I will be posting poems here that have been written since the publication of POET’S MODEL. I may post a few older ones as well. All will be included in my next poetry collection.

The Mighty Hudson

Sailors on a ship.
Passengers on a ferry.
Revelers on a yacht.
Lovers on a sailboat.
Loner in a kayak.
Fly on a popsicle stick.

© Michael McGrinder 2017



Nothing new about Mama smacking me.

In front of a nun this time.


The principal: Sister Eucharista.

Her lips tighten, pale, bloodless.

The top of her back veil dips forward

as she nods (almost, not quite)

imperceptibly (definitely displaying approval.)


Eight years old

as the smack resounds

throughout the school halls.

Ballpoints are new, imperfect

come with a wax protection,

sometimes hard to get them started.

Then they skip.

I get ink all over me.

His penmanship is atrocious.

The crime brings Mama to school

to the principal

I’m eight fucking years old!

I always know

I’m going to catch it from the nuns.

My hand sweats,

messes the paper:

it won’t accept the ink.

It gets worse.

I never finish.

I want to explain about

my sweaty palm

the wax on the tip

the cheap pen skipping

even on dry paper.

I start to speak.

The pen . . .

Never finish



Talking (back to, j’accuse)

to the nun, the principal

Sister (expletive deleted) Eucharista

Sounds like a dance


La eucharista ista rista

Leetle Seesta



My face red where hit

from the hit;

red everywhere else

from humiliation

and anger

and frustration.

Censored. Always censored.

Could have much to do

with my opposition to it

in any form. Ever.



For my penmanship

for my mouth

for embarrassing Mama

in front of La Eucharista

pale and jowly

Naaah eucharista !

Can’t get words on paper ?

Not allowed to speak?



How the fuck

did I become a writer?

       ©2016 Michael McGrinder

Now I Remember

It’s under something

that’s under something else
that’s under some other thing

that’s next to something

that’s next to something else
that’s next to some other thing

that’s on top of something
that’s been misplaced.

© Michael McGrinder 2016



Yes. I was
the plums
for breakfast.

They would
have been
delicious shared
so sweet
and so cold.

your oatmeal.
It’s in
the icebox.

© Michael McGrinder 2015

POET’S MODEL abookofpoems

Published on November 8, 2015 at 5:26 pm  Comments Off on POEMS  
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