The River Post

Poems

                                                                                                                                        A poem by Michael Hannaford -posted 3/24/16

What Attendees Are Doing at the Awards Banquet  (A Haiku)                    

If I had a phone
I’d be playing Ms. Pacman
like everyone else.

                                                                                                                                        A poem by Michael Hannaford -posted 3/1/16

Pratfall Peter and Laughing Jay: A Day in Portland

I slipped, bawled, but didn’t fall
on the black to pale worn light rail
on Holladay and 11th corner

stomach lifted as train shifted
to go; blared horn to O ‘Bryant Square
we perused the food truck village

 “Tillamook cheese, onions, mushrooms, please”
savored sandwich as bazaar scents wafted
American fare creation

block big bookstore; jaw-dropped, I jigged
through the door: I read therefore I am
which author/aisle/room/pile/floor first?
 
after Powell’s glow we went Rogue
IPAs made Jay burp too much
to laughter, I chose a lighter lager

in brewery we discussed scenery
Hood: Mount;  Willa: River;  Rachel: Waitress
by the fourth flight we were flying

out I slipped, yelled, and fell
bike lane green and rain bubble sheened
Jay laughed me back to the blue line.
     

                                                                                                                                     A poem by Michael Hannaford -posted 2/15/16

First Night  (a modified haiku)  

midnight intertwined
legs, lips, fingers, minds
wink of distant Perseus

                                                                                                                                        A poem by Michael Hannaford -posted 2/1/16

In the Bar Where the Band Is Playing the Song “Super Freak”   
 
             cracked concrete floors soiled sticky
                    raspberry red bull/frat-boy vomit
                    blueberry pack full/Pall Mall comets 
             posters of pompous pop stars
                    Elvis and The Offspring
             bartender with blush black hair
                     golden flash nose ring
                     white lace bra—that is all (for a blouse)
                     and a warm as porridge  voice:
                               “what kin I get you, darlin’?”—
                                surprising as a morning bell 
               in this dim fashioned hell

girls with worshiping eyes
gaze up at their guys
as if they were gods—
they decidedly are not

take Taylor—Miss USA brunette—
that Rick is all she could get?
that male superfreak?
the boys in the band hate him

‘cause he’d bust his brother
for a taste of another
gullible zeus gazer—
pathetic from her head to her red toenails

                           perhaps I’m embittered
                           bud label littered
‘cause Taylor’s not gonna meet me
in hotel room 714
                            ‘cause I’m slouched sloshed confused
                            too stuck in my shoes
                            to talk to the exotic bartender  

                            ‘cause I’m searching for senses
                             in the kind of bar
                             where the band plays
and I’m a freak.