Posts Tagged ‘ poetry ’




As we trudge along the wild uncharted

trails of civilization, there’s nothing

more refreshing than recognition

from another Earthling.

You know, a little eye talk, a smile,

a nod, a wink, a pinch, a salute,

or simply a pleasant, “Hi.”

It’s invigorating to encounter a

stranger smitten with acute benevolence.

After all, our journey is quite brief.

It can end abruptly, or painfully

last far longer than expected.  

So what’s the sense of traipsing

through life as sour-faced

scaredy-cats or pompous schmucks?

The laws of civilized-jungle-survival

are obvious: Steer clear of

grizzly bears in dark alleys.

Don’t tweak a werewolf’s snout.

Even at safe havens like

the Coffee Bean or Starbucks,

never fall for a line delivered by

an amorous silver back sporting a Rolex.

That beast wants nothing more than

to drag you off into the brush.

Predatory creatures definitely exist.

But that’s no reason to curl up

like a porcupine trying to hide your

very essence from passersby’.

If you bump into a wildebeest,

try not to be intimidated

by his scraggly demeanor.

Pounding beneath that gruff exterior,

you might discover a caring heart.

As those mousey mortals with

their deadpan pusses parade by,

startle them with a harsh, “Boooo!”

While they’re scurrying away,

eyes cast downward and

tail tucked between their legs,

howl after them, “Hey!

I’m just a fellow traveler

in search of a kind word…

I don’t even bite!

— Boots LeBaron —




What if the Supreme Being was an abused woman?

What if Charles Darwin had just been kidding about evolution?

What if political campaigns were conducted with integrity?

What if Viagra was a placebo?

What if Armageddon was coming next week?

What if all religious leaders took vows of poverty?

What if intelligent design was scientific fact?

What if St. Peter had to install metal detectors?

What if there was no life after death?

What if God had His own Facebook on the Internet?

What if Shakespeare was a plagiarist?

What if Purgatory wasn’t such a hellhole after all?

What if Man was a failed extraterrestrial test-tube experiment?

What if atheists leased offices in Vatican City?

What if humanity ran out of water?

What if gays outnumbered heterosexuals?

What if Pablo Picasso had decided to be a bail bondsman?

What if euthanasia was a legal alternative to convalescent homes?

What if anti-pollution activists controlled oil-drilling rigs?

What if President Barack Obama was white?

What if political photo-ops were outlawed?

What if sharks could be found only in the sea?

What if all the poverty stricken could dine free at Denny’s?

What if Adam and Eve refused to sample the forbidden fruit?

What if pork-barrel spending was strictly a hog’s nightmare?

What if dock workers didn’t cuss?

What if prescription drugs were cost friendly?

What if Jesus Christ appeared as an anchorman on TV?

What if jurors came void of preconceived notions?

What if Hooter’s was a sanctuary for endangered owls?

What if using religion to win votes was a felony?

What if there was no McDonald’s?

What if pomposity was a crime punishable by water-boarding?

What if lobbyists couldn’t buy votes on Capitol Hill?

What if Babe Ruth or Jackie Robinson were playing baseball today?

What if women earned salaries equal to their male counterparts?

What if there was a pill to cure greed?

What if all racial bigots woke up with black or brown faces?

What if The Pope would help curb overpopulation?

What if 72 virgins was basically a heavenly marketing ploy?

What if terrorism wasn’t empowered by religious extremism?

What if slumlords had to live in their own squalor?

What if Chanel No. 5 was a 99 Cents Only Store item?

                        — Boots LeBaron —








How real are we?

How true are we

to ourselves?

Compelled by the

need to succeed,

are we no more than

fashion clones,

clusters of puppets

manipulated by designers,

clothing manufacturers,

The Stanislavski method of acting

made commercial by Lee Strasberg?

Are we the by-products

of images created

for the big screen,

television, Facebook.

Must we succumb to

the twaddle on Twitter.

Did directors, producers,

writers, actors and the

make-up lady do us in?

Were we suckled on

this  bullshit?

You betcha!

Are our thoughts so

distorted by peekaboo

 innocent faced center-folds

that make male eyeballs

twinkle with lusty female sisterhood

magazines the playground of self-

obsessed males using  fashion  as weapons.

Is it possible that the lot of us are

governed by a legion of empty-headed

news-anchor types who read the news

a safe distance away from

camera men and women who, with

little credit, put themselves into

the line of fire?

Some of the greatest print journalists

I can recall, don’t look like George Clooney,

Humphrey Bogart or even Clint Eastwood.

They aren’t pretty to look at.

Today, the prerequisite  for a

TV anchor or even a talking head

is to look presentable, smile,

and perform like you’re there in

the midst of danger and despair.

Then there’s the world of fashion

That make male and female eyeballs drop.

The hemline is up.

The hemline is down.

The fly is open.  Pants hug the

butt.  Breasts are large today,

small tomorrow.

The rump is plump,

firm, pouting or touting.

The hair is professionally

ruffled, the eyes are sharp,  fearless,

and belong to Superman or Cat woman.

Study the eyes, the lips, the smile.

Test for tears.   They’re part of TV’s

daily charade grind that screams,

“Trust me!” attempting to

 captures the hearts of

audiences everywhere.

Are we all governed

by such pseudo images?

Has the human race surrendered

to such a slack of honor?

Should we blame celebrities

who in reality can’t even

control their own lives?

Yet we bow with respect to these

perfect facades because they are

our Kings and Queens.

 How real are they?

No matter how masculine,

feminine or gay they might be,

even those who parade on

Hollywood’s red carpet

are only human.

Norman (Jake) Jacoby, a veteran

crime reporter for the Los Angeles

Herald Express, looked like

a happy walrus.  When I was neophyte

reporter for the Los Angeles Times, he

broke me in as a police-beat reporter

at LAPD’s Parker Center.  His comrades were

hardcore detectives who loved  and trusted

Jake despite his walrus mustache, prominent

nose and sardine breath.   If you were in the

market to buy a shiny new Lincoln, who would you

go to:   my mentor Jake, or that Oscar-winning actor

  Matthew McConaughey, who’s constantly seen

peddling that sleek silver automobile

in all those TV commercials?

When it comes to politics and Showbiz

there’s nothing more powerful than

celebrity.  Sorry Jake, no matter how

I’d like to, I’d never buy a Lincoln

 from you.  But I sure like those

 Lincoln commercials.  And I enjoy

listening to McConaughey’s spiel behind the wheel.

      — Boots LeBaron —





Not too long ago,

I was walking down the street

when I heard the

 rustling of leaves

coming from high in

a maple tree.

When I looked up, there was

Francis Arichibald O’Leary with

that waggish face beaming down

at me. He was clinging to a spindly

branch that barely supported

his portly Leprechaun frame.

“Top of the mornin’, chappy!” he

called, tipping his topper.

“And the rest of the day to yerself,”

I said after a moment of hesitation.

For up to that point in my life,

I had been a reasonably logical guy

able to distinguish fantasy from reality.

At an early age, I came to believe that

elves, mermaids, gremlins, pixies,

brownies, even gnomes, were all

figments of our imagination,

conjured up to make human existence

more entertaining — dramatic.

Yet, there clung Francis with a

cluster of shamrocks sticking out of

his hatband, winking down at me

with a set of impish green eyes

magnified by bifocals.

Since I had met my share of leprechauns,

as sure as St. Patrick drove all the

snakes from Ireland, I’d never met one

who was more whimsical than Francis whose

coattail was caught in the branches.

“Before you forsake me,” he pleaded, “would

you be up to doin’ a kind deed?”

I shot him a skeptical glance.

“Wouldn’t you agree:  it’d be unmerciful

to leave a body stuck up in a tree on

such a fine kite-flying day?” he asked

“How’d you get up there?” I said.

“Would you believe I was tryin’ to get

closer to heaven?” he snorted.

“If I help you down, will

you give me an interview?”

“Yer pullin’ me leg,” he howled.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.   As I  began to

walk away,” he hollered at my back:

“Unless yer interested in talkin’ to the

descendent of Ireland’s King Timothy O’Leary.”

He pressed a thumb to his chest.  “This is me!”

The minute I helped him down, he pushed

out his double chin and explained with a

cockeyed grin, “Timothy O’Leary was not

really a king.  He was more like the

chief of a clan in County Cork.  But King

Leary did exist.  And his same blood

trickles through my veins and those of

my sons, Shawn, Kevin and Bryan.

They are all sturdy lads.”

“And where on the Emerald Isle do you

hail from?” I asked.

“Sad to say, I’ve never been to

Ireland.  My father, Timothy raised

 nine of us on an estate in Cambridge,

Mass. where he was a groundskeeper.”

“Are you truly a leprechaun?” I asked.

“Not only am I the largest leprechaun in the world,

I’m the only one with an engineering degree; one

who works with rainbows, pots of gold, taxes,

and has an adorable wife named Allie who teaches

college calculus. Think of me as an overgrown elf with

supernatural powers. That’s me!”

That spiel was the beginning of a friendship

that lasted many years.

Before we parted, I asked, using tax lingo,

“Don’t I get three promissory wishes, Francis?”

“Brace yourself,” he said taking a deep breath.

“May the road rise up to meet ya. There’s

one… May the wind be always at yer back…

And here’s me favorite: May you be in heaven

ten minutes before the devil knows yer dead!”

With that, Francis vanished in a puff of smoke.”

He was such a happy, unpredictable soul.

Passing away on Valentine’s Day

was so befitting the one time U.S. Marine,

aerospace physicist who dabbled in programs

 ranging from the  Atlas ICBM propulsion

system, analysing military ground support systems,

to kibitzing beach city politicians who for years

tolerated his magnificent blarney.

Right now, I’ll wager he’s gettin’ ready

to celebrate St. Patrick’s day,

dancing a jig in some cloud in the sky

far above the maple tree. That

performance, spiced with a touch

of pure O’Learyism will generate

enough razzmatazz to cause old

St. Peter to open wide his gates.

And leave the many friends he left

behind with heartfelt memories.

Toodleoo, old pal.

In Irish, that means good-bye.


— Boots LeBaron —


Love from Boots, JoAnne, and family.





As I sit and watch the dolphins

Cruising by the pier,

Cutting through the waters,

So far and yet so near.


As I watch the surfers ride the waves,

Not damaging the shore,

I find the two are close of kin,

This world they do adore.


Yet the dolphins must survive in

Waters polluted by the human race.

So it’s brother hurting brother,

What an ecological disgrace.


When we look across the waters

And breathe the air so sweet,

Why can’t we seem to comprehend

We’re desecrating nature’s treat?

We admire the skies, the Earth and seas,

The playground where we abound.

What must it take to convince us folks,

We’re treading on sacred ground?


A tiny speck in the universe, we are.

Is that truth so difficult  to conceive?

Earth belongs to  every living creature.

That’s a reality you’d better believe!


— Boots LeBaron —

 (Boots’ book, “THE HUMAN RACE,” is available

on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon.  It contains

stories about real people, light poetry and essays)






Has the Holiday Rush got to you, too? Listen to

Santa’s plea to an airport security officer in the

North Pole fearing that his flight might be delayed:


Your pat down brings out my usual H0-Ho-Ho!

It tickles so much, it’s misleading, you know?


I’m suffering from a case of holiday stress.

With deliveries to make, it’s a ridiculous mess!


My feisty Elves took a joy ride into the ozone.

That’s where they collided with an unmanned drone.


So my supersonic sleigh’s in need of repair.

On Christmas Eve, it’s gotta take us everywhere!


What makes things worse, Rudolph has the flu.

His bright red nose has turned dark blue.


We’re about to mobilize for the Yuletide rush?

If we can’t deliver, so many spirits we’ll crush.


Few people are aware of all the work we must do.

There are many merry makers who don’t have a clue.


You even seized my boots with bells that jingle!

Is that any way to treat old Kriss Kringle?


— Boots LeBaron —

(Boots’ book, THE HUMAN RACE, contains stories,

poetry and essays about life and ordinary people.

It’s available on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon or by clicking the link below)




I awoke to

the downpour

a  winter’s rain.

Its light fingers

swept across the roof,

then spanked the streets.

Water spilled  

from the eves

rustling the leaves,

pelting the tin shed.

Thunder punctuated the

night like deafening

cymbals turning the

curtain of tumbling tears

into a whispering chorus.

The concert  was free

for those who listened

in respectful solitude.

The sounds alerted the

senses singing that

existence was far more

than a pleasant dream.

It was a wondrous symphony

preserved in our hearts.

The indisputable lesson

would never die and

forever live for

 the mind to ponder.


Boots LeBaron

(Boots’ book, THE HUMAN RACE, contains

inspirational and humorous human interest

stories, essays and poetry about life, death,

romance, courage, art, etc.  It’s available on

Kindle and in paperback on Amazon)

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