Opening Day

(This was a poem that was originally going to be a heaven or blessing poem. It didn't really fit into either so I wrote a different poem to replace this. So far this is the only poem I have written that rhymes, although a rhyme near the end I consider to be stretched. It's certainly no Tinker to Evers to Chance or Casey at the Bat, but I hope it is considered decent for a first time rhyme poem.)

Oh, look at the cold and snow melt away

Just in time for Opening Day.

For it marks a game that will last into fall

Where it will give way to another ball.

Will #5 continue to perform at his peak?

Perhaps he will beat the hitting streak.

Will teams be able to hit home runs?

Or will they have to rely on their number ones?

Will #30 continue to bring heat?

Or will he suddenly look very beat?

Perhaps things will go the right way

For a guy named Matt Holliday.

Opening Day gives most teams with hope.

But the Fates will tell all but one “Nope.”

Baseball can reduce men to tears,

Yet it signifies the best time of year.

 

How to Spot a Douchebag

In a public place

Hear a juvenile joke.

Spot a guy

That has an audience.

At a stoplight

Spot a sports car.

See it speed off

To the next red light.

At a sporting event

See a guy screaming alone

And watch the beer vendors

As they continue to serve him.

When at a store

Hear a radio turned up.

See who did it

And notice the Bluetooth.

Read this poem

Notice the self-righteousness

Evident in it

And see who wrote it.

Boys State- Hell

Ring, ring, 7 A.M.

Hit the shower

Waddle to the lawn

Where boot camp takes place.

Time for calisthenics.

Do a pushup.

“Again!” Satan shouts eternally.

As you think unconscionable thoughts.

Never leave campus.

For if you do

The Egyptian Plagues

Will be unleashed.

Wander as you dare.

For expect to be interrogated

By one of the minions

On a power trip.

Oh, you up at 11 P.M.?

Want to read?

Well you can’t

For the lights must be off!

Meet your nice old advisor.

He surely must be Jesus

After he died on Earth

And descended into Hell.

Pretzels

Holiday pretzels are abound
Shaped like Christmas trees
The maze starts at the bottom
Or maybe it starts at the top
Alternating paths
With some potholes in between
If you conquer the maze
There is no reward for you


The roads of Arlington
Are shaped as a pretzel
Twists and turns are abound
With some protrusions in between

13 Ways poem locations

Well, I'll admit, I didn't actually read the poems. I read about half of each. Mostly, I treated them as a scavenger hunt and a chance to escape the classroom. Somehow, it always feels more liberating to walk in an empty hallway when everyone else is having class.

13 Ways of Looking at an Elevator

13 Ways of Looking at an Elevator

By Dan Crisler

I

Among four possible floors

The only floor I need

Is floor number three.

II

It consisted of five stops

Like a train

For which there are five groups.

III

Doors closed at the push of a button.

It is a large annoyance to those

Left behind.

IV

The stairs and an escalator

Are one.

The stairs and an escalator and an elevator

Are one.

V

I know which to prefer

Efficiency of a motor

Or inefficiency of steps

Elevator churning

Or motoring.

VI

Steel filled the doorframe

With hardly a smidgen

The position graphic above

Increased, stopped, and decreased.

That button

It ever glows

Waiting to go off.

VII

O dear elevator of Beadle Hall

Why are you ever so slow?

Do you not know it is 10 o’ clock,

Which will detract

Two points from Slytherin?

VIII

I know of healthy exercise

And repetitive, burning steps

But I know, too,

The value of conserving energy

For my well-being.

IX

When the graphic read number three,

It prompted a sigh

From many bottom-dwellers.

X

At the sight of fluorescent

Bouncing off beige walls,

Even those most pessimistic

Would cry out in joy.

XI

He rode past the lower floors

In a steel box

Once, a force applied to him

In which he mistook

Being pulled down

When he was actually going up.

XII

That motor is running,

The elevator must be working.

XIII

It is a gloomy feeling

Going up

For it is admitting

That class

Is approaching.

Limerick

There once was a beast whose name was Pat
He was known as a calico cat
He was chasing a ball
And made master fall
Now he is worn as a three-cornered hat