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Galactic Hockey

I imagine God and Allah with tears
streaming down their old faces as they sit
in a local galactic pub, drink beer
watch the world hockey game and have a fit

as their favourite teams muscle the puck,
Ignore the referees and sacrifice
any skating skill to score and think that luck,
high-sticking or boarding will win the ice.

"Well", says God, "it seems that our minor league
experiment has failed, despite carved stones,
prophetic guidance, and all our intrigue."
"Yes" says Allah, "we should have made them clones."

"Barkeep, change the channel, and bring more ale,
we're gonna put these losers up for sale."

Listen to poem >

Sun fills the cloudless summer,
birds are silent as they rest
in the branches of quiet trees.

On the patio, in the shade of our
big umbrella, the air is heavy
and our words fall to the ground,
unable to go the distance.

Angel, our neighbours' dog,
usually eager for a scratch,
hugs the cool ground
underneath our porch.

We decide to go to the beach
where we might feel a breeze
from some cooler place
far across the lake.

We buy ice cream cones,
walk barefoot in the shallows.
In the still air our words
tumble into the slack water.

Ice cream flows down the cones
onto our clasping hands,
we lick the coldness furiously.
It is messy but very sweet.