking down on the canopy
while flying over trees,
a swishing tail
tied from pieces of red cloth.

She choose scraps of paper
with idiosyncrasy,
just to annotate addresses.
Collected them in split wood baskets
stacked on table tops,
between the stained porcelain cups.
Leaving little room
for today’s thoughts to collect

Under a furrowed brow,
she bought the best color
the highest thread count
for the lowest price
red fluffy dress,

simply to go unnoticed.

Poet in Mind: E.E. Cummings

For National Poetry Month, I wanted to spotlight a poet that I enjoy reading. There are plenty of them that I like…for different reasons.

One of the poets I enjoy reading is E.E. Cummings…Edward Estlin Cummings.

He was born in 1894 and actually wanted to be a poet at an early age. Between the ages of 8 and 22, he wrote a poem a day. He explored many of the traditional forms and by the time he was finished at Harvard in 1916, found a voice in dynamic use of language. His subject matter focused on traditional themes: love, childhood, flowers…all somewhat old-fashioned by “modern” standards of the day. Yet, he succeeded through experimentation with language and syntax, lack of punctuation or overuse of it, and was an innovator in concrete poetry, or shape poetry. Very much a romantic, he was able to inject life into a lyrical voice with such ingenuity.

A wonderful example of his use of language, and how the tone of his words shaped the poem (even though they make no sense grammatically) is in [anyone lived in a pretty how town].


anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
published in Poetry (August 1940)

Other poems are far more obscure and yet, architecturally interesting. The sound of the words together with the flow of the line makes a sing-song quality to much of his poetry. You can read some of them here. Cummings was raised in a Unitarian family and was a pacifist in his younger years. During the 1st World War he enlisted in the ambulance corps, and was actually detained and imprisoned for 3 months by the French on suspicion of espionage. He and a friend were apparently bored with their jobs and inserted veiled and provocative comments into their letters home, just to baffle the French censors.

O sweet spontaneous by E. E. Cummings
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the doting

fingers of
prurient philosophies pinched
and poked

has the naughty thumb
of science prodded

beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy
knees squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive

to the incomparable
couch of death thy

thou answerest

them only with


Apparently, the man was also a philanderer. He wrote a trove of love poetry, some quite racy. He had an affair with one of his best friend’s wives, fathered a child with her, while they were still married. His friend continued to work on his behalf as a publisher after that. Cummings had a way with words…

supposing i dreamed this)… (IX) by E. E. Cummings
supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-

your walls will not reckon how
strangely my life is curved
since the best he can do
is to peer through windows,unobserved

-listen,for(out of all
things)dream is noone's fool;
if this wind who i am prowls
carefully around this house of you

love being such,or such,
the normal corners of your heart
will never guess how much
my wonderful jealousy is dark

if light should flower:
or laughing sparkle from
the shut house(around and around
which a poor wind will roam

A collection of Haiku

It is April…which means that it is National Poetry Month. Make an effort to read some poetry, write some poetry, recall your favorite poem and share it with someone.

Here are some Haiku. small thoughts in fragments, just to get me in the mood, poetry’s sound bytes.


A fawn dug under
spring’s layers of mud and snow;
thoughts among remnants.


silhouettes on glass;
starlings avoid flying through.
headaches are a bitch.


Expect colder skies;
winds catch you sleeping in Spring,
tornadoes toss trucks.

Pirates lounge around,
dream of New England autumns,
judges and quarters.^

^apologies to Bob, Larry, Pa grape, and Mr. Lunt

Half Empty

The pond is full now,
overflowing from the weekend rain.
The wind is lapping
the water to the edge,
just under the honeysuckle.

There was a path and small landing there, not two days ago.
A place just near the waters edge, protected from the afternoon sun.
On other days, we’d stretch out and cast lines towards the center,
and let the bobbers sit.

I always wanted to pull the lines closer,
but you were content
to let it stay
subject to the breeze
and what lay just under the surface.

Let the fish come to you.

The bluegill always skirted the shore,
playfully darting up and back,
expecting breadcrumbs.

But you and I never fed them.

The wind in the brush reminds me
that the landing is now covered.
I’ll leave, but will return tomorrow.

Yet, even when the water recedes,
it will never be the same.