tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17651423669476885412024-02-20T04:04:22.200-08:00Bill Crider's PoemsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02350478005243505108noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765142366947688541.post-53396671020882820832011-06-24T06:55:00.000-07:002011-06-24T06:56:07.765-07:00Jogging with John<div><b>I thought about John Keats today</b></div><div><b>and about St. Agnes’ Eve,</b></div><div><b>how bitter chill it was.</b></div><div><b>Down here in the swampland</b></div><div><b>there is no chill,</b></div><div><b>and as I ran this morn</b></div><div><b>sweat pumped from every pore.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>I thought about the owl,</b></div><div><b>a’cold, for all his feathers.</b></div><div><b>If I had feathers</b></div><div><b>I’d choose to have them on my feet.</b></div><div><b>I’d fly along th’ heat-shimmered street</b></div><div><b>like wingéd Hermes</b></div><div><b>on a mission from the gods,</b></div><div><b>dropping off a billet doux</b></div><div><b>from Aphrodite to her husband,</b></div><div><b>lame Hephaestus, at work below</b></div><div><b>at th’ eternal forge.</b></div><div><b>The heat that blasts his seaméd face</b></div><div><b>is of the dry variety</b></div><div><b>and would seem a quaint relief to me.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>When I reached home at last, </b></div><div><b>Keats met me at the door</b></div><div><b>(only one of us was real;</b></div><div><b>take your pick).</b></div><div><b>We took our seats on my front porch bench</b></div><div><b>each in his hand a beaded glass</b></div><div><b>filled with ice and lemonade,</b></div><div><b>and I managed not to smack him</b></div><div><b>when he toasted me with his and said,</b></div><div><b>“Hot enough for you, Bill?”</b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02350478005243505108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765142366947688541.post-47354111853887485832011-05-04T06:51:00.000-07:002011-05-04T06:52:12.228-07:00This morning<div><b>This morning I jogged down College Street</b></div><div><b>in the thick shade cast by twelve tall trees</b></div><div><b>and I remembered running along that same street</b></div><div><b>when there was no shade</b></div><div><b>because there were no trees.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Warm up</b></div><div><b>the Geezer Bus.</b></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02350478005243505108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765142366947688541.post-43833657099509375232011-02-24T07:50:00.001-08:002011-02-24T07:50:28.033-08:00<div><b>Shoved aside by the wind’s huge hand</b></div><div><b>I tumbled toward the roadside ditch</b></div><div><b>landed on my shoulder</b></div><div><b>and rolled like an action-movie hero</b></div><div><b>though I didn’t spring to my feet</b></div><div><b>and hose a villain with an Uzi.</b></div><div><b>Instead I lay on my back</b></div><div><b>and hoped that the passersby</b></div><div><b>would think I was studying cloud formations</b></div><div><b>and not some old fool who’d fallen</b></div><div><b>while he was running</b></div><div><b>when he should have been at home in his underwear</b></div><div><b>sitting on the couch</b></div><div><b>reading the Geezer News.</b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02350478005243505108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1765142366947688541.post-12426702054291641392011-01-22T08:10:00.000-08:002011-01-22T08:19:32.494-08:00Little League Try-Outs, January 22, 2011<div><b>Twenty-nine degrees.</b></div><div><b>Clink of aluminum bat.</b></div><div><b>The ball bounces once</b></div><div><b>on the infield dirt. </b></div><div><b>The shortstop misses,</b></div><div><b>and the ball</b></div><div><b>skims across the silver-frosted outfield grass.</b></div><div><b>The sun is barely above the horizon.</b></div><div><b>The players cast long shadows,</b></div><div><b>taller than the men they one day</b></div><div><b>will become.</b></div><div><b>Shadows longer even</b></div><div><b>than the boys’ dreams:</b></div><div><b>the homer that wins</b></div><div><b>the seventh Series game,</b></div><div><b>the picture on the baseball card,</b></div><div><b>enshrinement in the Hall.</b></div><div><b>When the boys leave the Little League</b></div><div><b>will they play on?</b></div><div><b>Or will they become accountants,</b></div><div><b>teachers, soldiers, saints?</b></div><div><b>One of them might even be </b></div><div><b>like me,</b></div><div><b>a solitary runner in the dawn.</b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02350478005243505108noreply@blogger.com5