Summerwood Poetry Readings

At Summerwood a new dialogue
Has made poetry come into vogue
They all read their verse
Whether funny or terse
Why didn't they ask Poet Rogue?

Bullies Beware

West Hartford bullies beware!
Of your actions the town is aware
If you don't desist
The town may insist
A wedgie of YOUR underwear!

Economic Boom

Three new stores in Blue Back will open
A sign of good times, some are hopin'
If you do the math
We're takin' a bath
There's more that are closin' than open

High School Graduations

Congrats to all graduates in town
You've learned all your adverbs and nouns
In your studies - excelled!
Without getting expelled
So march in your cap and your gown!

At Hall, a West Hartford High School
The graduates all thought they were cool
The economy faltered
So their plans were altered
They couldn't find jobs, as a rule

At Conard the graduates were told
Your diploma is as good as gold
But try as they might
Not even a bite
The job market sure has run cold

The graduates then signed up for college
To gain some additional knowledge
They are starting to sweat
Now that they're in debt
And can't even afford a small cottage

The job market now is quite bad
There's no use in getting all mad
For now, try to forgive
And continue to live
At home with your Mom and your Dad

Celebrate! West Hartford

Celebrate! West Hartford

Came to town in June

The arts, the crafts

The piano player’s tune

Paintings, sculptures, unique items

Creepy doll art candle holders

Photographs of local towns

Scarves to throw over the shoulders

Wooden signs for your front door

Ceramic bowls and handmade toys

Metal stuff for your front lawn

Clothing for your girls or boys

Walking stick and bamboo flutes

Jewelry hung up on racks

Key chains, pencils, pens and pads

Chiropractors fixing backs

Churches looking for new members

More and more non-profit groups

High school dancers, players, singers

And adult performing troupes

Children with their faces painted

Loose balloons up in the air

Toddlers sleeping in their strollers

And the red bags everywhere

Relaxing on a trolley ride

Had some ice cream on a waffle

Watched them play some mini golf

I bought a ticket to a raffle

Salads, hot dogs, and French fries,

The fresh made kettle corn

By end of day most parents

Would be tired out and worn.

Don’t tell me you stayed at home

And missed it all. Oh dear!

What a shame, but just remember

You can always go next year.

Checkpoint

I slow my car

Long line ahead

What’s going on?

I’m filled with dread

When it’s my turn

I answer to

The signals of

The man in blue

Asks for ID

Looks through the glass

Finds nothing wrong

Today I pass

As I pull out

My mind takes hold

Of Stories Mom

Too often told

A darker time

Another place

Checkpoints that my

Forebears did face

I drive away

Filled with sorrow

Seat belts today

What tomorrow?

The Taxing

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon an April dreary, West Hartford pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten fiscal lore,
While Slifka nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, at the council chamber door.
`'Tis some resident,' Brennan muttered, `tapping at our chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, how the townfolk did remember it was in the bleak November,
And every separate council member had vowed “No New Taxes!” at their doors.
Then ‘pon the election day’s dark morrow; with no way for the town to borrow
To cover town expenses without sorrow – the only other option residents would deplore;
Higher mill rates to fund parks and pools and to raise low school test scores,

Nameless here for evermore.

Open wide the door was swept, and with his budget figures prepped,
Inside Ron Van Winkle stepped, Town Manager since days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, strode toward council from the door,
And perched upon the lectern placed upon the council chamber floor -
Quoth Van Winkle, `Tax them more!'

Much they marveled how the ungainly budget asked for tax increase so plainly,
Though its answer inhumanely no long-term solution bore;
Then, as if the hike was fated, the new town budget was debated,
For which departments funds were slated. The townsfolk irately recalling vows of yore
Considered them what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, bloated budget bore
Just one thing `Tax them more!'

This and more they sat divining, with council heads at ease reclining
On their cushion's velvet lining that the florescent-light gloated o'er,
`Wretches,' they cried, `thy office we lent thee - by our common votes we sent thee
And now by what presumption meant thee, that our pockets still have more?

Is there no way to pay off Blue Back, gather leaves and to raise the fallen school test scores?
Quoth the Council, `Tax them more.'

`Be that word our sign of parting!' the taxpayers association shrieked upstarting -
`Before thy backsides we leave smarting, back to the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy souls hath spoken!
The current system you have broken! - Quit from the desks you sit before!
Take thy hand from out our pockets, and take thy form from off our door!'
Quoth the Council, `Nevermore.'

And the council, never relaxing, still is sitting, still is taxing
With excuses eloquently waxing, from the council chamber floor;
And their eyes have all the seeming of a politician that is dreaming,
And the florescent-light o'er them streaming throws their shadow on the floor;
And our souls from out that shadow of those taxes that they placed upon our door
Shall be lifted - nevermore!