Thursday, May 4, 2017

Elizabethan Sonnets

It’s a given, after a certain age,
when it seems everything has changed—
it could perhaps loosely be called slippage—
that some seniors end up becoming estranged
from life as  grizzled salts do, by and by,
from land after spending their lives at sea.
Like flightless birds do the sky, they eye 
the sea as fallen leaves might a tree.
Outliving contemporaries and fashions,
outliving siblings, even their own children,
as well as thirty thousand setting suns,
they long to hear the Host say, “Say when.”
Things out of fashion include spats, bonnets,
and ornate Elizabethan sonnets.

Robert Forrey

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Shitty Manager Allen at Wit's End

Convicted perjurer Derek Allen's at "his wit's end."
(In case you're wondering, the above photo has not been photoshopped.)

When he became City Manager with Kevin W. Johnson's connivance, I publicly expressed the opinion that Derek Allen, based on his resumé and his conviction for perjury, is not suited for any public office because he appears to be emotionally, if not mentally, unstable. It was recently reported in the online Portsmouth Daily Times that Allen complains of being "at his wit's end." What is driving him crazy? Apparently emails. He finds the emails he gets as city manager driving him to distraction. If that is all it takes, then please join me in sending him an email urging him, before he has a nervous breakdown, to resign. He will be better off out of office and so will the city.

Robert Forrey

For a previous post on Allen, click here

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Lawyers and Attorneys

                                Honoré Daumier, Les Avocats

Lawyers like him give attorneys a bad name,
blacken their souls like smokestacks the air,
stomp on the downtrodden, virtue defame,
and always, always get more than their share.
Their patron saint’s the devil, whose cleft foot
splits the fee between heaven and hades,
as judges divide the ill-gotten loot
between rich gents and their shady ladies.
Lawyers are a necessary evil,
like consumption and IRS taxes.
They are to cotton as the boll weevil
and to shade trees as sharpened axes.
Lawyers live on payoffs, attorneys on fees.
A lawyer pisses, an attorney pees.

                                   Robert Forrey

Monday, April 17, 2017


My unhappily married neighbor,
a man in his mid- to late sixties,
said to me on a recent afternoon 
in the side street between our houses—
he was already well under the influence:
“You know in a hundred years
it won’t mean nothing you and me
were once alive and kicking.”
Retired from the telephone company
where he had been a foreman
of a repair crew, the men who climbed
(in those days long before the cell phone)
telephone poles with those contraptions
strapped around their waist connecting
them securely to the poles, up and down
which they made their way cumbersomely
to keep us all in touch with each other.
He must have been a functioning 
alcoholic able to stay sober while
he was on the job, confining his drinking
to evenings, weekends, and holidays.
A doctor of philosophy, I wondered
when he had first had the insight
into the insignificance of the individual
in the grand cosmic scheme of things.
He went to church each Sunday,
so he was apparently a believer,
but just what he believed would 
be hard to say with any certainty.
A teetotaling atheist, an English professor,
I didn’t have anything to add to what he said.
I did, however, think of a stanza
from Shelley’s “To a Skylark,”
which I recalled from memory:
“We look before and after, 
And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”

                                            Robert Forrey

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Little to Lose

Toulouse-Lautrec, Portrait of a Young Woman

“Resembling strong youth in his middle age,”
he was consumed by unbound vanity,
as if trappings were not mere equipage,
and vanity were not inanity.
If an aging woman is not aware
she’s not as young as she formerly was,
she represents the unanswered prayer
that children offer up to Santa Claus.
But a man who was never beautiful,
or likened to a blossoming flower,
was never captivating but dutiful
to masculinity’s dour golden hour.
While an aging man has not much to lose,
a gal’s a gallery with a Toulouse to lose.
                                 Robert Forrey

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

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

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