Gen X at 40

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Crowetry

Donair Poems

Alan McLeod

#1 Haiku on a Donair

Dark. Snow. Ale fun hours.
Young man prone, alone, drift-hid,
Blood thanks meaty warmth.

#2 Untitled

Just a cone wrapped up in foil,
Oozing whitish sauce and oil,
Gave the world one doctor's toil.
Fate's foe played a spicy foil!

#3 Halifax, January 1986

Look...there, quite by the fence,
Dark, laying in the drift:
Too full of Keiths his head to lift.
Not near the home he rents -
Heedless now of consequence

The snowfall lays upon his head
And gathers by his arm.
Jon is slipping nearer harm
and a frosty final bed!
How can Jon not be dead?

Ah...one small patch...the snow melts there.
Above his chest of sweaty hair,
Upon his heart, the guardian fare,
Within his coat, a large donair.

Steve Maher

Snow stings my forehead.
My footprints slowly fill in.
The taste of last night's donair.

Anne Gregory

There are strange things done
in the name of fun,
By "kids" who quench their thirst;
The Spring Garden slope
has seen the loss of hope
and is trail that many have cursed...

The curbside lights
have seen queer sights,
but the queerest they ever did see'd
Was the night on the coast,
when John drank the most,
And was saved by a bit of mee-t.

Now John you see,
wasn't fit for sea,
so to college he was sent...
As time went on,
his money was gone
and he couldn't pay the rent.

Why he left his dorm,
in the night to roam
through the taverns isn't known.
But nature ran its course
and he was feeling worse,
and said he was feeling spent.

(Several stanzas later)

...

And there lay John,
looking wan and worn,
his gut still on the boil,
His lips were a quiver,
his body a shiver,
but he lifted his hand towards the foil.

With spinning head,
he grabbed the bread,
and shoved it in his mouth.
Since he'd left his home,
the streets to roam,
it was the first food he'd sent south.

Soccer without Style Poems

Alan McLeod

Haiku on J.R.

Half a Bruce he stands
In net - on toes, flexed, focused -
The ball is tipped over.

"Make yourself at home" -
We do. Chip, pop, beer, smokes, steaks...
His bank account lightens.

A Players Light in hand
and in the other a beer -
curly locks of gold.

J.R. Manderville

Ode to Al

Thu Oct 18, 2001 12:16 pm
Subject: RE: [IdleCrows] Haiku about JR

gee al, how can i ever repay your kindness? lessee...

ODE TO AL

glacier-like, pale hulking mass:
lo! even now he approacheth,
belching guiness from the depths within;
pausing not to reckon at the bloodied mass that once was fritz.
those golden boots will ne'er him fail,
to them the ball seems glued; but yet,
the swiftness they contain could seldom be matched (kind mercury must have bless'd him!)
gracefully he strikes,
such fear was ne'er felt by any goaldie!
how true the orb dost sail,
we watch in awe-struck wonder,
as like a bolt flung by zeus himself,
(though the cage was ev'r yawning)
the sphere dost fly...

fore're high and alway wide.