Monday, March 27, 2017

Christopher Forrey, 1972-2016

“My glass shall not persuade me I am old,”*
though it sure convinces me now and then
when it does not so much flatter as scold.
But that  photo of you Chris, about ten,
with your face painted white like a clown,
I treasure as young Adam did the garden 
and Petula Clark did the song “Downtown,”** 
and Londoners do the bells of Big Ben. 
Your clown captures the mystery of life,
its sadness and inscrutability,
and perhaps, beyond the storm and strife,
above all, its ineluctability.
That you lived only half as long as me,
your father, is my most painful memory. 

                              Robert Forrey

*Shakespeare sonnet #22
**To hear Petula Clark sing one of Chris' favorite songs,"Downtown," on YouTube, click here.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Trump's Ties

          Trump's big tie (Photo from Esquire)

Trump’s the media’s waking wet dream.
He keeps the entire industry employed
showing blond bigwigs aren’t as big as they seem,
are not, as we learned from Sigmund Freud,
kind, considerate, and conscientious,
but rather lying, selfish, egocentric,
as well as compulsively licentious,
and, of course, above all narcissistic—
obsessively, pathologically so—
but also intellectually a cipher
with a mincing, corpulent torso,
a wannabe-blond bombshell like Pfeiffer.
Damn! He knows the size of his tie matters,
so he wears one as big as a clean-up batter’s.

                                Robert Forrey

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


She was a rose among thorns,
with the poise of a socialite,
the spring that summer mourns,
the dulcet rays of dawn’s first light.
She was a working class princess,
a faithful sister and daughter,
a paragon of thoughtfulness—
steady, come hell or high water.
But the opposite sex was her undoing
with their cigars and their drinking,
their chewing and misconstruing,
their habitual non-thinking.
Marriage—a miserable morass—
was the final blow, the coup de grĂ¢ce.

                         Robert Forrey

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Buried by Their Own Offal

               “Landslide at Ethiopian Garbage Dump Kills over 100”
                                                               News item.

Homo sapiens arose in Ethiopia long ago
and the first cultivated plants took root
there where now garbage dumps grow
like gargantuan piles of ill-repute

where the refuse of human consumption
rises like festering skycrappers of offal,
monuments to egregious primate gumption
that thinks glass, plastic and metal good landfill 

on which archipelagos of trash arise
on dumps predestined to be Mt. Ararats
where surviving Noahs, with bloodshot eyes, 
will find broken bottles of Bud and Labatt’s.

Progress began thousands of years before  
those titanic mountains of trash we climb.
When will return the pristine prime? 
No more! No, never more!

                             Robert Forrey

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Paul Ryan: Marathon Man

The more I see of his face online
in high definition, the more it strikes me
as unintelligent and asinine.
Second in line for the presidency,
after Vice President Mike Pence,
he’s nothing but a serial liar,
empty-headed, legendarily dense,
posing as a wonk and marathoner.
He didn’t win the only marathon he ran in
as a tenderfoot at the age of twenty,
a MIdwest wannabe from Wisconsin
turning up in Congress like a bad penny,
good only at one thing, self-promotion
as his own public relations agent,
addicted to a potent self-love potion,
with less body fat—he claimed six percent,
the average male's is 16 to 24—
but he won’t take off his shirt to prove it.
He’s thin and works out rabidly, for sure,
but unless they kindly let him move it
much closer—the finish line, I mean—
or let him at times slow down to a walk
or, like a dumb hitchhiker, thumb a ride,
he’ll not only walk the walk, he’ll talk the talk.
The only race Ryan ever might win
is the Stupidest Irish-American in Wisconsin.

                                      Robert Forrey

Friday, March 10, 2017

Busybody Birds

                  Rubins, A View of Het Steen in the Early Morning

Birds are busybodies, twitching their tails 
and flicking their heads like nervous Nellies,
the antithesis of sloths and snails 
and barnacles on boats’ underbellies;
here one second, somewhere else the next,
migratory, footloose and fancy free,
tentative as a deconstructed text;
restless as a caged Capuchin monkey,
fickle as a coquette or a housefly,
with the attention span of a gnat,
with no theology or urge to deify
but as inquisitive as a house cat,
with a stork’s wingspread to lift it as high 
as a box kite in a buttermilk sky.

                              Robert Forrey

Monday, March 6, 2017


Organization is the key to success.
Recognizing that’s the very first step.
Gainsaying it really creates a mess
And indicates you are a square, not hep.
Nincompoops have no organization.
Idiots have even less of it—
Zero, in fact, Hey nonny, nonny none.
Algorithms can instantly solve it, bit by bit.
They are organized to the nth degree,
In a manner of speaking, off the cuff
On which is scribbled brilliantly
Notations on space-time, that’s enough. 

                                Robert Forrey

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