Poetry

If the reader expected a funny limerick about an Irish Stout or an tongue in cheek Ode to a Double IPA, this will be a disappointment.  I have only one beer poem and it's below.  It explains how my nephew Dan, my wife and I wrote poems together at O'Neill's Pizza Pub while Dan waited for a heart transplant at the Mayo Clinic over the course of nearly two years.

In the near future, I planning to publish the collection on Lulu.com: Do chicks really dig scars? Many of those poems are pretty good, a few excellent and together they show the pain and joy of receiving a new heart in a way that is absolutely unique.


Title poem by Dan:

Do chicks really dig scars? 

When they aren't from a fight
with the high school bully, but
earned in battle against Death
himself?

My scare aren't from falling
off a bike or a car crash, but
hurt just as much; they aren't
from some stupid stunt I did as
a kid, but from bold decisions.

I owe my life to those who cut me.

My scars aren't glamorous, maybe
even ugly, but, damn it—
they got the job done.


Below is my poem with a beer allusion that servers the purpose of explaining a special time for all of us.

Irish for Pizza

ONeills Pizza Pub, family run, marked only
by a small yellow neon sign, an Irish pub with
Greek food (both flags fly from the rafters) and
an Irish/German/American beer list worthy of
   Slainte!      Prosit!      and        Cheers!

A daughters marriage, we were told, changed the
menu so that ordering baklava with Guinness or a
hefeweizen as dessert to a feta cheese pizza with
tomatoes and olives, somehow, makes great sense.

Every Wednesday night, our ill-formed group
(get it—Dan's sick, illness formed...…never mind)
picks the center booth, puts quarters quickly in
the jukebox, and then, we wait not-so-patiently for

Johnny Cash to rumble out Ring of Fire.

Allison, our Supergirl waitress, as much a part
of Wednesdays with Dan as we are, takes our
high maintenance order:

a Schwarzbier for Aunt Gloria, triple-double pizza
(double crustdouble cheeseand always double
of their Oh! so sweet Greek pizza sauce), best beer
on this week's list for Uncle Cal, soda and poetry
for Dan, and whatever conversation that's on tap.

When Dan went back in the hospital, briefly, we
even ordered a pizza to-go, an excuse to tell Allison
that Dan's ok, just couldn't make it that week, tied
up with hospital tubing and an infection.

We came for pizza and a pub, and stayed for a big
booth with quiet nights to write and laugh and cry
(some tears happy, some sad) with great food and
fine drink and people who care—a sense of home
in a very hard time.