Obama Inauguration Poem
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem:
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem.
Listen to more poems at WBZ News Radio.
A little boy looks up at night
and sees the twinkling stars.
He reaches out to grab one.
It's so close, and yet so far.
His little eyes fall slowly shut
beneath the radiant beams.
He's asleep, but stars still shine
on the horizon of his dreams.
Half an hour later
his mother tucks him in.
She knows his dreams are limited
by the color of his skin.
She walks into the living room
and watches the t.v.—
white men and german shepherds
in old Montgomery.
Her eyes well up with tears.
She sees the rocks of anger hurled.
She thinks about her son in bed:
"Why did I bring him into this world?"
Fast forward now some forty years,
the same stars overhead.
A little girl is sleeping,
warm and dreaming in her bed.
She's dreaming of the wondrous things
that silent stars can preach,
knowing that she's limited
only by her reach.
Her heart and soul will guide her.
That's where the dream begins.
She will not be constrained
by the color of her skin.
Half an hour later
her father's standing there.
He smiles at his little girl
and speaks unspoken care.
He knows that she is dreaming
and that those dreams will last,
and that anything she dreams
is well within her grasp.
He walks into the living room
and watches the t.v.
and is quietly amazed
by the things he sees.
He stands before this country,
his right hand in the air.
He slowly re-makes history
because he dared to dare.
He and his wife look proudly
at the flag unfurled,
both glad they brought their daughters
into this wondrous world.
Eliot Spitzer Poem
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem:
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem.
Listen to more poems at WBZ News Radio.
In this narrow slice of a wondrous world
the flag of weirdness is often unfurled,
and in this big country we often delight
in the sad details of a famous man's plight.
And so in the media we now address
the odd exploits of Eliot S.,
a New York pol who embraced the law,
was pricked by his own libidinous claw.
Governor Spitzer rejects his own creed,
engaging in expensive, horizontal misdeeds,
ignoring society's bright red stop sign,
living a secret as client Number Nine.
America feeds at the trough of this stuff.
When it comes to sex, we can't get enough.
From Bill Clinton to Gary Hart,
a public official's private parts
become the stuff of speculation.
We chew the crust of humiliation.
When the mighty fall down, we stop and stare.
Suddenly we listen. Suddenly we care.
How often we ignore a politician,
unless we have lurid ammunition.
When they talk about health care our eyes glaze over.
When they talk about housing we all run for cover.
But when sex pops up, we pay attention.
We crave a comprehensive comprehension.
We want the minutiae, every detail.
We want to know what makes a mighty man fail.
We'll eat the mush of the latest crude mess
that has befallen poor Eliot S.
His life's a car wreck, and we all crane our necks
'cause we have a story that's spelled s-e-x.
Hillary Poem: Should She Stay or Should She Go?
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem:
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem.
Listen to more poems at WBZ News Radio.
Obama and Clinton, side by side,
surfing on a political tide.
Barak, for sure, is slightly ahead.
Some say Mrs. Clinton should go to bed.
"Go to sleep, or run for cover.
Either way your campaign's over!
You're hurting the party. Now go away."
But Hillary doesn't see it that way.
She's in West Virginia or Oregon.
Her campaign is anything but gone.
Millions of democrats are very impressed.
Her message is honed. Her pant suits are pressed.
The political lamps in her head are lit.
We know that these Clintons don't like to quit.
She made it past Monica and Gennifer Flowers.
She follows a star that's tattooed with power.
But does she say to herself, "I just don't know.
Should I stay or should I go?"
Over two decades she's been through a lot.
The wars she has waged, the battles she has fought,
taking on pop culture's sex-lunacy,
or wrestling a right-wing conspiracy,
pulling off history's venomous leech,
standing by her man as he got impeached—
she's grown as tough as any boy,
this New York senator from Illinois.
But now she's on a limping llama.
The truth is that she's getting obama-ed.
She's swallowing irony's bitter pill,
getting beat by a guy with more charisma than Bill.
She's running out of time and out of states;
some say there's no question as to her fate.
They say, "Get a shovel, or at least a trowel.
It's over now. Throw in the towel!"
But many Americans voted for her.
They don't want her lost in a headline blur.
And they say—with no hesitation—
"We want it resolved at this summer's convention!"
As for me, I just don't know
if she'll stay or if she'll go.
A Poem about the Red Sox Jersey Buried in Yankee Stadium
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem:
Listen to Carl Haarer read this poem.
Listen to more poems at WBZ News Radio.
Somewhere east of the state of New Jersey
a construction worker dropped a Red Sox jersey.
A refugee from Red Sox nation,
he buried it in the concrete foundation
of the brand new Yankee Stadium,
thinking he'd have a little fun.
And to give Yankee fans some mental fleas
he made sure the jersey said "Ortiz."
It was Big Papi's bat that struck down the curse.
He put the ghost of The Babe in a red-lined hearse.
So the construction worker Red Sox fan
dropped a jersey dagger in Yankeeland.
But he made the mistake of talking about it,
and soon Steinbrenner was shouting about it.
With the bluster of Pharaoh, the gush of a boss,
he said, "Find that jersey, no matter the cost."
So the hard hats with jackhammers got right to work,
cursing their comrade, called him a jerk.
They pummeled the pavement, dug into the dirt.
They would not stop till they found that shirt.
And finally, flush with sweat from their pores,
they found the number 34.
It was buried there, beneath their feet,
under twenty four inches of solid concrete.
Here's what's so funny about this story:
it shows how the Red Sox are now bathed in glory.
Boston's the champ. It's us that they're chasing.
They fear the Red Sox sluggers they're facing.
Ortiz hits a baseball. They can't stand the sound.
They can't stand his jersey, two feet in the ground!
The Babe is long gone, and so is the curse.
The historical baseball roles are reversed.
Now they fear a jersey that can't hold a bat.
A shirt, nothing more, came under attack—
white and red clothing that they've come to fear.
The Bronx Bombletts should maybe look in the mirror.
It's a not a piece of laundry that wins a game,
that causes heartbreaks and drives you insane.
You'll need to do more to put out the Red Sox fire
than just dig up a shirt buried in the evil empire.
But hold up the jersey and ignore the fear,
then say in September, "Just wait till next year!"