The Club

This poem is dedicated to my most regular visitor, Peter Schreiner.

My poetry does not make any effort to rhyme, is not devoted to mathematical algorithms and contains no designed ciphers. Written rapidly, it reflects the expressive features of a moment. However, enwrapped is so much more. Conscientious readers have a lifetime to discover.

Regularly I visit my local Bowling Club to break the order of my life. Typing in the notepad of my iphone, I ponder whether to stay for a second beer or leave, as usual, after one.

Televisions high in all corners

Flickering quadrant sentinels

Beaming intolerable coherent jargon

Meaningless drivel; mass media spin

Monotonous tones stifling time

Rest bite from the gambler’s curse?

One more spinner is surely a winner?

Sentient ambivalence greets wizardry

Could faith conjure control?

 

The floor divides an invisible hive

A clique for each quadrant

Twelve circle tables, empty?

Pleasantly spaced; nicely scented

Ne’er all cliques present

Always one; sometimes more

Bar services coordinate disorder

Too much cheer for some?

Go home; lest you be told.

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2 thoughts on “The Club

  1. OT, there’s more vision here than I can fathom in three readings. “Flickering quadrant sentinels . . .” The image, set in my mind, “A clique for each quadrant . . .” That you speak of more than the local bowling club is not lost. “Meaningless drivel; mass media spin / Monotonous tones stifling time.” The setting fits the propaganda machine in living rooms across the globe. “Bar services coordinate disorder.” Love it.

    Clever. Excellent.

    Thank you for the dedication.

  2. They say I turn normal into paranormal, but I do comfirm that I illuminate the mundane. Perhaps not as the supreme classicists of the ilk of Milton and Pope, but enough to keep readers guessing as to the point of prose. Timeless poetry should never be fully understood and your validation is my greatest praise.

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