Socks

Goin' to church this Sunday morn

and drivin' into town,

one of my socks is bright maroon,

the other one is brown.

I hope that God is colorblind

and all the folks around,

one of my socks is bright maroon,

the other one is brown.

--Pete Rheaume

A Ride With Allis

In the arms of Allis' Charm

I took a ride one day,

along the graveled country roads

and scented sickled hay.

I could see as kestrels see

perched on a locust post,

postured as that hawk would sit

sighting from his post,

and looked upon the rabbit's head

and down upon the quail

landing on the ditch bank

so nervous and so frail

What a ride it was! I say it was!

Past rock pile and past bale,

putting up the tiny roads

leading through the swales.

I heard the red wing blackbird scold

as I rolled on by his nest

that was woven in the willows

weeping on the ditches crest.

The freshness in the fragrant air

was gentle and so clean

with the sweetened scent of clover

potpourried upon the breeze.

As I drove on through the open air

the hours slipped on by like moments pass

as children play

beneath the sunlit sky.

I so enjoyed my tractor ride

beyond the county line

I didn't measure distance

in the normal frame of time.

Festooned in fancy pumpkin orange

decaled in shiny black,

that old Allis took me home

clear on to Sanilac.

--Pete Rheaume

Plea To Ireland

Dear Ireland,

look at you,

is it change

you seek?

Why Ireland,

is your beauty not

paramount?

You've warmed

the heart 

of humanity,

being Ireland.

Keep your old,

your meadows,

mountains and

Celtic ways.

Don't listen

to the

modern cry,

progress!

Twill damn

your lovely way,

your holiness

and pastoral charm.

As foreign men

with smoky plants

encroach your fields,

you thrive,

on what

new Ireland?

Jobs that buy

machines and noise?

Don't let those mundane jewels

mar your emerald crown.

You've shone

so well

without them,

old Ireland.

You've led 

the world

to cry

inspired tears.

Don't let

the greedy

dry them now

Please, fair Ireland.

--Pete Rheaume

The Oak and the Pine

"Son, can you tell me which is more mighty, the oak or the pine?"

"Father, the oak is more mighty,

its wood is hard as marble."

"Son, can you tell me which 

is more majestic?"

"Father, the pine is more majestic; its stately needles are as soft as the robe of a king."

"Perhaps son, you can tell

me, which of the two is greater."

"Father, they are equal in

their greatness, in that each of them

is what they are; they have no confusion

about their identities, and they have no desire to be

what they are not."

--Pete Rheaume

The Gipper's Run

The air was cold

the mist was low,

the stage was set 

for battle

T'was the game o' the year,

Rockne tugged his ear

he had trained his men 

like cattle.

"We're bound to be whipped 

without the Gipp!"

Shouted Rockne up

and down.

"We're gonna get skunked

ya holy punk!

You're gonna make us out

a clown!"

"But as the priest I say

the Gipp can't play,

he's been bustin' all

the rules:

shootin' pool,

cuttin' school and

tippin' up the booze!"

The Knute said "O.K.

you'll mind your way

when the loss is weighin'

on you!"

So the game commenced

with Gipp on the bench,

as Army was crackin' 

the whip.

The crowd was bad,

they were mighty mad,

they were screamin' for

the Gipp.

Saint Mary's girls jeered,

their boys were steered,

the opponents had

a gorge

Knute paced the line

as he looked behind,

Father Pat was talkin'

to George.

"I've had you benched

in the Lord's defense

but they're spoilin' our

fair name.

I'll swallow me pride

and I'll hide me eyes

if you'll win it for

Notre Dame."

George gulped water

said "Thank you Father,

I'll do the best

I can."

He snugged up his cleats

and leaped to his feet

that stirred arisin' from

the stands.

They had all gone crazy,

their brains went hazy,

their chantin' wouldn't

yield.

"Hooray! Hooray!

for Notre Dame,

ol' Gipper's on the

field."

Now George felt proud

from that roarin' crowd

they were yellin' out

his name.

His adrenalin flowed

like a waterfall goes,

"I'll win it for

Notre Dame."

He lowered his head

that was tough as lead

as he smashed right through

the line.

How the score did go

and the blood did flow

as Gipp scored the 

second time.

He stepped like a rhyme

and cut on a dime

leavin' Army in

the mud.

And he ran one back

for a hundred at that!

Goin' in with a gruelin'

thud.

He had scored one more 

but the clock was poor

and Army was still

ahead.

They ran the show,

they wouldn't throw,

West Point was playin'

dead.

As the ball was hiked

just like a spike

George drove with a

piercing pain.

Their center was down,

the quarterback thrown,

and Gipp had the ball 

again.

With hands of thieves 

and piston knees

he dazzled that standing

mob.

He leaned to the right

and cut like a kite

as the hearts of the fans

did throb.

with wizard feet

his dynamite fleet

sped him by the boys

in grey.

For the first time in years.

the Knute was in tears

as he watched the

great display.

The clock read ":o4"

he had to score to win the game

by two.

He formed his play

and galloped away

as only he could

do.

But the Army boys

they didn't toy;

They were ranked at

number one.

They chased ol' George

like a swine eats porridge,

but wow how the Gipper

run!

He had fifty-four 

to make the score

the Army was pressin'

hard.

With sweat filled eyes

and bruised up thighs

he was feelin' every

yard.

The knute knew well

as sure as hell,

that Gipp could win it

by two.

Like a horse with wings

the Gipper did things

that others couldn't

do.

Now their fastest back

give George a crack

but the champion

didn't fall.

He staggered a bit;

'twas blood that he spit,

but he hung on to

the ball.

Now Army had speed,

they were fast indeed;

they ganged him on the

one.

So 'twasn't just one

that George had on

at the blastin' of the 

gun.

With a groaning lunge

he made a plunge

for the yard that seemed

a mile.

He thought he was dead

but he cleared his head,

though it took him a

fair little while.

He glared at the board

that recorded the score,

after the sound of the

gun.

It clocked West Point

with twenty-nine points,

but the Gipper had scored

thirty-one.

--Pete Rheaume