Fireworks

Ready, set, explode.

The squad bursts into motion.
"Whatever It Takes!"
rattles the fans.
Cheers shake the roof.

The mat pops with tumbles,
hand springs and cartwheels.
The Audience watches the
flash and sparks of spirit
erupting into pyramids
with flyers shooting
high into the air.

Sounds vibrate the gym.
A calliope of tucks, tumbles and toe touches are
pinnacled with elevators, extensions
and double twists
bursting skyward.
The crowd applauds the
choreographed motion of exuberant skill that
explodes and illuminates the mat
in a spectacular display
that is a rowdy, beautiful cheer
of Fireworks!

Tough Chick

My muscles are pool noodles.

    My ankle is swollen.

I have bruises and a floor burn.

    But I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

The ball was alien.

    My hands were dead fish.

My head unclear with trash talk.

    But I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

Like in movies and in history,

    Like in this game and the others,

There are women who stood tall and said,

    I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

So I will shake it off,

    And I will face all doubts.

My ankle is taped.

    Time to suck it up and go.

Pass me the ball and be ready!

    I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.


For Grace

Silver Shield on Blue: Verse for the Fallen

The call comes across the state,

A trooper, a hero, on duty, has fallen.

Roadside stops routine, but ever dangerous.

A family is less.

His brothers and sisters in blue hold heads high

In honor, in pride and in sorrow and prayer.

                Oh St Michael, dear St. Jude, please

                Hear my words and bless this officer.

                “In the line of duty” are small words

                Compared to a heart of Trooper Blue.

Silver Shield on Blue Poem

Passion

                     in brief moments

it erupts

  bursting tears and laughter forth

  from a celebration of the senses

  phoenix born from another’s fire

other moments, a spark ignites

  slowly, nibbling, savoring

  all it takes in until

  it roars desire

melding with the soul

              it hungers for more

              craving to be, create, become

              the art that sustains

passion drives to do

               to go beyond mortal limits

               to the essence of true living

               expressing exuberant form

               in a clash of blood and spirit

               dancing and singing

               to live eternally

                                    in brief moments

That Guy

He may be that guy

that’s there at every game

cheering loud, or might be cursing the ref.

He may be that guy

that with few words to say,

is gruff, or might be a lullaby.

He may be that guy

that is at work, long on time,

chasing providence, or might be a dream.

Yet, he is that guy

that is there when needed like a hero,

no cape, but just as bold,

ready to leap, outside brave,

strong face, sturdy and dependable,

"don’t mess with my kids.”

He is that guy,

a paradox of close and distant,

gentle but rugged,

unbreakable yet bending.

He is that guy

that takes on a complex role

for a simple man

of being a father, a dad.

Yeah,

he is that guy.

Brick Girl

On good days, I see her

sitting on a low wall of bricks.

Sun shining in patches through

the leaves, touching highlights

of her cheek, her light hair,

her hazel eyes.

Serene, looking out

toward the road, statuesque,

in the bustle of others around her.

Her bag leans against the wall.

She sits with her

knees up, arms hugging her legs,

casually, relaxed and patient,

waiting for her ride.

In this pose upon brick

she floats, reflective like

a quiet song with Irish lilt,

harmony with airy whispers,

eyes dreamily smile toward

a vision not yet formed

but promising of beauty,

a mirror of her.

On gloomy days,

the wall grunged in rain,

she waits elsewhere,

and I wait for a good day

to see the brick girl

lazily, gently sitting

with a shadow of a smile

and warm grace in her eyes,

patient yet eager,

looking forward and waiting. 

Silver Shield on Blue

One week into the job

The rookie pulls a boy from a car wreck.

He clings tightly onto the blue uniform

But he doesn’t cry.

He is safe in the arms of the officer.

The new blue smiles ignoring pain and says a prayer,

            Michael and Jude, I am the protector,

            The one who faces impossible tasks.

            “I’m going to be a cop too,” said the boy.

            Yeah, this is what I do.

Some years and many miles on the road

Icing a twisted knee from a failed pursuit.

The officer pulls off the uniform that reeks

From the rousted whino.

A call comes from a former classmate with news.

One from their number has fallen in the line of duty.

            Michael and Jude, How can I protect

            And face the tasks ahead without purpose?

            Checking on your toddling child a siren echoes in the distance.

            Yeah, stroking the little head, I can continue to do.

Partners have come and gone, cars have changed.

Knee surgery and temporary desk duty have added a few pounds,

Slowing the step and tightening the blue collar.

Ol’ Cap is hospitalized from stress on the heart.

Whiskey bites the throat

Its all been the same, nothing ever changes

            Michael and Jude, I need some protection

            and help with the job I do.

            On the table , drawn in crayon, is a boxy car and officer in blue.

            Yeah, that’s the trick, I can go on a few.

Its an odd bit a fate that has brought the circle round

Yesterday, a trouble teen said ‘thanks’ and gave a hug.

Today, at the academy, an unusual invite did bring.

A new officer gets inducted and acknowledged today.

The boy from the car.

He shakes your hand with strength the way you did back when.

You pass on a gift of Don Quixote with the inscription that read,

            “Michael and Jude, To Serve and Protect

            Is an impossible job to do.

            Yet, Quixote did manage to joust a windmill.”

            Yeah, you salute, silver shield on blue.