Poetry by Squibb

He’s getting warmed up!

ODE TO NOVEMBER

It’s early November, the leaves are half down
Some folks have the blues, some soon will leave town

But an iceman’s keen memory brings up the years
when–against all the odds–this month banished our fears

By heading far North, or a longish cold snap
we rigged up the boats, and shot out on the black

This Fall I’ve been wondering, is there still strength to frig?                                                 can I hoist that tall mast? can I back up the rig?

There’s a grace in the quitting, before winding down
I’ll go traveling with sweetie, we’ll get out of town

So I wandered on over, to a wizard near-by
as you open his shop-door, you can’t guess what you’ll spy

 
There gleamed a new iceboat, so small and so bold
which he claimed he was building for a friend growing old. 

 
A friend who’s downsizing, yet won’t lay out in the blast
who’s fed up with trailers, but hates to come last

And just as the bait tasted sweet ‘tween my teeth
I felt a sharp hook, that lay buried beneath.

That wise man downsizing, who’s lightening the gear
I know him already: he’s standing right here!

A quick calculation: Sell this and sell that
I could have this new boat, and still die standing pat.

Would that free-standing mast–it looks good here on land-                                                 like others I know grow limp on demand?

Would she slither to windward, slicker than sleet?
Would she hike in a puff, could she harry the fleet?

November’s reborn now, the cruise ship’s on hold
I’m buying new gloves, lifting weights as of old

My obsession’s come back now, and the ending I crave:
Leaping–spread-eagled!–right into the grave

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2 Responses to Poetry by Squibb

  1. Al "cheapskate" Heath says:

    You are a talented writer and that can be done with stiff pen not mast
    Reading your prose has left me half-gassed – Burma Shave

  2. Don Stearns says:

    I vowed when I read this
    To not crack a smile
    I failed once again
    Jory beguiled

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