American Graffiti first big film,
Close encounter with alien.
Always good for laughter and thrills,
Did well down in Beverly Hills,
Early graduate with Hoffman and Ross,
Made Simon's Yonkers seem less lost.
Young Baby Face in Dillinger,
American President's Senator.
What about Bob's psychiatrist,
A music teacher with own Opus.
Richard the third gimped gay with lisp,
Dickens Fagin in Oliver Twist.
Won Oscar for brilliant Goodbye,
In Jaws younger, resilient guy.
Narrowly escaped great white at sea,
Narrator in King's dark Stand By Me,
In Stakeout sleuth-ed with Esteves,
Nuts lawyer proved who Streisand is.
Gained acclaim as Mister Holland,
Aptly named Doctor Leo Marvin.
Cast as Quad in Clark's Whose Life,
Tin Men mocked "Balmur" life.
Offered London Producer's fame,
Replaced as Max by Nathan Lane.
Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
112610
This is my attempt at an Irish drinking song. Anyone up for a pint?
Gather round my Gaelic brood,
For laughter, fun and cheer.
Friendly chat, a bite of food,
And another pint of beer.
Aye, my Irish brethren,
Come and sit a spell.
Ere be hell or heaven,
To where be off, do tell?
Pass the Guinness, aye me lad,
Pass the Guinness here,
As you're me witness,
I ain't sober now,
And ain't 12 months 'fore here.
Pass the Guinness barkeep,
Pass me another beer.
Raise your glasses,
Lads and lasses,
Here's to another year.
I thought I saw a rainbow,
A half a mile from here.
I went to find the end of it,
Before it disappeared.
There I saw a leprechaun,
Sitting in the clear.
He tipped his hat, winked at me,
Then said "Come over here".
He danced like a court jester,
He really seemed sincere.
I couldn't refuse his amiable gesture,
So together we drank some beer.
Pass the Guinness, aye me lad,
Pass the Guinness here,
As you're me witness,
I ain't sober now,
And ain't 12 months 'fore here.
Pass the Guinness barkeep,
Pass me another beer.
Raise your glasses,
Lads and lasses,
Here's to another year.
I saw a most strange creature,
While standing on the pier.
It had unusual features,
And created quite a fear.
Of course I wasn't sober,
I'd had a bit of cheer,
It was either the Loch Ness Monster,
Or the effects of all the beer.
While I maneuvered drunkenly,
He suddenly appeared.
He raised his head right next to me,
Then whispered in my ear.
It may have been the alcohol,
That drew the monster near.
I blacked out, now can't recall,
What happened to all my beer.
So, pass another Guinness me lad,
Pass the Guinness here,
As you're me witness,
I ain't sober now,
And ain't 12 months 'fore here.
Pass the Guinness barkeep,
Pass me another beer.
Raise your glasses,
Lads and lasses,
Here's to another year.
Yes, raise your glasses,
Make a toast.
Here's to another beer year.
Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
111910
The sun was bright,
The mood was light,
Weather conditions seemed just right.
That November 7th afternoon.
The crowd milled around,
Most bets were now down,
The world was watching Church Hill Downs,
The race would begin very soon.
There came the call,
And from each stall,
Marched 14 thoroughbreds proud and tall,
In the Breeder's Cup parade.
In front of them all,
Seventeen hands tall,
Came the mightiest Phillie of them all,
This was Zenyatta's big day.
She was loved and adored,
Had won it before,
Nineteen and 0, just wanting one more,
The five million dollar big prize.
The field this day,
Was by far and away,
One of the best to stand in her way.
Along with a whole world of eyes.
Though she had the name,
The fortune and fame,
Her toughest opponent this day would be Blame,
Her odds to win 8 to 5.
She'd won all her races,
As they all took their places,
The moment's excitement was etched on all faces,
As the anticipated race began.
They opened the gates,
Not a minute too late.
Zenyatta in the middle, out of gate eight.
All 14 thoroughbreds converged.
As the horses broke stride,
She was pinched outside,
Just like she'd been most other times,
She settled in the back of the herd.
Around the first bend,
She brought up the end,
Things didn't look good for the Phillie again,
She's been in this position before.
Down the far stretch,
It seemed she'd never catch,
The rest of the field and her 8 to 5 bets,
She fell even farther behind.
Then as in the past,
She ignited from last,
Caught the tail horse than began her first pass,
She moved up from the outside.
As she made the last turn,
Her legs started to churn,
A crescendo of cheers from the crowd was heard,
As she ran the last stretch in full stride.
Seizing the moment,
She passed each opponent,
Each one a victory, a bit of atonement,
It was deja vu once again.
But there in the lead,
Was that one mighty steed,
The one that odd makers had all agreed,
The one whose confidence was fed.
As Zenyatta drew nearer,
Blame seemed to hear her,
Neither horse gave or showed any fear,
As they pressed for the finish line.
The entire crowd rose,
As all eyes then froze,
Blame broke the line by less than a nose,
The Phillie a photo finish behind.
People seemed stunned,
Weren't sure who had won,
Maybe the greatest horse race ever run,
Decided in one picture frame.
The official call came,
The winner was Blame,
It all seemed surreal, kind of a shame.
No storybook ending this day.
Many asked why,
Her jockey just cried,
It was almost as if Zenyatta had died.
Most folks couldn't believe what they saw.
But what fans will recall,
Was how she gave her all.
Captured the hearts and souls of us all.
That Saturday afternoon in the Fall,
Zenyatta still stood proud and tall.
Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
110810
The Giants Win!
The Giants Win!
Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!
Let's celebrate again!
From the depths of the National League West,
They're now baseball's absolute best.
Hip hip, hurray, hip hip hurray,
Who would have ever guessed.
Not since 1954,
Had they won the World Series before.
Back in the days of Willie Mays.
Known as The Say Hey Kid in his days.
Sixty six long years ago,
Twenty four thousand days or so.
Not since they played in the old Polo Grounds,
Never in their new San Francisco town.
Not since Thompson or Walter O'Malley,
Durocher, Mueller or Antonelli.
Wilhelm, Westrum or Eddie Stanky,
Katt, Alvin Dark or Willie McCovey.
Juan Marichal or Gaylord Perry,
Orlando Cepada or an Alou named Matty.
Red Schoendienst, Dusty Rhodes or Bill Rigney,
Dave Kingman, Bobby Bonds or his son named Barry.
Hurray for Torres, Sanchez and Huff,
Lincecum, Cain, Rowand and Ross.
Bumgarner, Burrell, Uribe and Posey,
Renteria, Wilson and manager Bochy.
Yes, let the celebration begin,
The Giants are world champs again.
No, not the New York Polo Ground ones,
Those black and orange Californians.
Hip, hip, hurray, Hip, hip, hurray,
Their fans will certainly remember this day.
No one can take it away from them,
The Giants are baseball's champions.
Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
110710
This poem was written to go with the accompanying pencil drawing by the artist Paul McGehee.In a field, near an old broken pier,
Set the remnants of an abandoned work boat.
The frame worn and sheered, reflected its years,
Several pylons kept it afloat.
Called Viola, its reflection told ya,
It had once served superfluously.
Its bows lined with tires were subtle reminders,
Of its yeoman austerity.
Viola was old and stories were told,
Of how prominent and noble it had been.
What would it take, to reinvigorate,
This once mighty sea dog again?
With a little TLC, this work boat could be,
The resurrection of its once vibrant past.
When it trolled the bay, for its catch each day,
Of crabs, blue fish, oysters and bass.
So many today are retired, put away,
Laid off like Viola in their time.
Our country's become an unemployed kingdom,
Where many have not reached their prime.
It's sad to see so many worthy,
Standing in employment lines.
The hypocrisy of bureaucracy,
Has become our nation's worst crime.
So many folks live with so much to give,
Yet haven't the means to survive.
They struggle to eat and make ends meet,
Find shelter and just stay alive.
Sure jobs exist, on paper and lists.
Yet it all seems like one big charade.
Those who've applied are routinely denied,
While those considered aren't paid.
Given a chance, the old boat could enhance,
Lives with so many mouths to feed.
It could be her way to earn her own pay,
Provide for so many in need.
So Viola received a spiritual reprieve,
Was restored and soon prospered again.
She overcame strife, found a virtual new life,
Is no longer worthless or abandoned.
Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
110610
The light at the end of the tunnel
Beckoned him once more.
He anxiously waited for his turn,
Like so many times before.
As his teammates each took the stage,
He inched closer to the door.
Then stepping into the spotlight again,
Heard the crescendo of the crowd's roar.
Like a Modern Gladiator,
He was dressed from head to toe.
His armor was his helmet and pads,
His legacy held in tow.
He hesitated in acknowledgment,
Basked in the moment's glow.
Before him stood his comrades,
Across stood his foe.
He fought a mighty battle,
Led one fierce final charge.
In the end, though bruised and rattled,
His stature loomed ever large.
When the dust had finally cleared,
His team had failed to win.
Still the crowd stood and cheered,
Their beloved hero again.
He graciously shook the hands of those,
He'd bowed to in defeat.
In the stands his fans all rose,
The stadium was on its feet.
As he left the field of play,
Those on both teams stopped.
Removed their helmets in respect,
To honor the man at the top.
The darkness of the tunnel,
Beckoned him once more.
He limped his way, helmet in hand,
His body battered and sore.
At the threshold of his departure,
He acknowledged those he adored.
He waived his helmet one last time,
And stepped through history's door.
The light within the tunnel,
Welcomed him once more.
He walked alone,
Toward his new home,
And never played anymore.
Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
110110
