There’s more to a marathon than meets the eye

It’s a metaphor for living.
Like “The Boston,” life’s a race.
There are hills, downpours and shin splints.
There’s a stiff wind in your face.

While you run it flanked by others,
often times you feel alone.
You get winded and discouraged.
You’re exhausted to the bone.

Life is never like a cake walk.
It’s a marathon at best.
It’s a measure of endurance.
It’s a complicated test.

But a second wind awaits you
if you pace yourself each day.
Dropping out is not an option.
Finish strong! Go all the way!

A needed diversion from a non-ending war

O please take me out to the ballgame.
I’m tired of bloodshed and war.
And though it’d be nice if the home team prevails,
I’m not that concerned with the score.

What I need is a break from the headlines.
Nine innings away from Iraq.
Just give me some strike outs and several home runs
before CNN brings me back.

Our bases in Bahgdad and elsewhere
are loaded with B-52s.
And though I am glad that those jets are on base,
I’m weary of watching the news.

Today I’ll choose four other bases
and offensive weapons called bats.
The non-ending toll in both dollars and lives
will give way to some happier stats.

* This poem originally appeared on this website three years ago

Exploring the uniform thrill of Spring Training;
Being Frank about Ernest

It’s cold up north, but you don’t care.
The smell of pine tar’s in the air.
The Boys of Summer know it’s time.
Spring Training has begun.

You watch them stretch and loosen up
and hear an ump say “batter up!”
The warmth of sunshine melts the blahs
of winter’s frigid chill.

Besides the players getting fit,
they’ll even sign your youngster’s mitt.
It’s baseball like it used to be.
Up close and personal.

It is the dream of every fan
to cheer your team and get a tan
while those back home are shov’ling snow
Hey, pass the peanuts please.

And while the games don’t really count,
excitement soars and starts to mount.
Spring Training means that op’ning day
is coming into view.The following brief poem celebrates the passing of Ernest Gallo who died this past week at the ripe old age of 97.Being Frank about Ernesta toast to the wine king who died this past week

Ernest Gallo knew his grapes.
Stomped them till they whined.
He and brother Julio
aged their casks with time.

In Modesto he was known
as the vineyard king.
Gallo was a hallowed name
so his praise we sing.

Lift your glasses heavenward.
Here’s to Ernest G.
Napa Valley owes its fame
to the likes of he.

A slightly biased prediction of Super Bowl XLI

It’s not a myth
that Lovie Smith
knows how to wake da Bears.
Once hibernating carnivores
smell victory in the air.

Their lengthy sleep
made Bears fans weep.
But those days are now past.
Our victory dance is bowing down.
We’ve tears of joy at last.

While some thought Rex
had brought a hex,
he proved his critics wrong.
And come the fourth in Florida,
he’ll mesmerize the throng.

Miami isn’t Peyton Place.
His Colts are sure to be disgraced.
Those Indy horses are no match
for bears from Halas Town.

* Although the poet now has the privilege of being the pastor of the church where the Seattle Seahawks head coach is a member, he and his family lived in the shadow of Chicago’s Soldier Field for more than a decade.