Robert Bartlett

When the road ahead
Seems dark and dreary,
That's when our faith kicks in.
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Donna, my dear, it should be quite clear
To anyone who has watched you trot
An inchworm you, indeed are not.
For despite your sensitivity,
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The following poem was written in December 1978 as a letter accompanying a Christmas gift of a gold bracelet to my wife.
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Christmas 1978
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Oh, deck the halls with boughs of holly,
For tis the season to be jolly.
Alas, this season my spouse did reason
That a hot toddy
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Dear Vivian: 'With this ring I thee wed! '
Recall those words, sincerely said?
Since that day, ten years have passed
And the tides of time have gently lashed
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Oh my wife is always talking
About a little ring.
She never tires of squawking
About the filthy thing.
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The air is humid; the sky is gray.
Nothing seems right - what a dismal day.
My disposition is heavy like the sky overhead;
How often I've wished that I'd stayed in bed.
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Fifty years a priest you've been,
Fifty years of forgiving sin.
Sacred love propels your life,
While overcoming neglect and strife.
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Some would have the whole world wed,
Others would view that thought with dread.
It seems in fact that some will wed,
While others will wait, and wait and see,
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To write a poem is the task to which I'm set;
To write a poem says I, but I don't think I'll bet,
Upon the essence, or variety, or the choice of words I've used.
Since I've never written one before, I'm hoping you're amused.
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Gathered here as we are today,
One might think we'd come to pray;
Alas, I fear such isn't the case,
We're gathered instead to try and save face.
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I came to write a sonnet
But forgot to don my bonnet;
Hopelessly chilled, my mind now fades.
As the garbage truck is passing by,
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My mind is so preoccupied
This decision has been made;
There will be no poem today,
No poem shall there be!
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We're gathered at this place tonight
To honor Ann Marie;
Our smiling gal who at midday light
Received her baccalaureate degree.
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THANKSGIVING DAY comes but once each year,
Yet in our hearts, if indeed we revere
The SOURCE of HIM who knows no peer,
Who fills our hearts with love and cheer,
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I awoke on Christmas morning, and wondered indeed
What Santa might have left for me.
So I looked into a bag, that was underneath my tree-
While lo and behold,
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FOR THE DEEDS YOU'VE LONG DONE,
FOR THE RACES YOU'VE WON,
FOR THE THORNS YOU'VE PRIED LOOSE
RAISING EACH LITTLE PAPOOSE;
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In urban areas throughout the North people, who have to park on the street, have to shovel out their cars following a snowstorm. They often mark their parking spots by placing an old chair on that portion of the street before driving off. Sometimes these chairs remain on the streets into the Spring and Summer months, thereby contributing to Urban Blight. Twice, I have successfully used the following poem, which I wrote myself, (using the generic pseudonym: Your Neighbor) to aid in the fight against Urban Blight.
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Oh folks drive by and see me;
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Tonight my taxes, I've set aside;
With my government, I have complied.
Our burden of debt will now beget
A payment of interest, we won't soon forget.
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