After nine months of Hockey
Big Fred finishes a great season
done with the sweating,
the workouts and freezin’
done with the traveling,
time to reorganize his trunk,
done with the hockey bag,
and it really stunk!
Fred re-tapes his stick
at the end of each year,
takes his bag to the cleaner
where they sanitize his gear
goes away on a holiday
stays off ice the whole time
when he gets home he’s recharged
thanks to well planned downtime
Big Fred’s itching to play
now that he’s back
so out comes his hockey bag,
when he gets a whiff of that sack?
“what!, this can’t be mine,
it smells really nice!
I’ll have to play pick-up
to stink this gear up on ice
He proceeds to the arena
feeling big, ready and tough
walks into the dressing room,
all the players smell rough,
they peek above their hockey skates
at Freddie’s rose scented gear
sarcastically they ask him,
“you don’t play much ’round here?”
Smart Fred says very little
‘why give them a clue?’
nods in the affirmative,
thinks, “I’ll shock all of you”
Shinny starts on time
the Referee drops the puck
Fred wins the first face off
skates like a Mac Truck
speed and agility
like hockey ballet
his opponents stand stunned,
“man, this guy can play!”
Big Fred takes a shot
it goes in the five-hole,
and that was the first of six beautiful goals,
while shaking hands
Big Fred laughed where he stood,
then sarcastically told them,
“you don’t have to stink to be good!”
By Barbara Tremblay Cipak, Copyrighted
A Hockey Poem:
Is the incredible stink of hockey equipment a badge of toughness, of working hard…well here’s a poem to put this one away.
My husband says my poems are too deep
Complains they are too elusive
So forgive me please
This one’s for him
I’m keeping it simple for stupid!
Twenty long years ago I was struck by cupid
Got me right through the heart
Grown wiser since then
Tore it down to size
Now it’s a three inch dart
Don’t get me wrong you’re a fabulous guy
And I’ll always love ya honey
But if I had to do it over again
I’m telling you straight
I’de have to do it for money
Worry not my sweet you will always be
My little balding eagle
You’re always there
With your food dish in hand
Much like Charlie’s Beagle
I’ll stop teasing you
after all you gave me four perfect sons
They’re gorgeous like a seaside tide
Don’t get excited babe
You must have figured out
They get that from my family’s side
Ok Ok I’ll say something nice
You really are a great father
But before your head swells
Remember this, it takes a real man
To make a daughter
So this love poem is for you
All these compliments yours to keep
Can you tell how much
You’re appreciated now
Or was I just a little too deep!
From “the wife” (hee hee)
“You know I love ya honey”
By Barbara Tremblay Cipak
Poem, Joke: Alright, I wrote this as a joke for my husband. He finds my poetry too deep, so I decided to dedicate this “simple” poem to him. Ha! Ok, he laughed. I mean really! when I have to create a grade school poem for the hubster to appreciate it…I give up. Not. So this is for the man of my dreams *ahem*.
Wash the damn car
Seal the driveway
Clean the air filters
Empty the vacuum bag
Cut the frigging grass
Organize the garage
Paint
See that chair, don’t sit in it.
The dishes are piling up, let’s get ‘er done.
But wait, it’s raining, get the clothes off the line, FAST.
Look in the fridge, what do you see? Nothing?
Get busy, here’s the list, off you go. Have fun.
What took you so long! Gheesh.
You what! You bought a new lawnmower!
Let’s do the math. The square footage of the house is like
ten times that of the lawn, so why didn’t you buy a new vacuum?
Just wondering.Shrug.
Here’s the credit card, go buy the kids their school stuff.
Did you get the mail today?
About that credit card, don’t you dare!
You’re back already?
What! The car broke down!
Take the car in.
How much? Here’s the other damn credit card.
Your son wants a new video game.
Don’t you dare!
Fix that leaking tub.
You can’t fix that leaking tub?
Hire a plumber that takes a credit card.
About that credit card.
Did you see the hydro bill!
Too bad we can’t use the credit card.
Wait. I think we can.
The little guy wants some more candy.
Use the card.
How much is our house worth?
I was just wondering if there would be enough equity
to pay off the credit cards.
About those cards.
Fill up the car. You really need the card for that.
How much?
Can you walk to hockey?
Beer. We need beer.
At least we’re getting airmiles, yippee.
We need a new roof
We need new windows
When will the patio be finished?
About that credit card.
Credit card declined.
Now what?
Who’s your favourite realtor?
Me? “Grin” Yeah I got a Listing.
By Barbara Tremblay Cipak
Poem, Humor for Unemployed Men: Hey guys, you know there is some pathetic truth to this poem. Just wanted to make you smile. My honey barely cracked one when I read it. I wonder why?
I’m gonna tell you all their wicked little secrets
wait til you hear this stuff
*rubs hand in evil twist*..
I mean, since I don’t have to worry
about them ever finding…THIS WEB PAGE!
Payback’s a bee-ouch.
You won’t believe what your eyes are about to smell
hold on to your suntans and get ready,
I call this: “Reality Poetry”..
oh yah baby, it’s gonna curl your nose hairs.
All their juicy tidbits or rather
idiosyncrasies
gone awry
every twitch they make,
on www display.
ooooh, you will be so entertained and I will be so
therapied. <—(Move over Colbert, this word’s mine)
It’s going to be my finest moment and face it,
you WILL need some popcorn for this.
I’ll wait.
Go get some.
Now…..for the ‘piesta-resistance’
Get out the tissues,
cause you are going to cry from laughing.
Ok, first my Seven children…
umm what’s that snear dear reader,
“I’m contributing to over-population, am I?”
I heard that thought.
Seven children, and who’s reading this…YOU.
Yes, my web-child, you.
All the tales of holy cow are about to reach you.
Take a deep breath and hold on
for the wildest ride of your life…
Here Goes:
One is sort of like ‘you know’,
and three are like ‘exactly that’,
two are..unhuh..you guessed it!
and one is everything you’re thinking!
Tune in next week.
When I spill about everyone else…
stayed tuned.
”alla famiglia!”
By Barbara Tremblay Cipak, Copyrighted
Since My Family Never Reads My Poetry:
Ok. Who’s reading your poetry? Is it your family? Well, if they aren’t, here’s a little “www” threat you can toss their way 
Plus I figure I have a good shot at having my poetry whipped out at my funeral – great stuff here for the Eulogy: Gonna call my first poetry book – “Things to Read After I Bite It”
45 years behind me
I’m startin’, reachin’ for the dream
I left my front porch crying
Only tears of fear
Then wiped my face
To keep it crystal clear
Your too old
You’ll unfold
They’ll laugh at your attempt
Get back in the house!
Cook a meal !!
Don’t continue.
Check the menu.
The kids are needin’ ya now!
Leave your dreams.
Give it up.
Hubby’s havin’ a cow.
I had my dream evaluated
Measured, tested, and weighed
All the experts told me
I really should have stayed…
home on another cookin’ course!
Well I’m not a cook or waiter
So instead of changing all my dreams
I traded in ‘the evaluator’
“neeeeeeeeeeeeeext!” that’s my theme!
by Barbara Tremblay Cipak
Song Lyrics, About Not QUITING!: Packin’ In My Dreams: Today was the first day of the rest of my life – SORRY FOR THE CLICHE!! *gag* But really, I did take steps today, outside of my comfort zone to seriously pursue “my dreams” of being a songwriter/lyricist. I sure hope I really am “packin’ for seven someday! In truth, nobody in my house is stopping me from chasing my dreams. My husband is very supportive. The only person stopping me was (is) “me”. *slaps own face*
Look up in the sky,
“It’s a bird”,
So what.
“It has no wings!”
Are you sure?
“Yah, look, look,
he only has a body and an orange beak!”,
Hey you’re right.
“He’s trying to say something,
can you hear him?”,
Wait, listen, I do hear him.
“What’s he saying!”
He’s telling me something,
“What, What!”
Shhh, he says…’you don’t need wings to fly’
“Wow…
I didn’t think birds were that deep”
By Barbara Tremblay Cipak, copyrighted
It’s A Bird: I wrote this poem in the mid ’90′s. A humorous reference to the impossible – essentially a life message delivered by an imperfect bird – and the recipient’s not so bright.
Held Hostage by Curls: Being a Curly Top all my life, and lover of the flat iron, I have finally come to terms with my locks. So there you have it, poetry about curly hair, and quite personal to my life as well.
Held Hostage by Curls
One protruding curl adorned her head till two,
Uncaringly, she waddled with her swaying blonde lock,
A baby girl too busy with dolls and cradles
to be held hostage by curls.
Four years later she received twenty-four homemade ringlets by mom,
But its then she noticed…
Her friends had long, straight, shiny locks of perfection
She wanted that, but hers curled !!
So began the days of scotched taped bangs and blow dryers.
It was time to straighten her life out.
Other girls had bouncing hair without a single wrinkle, without a zig,
without effort.
But her hair became a masterpiece canvass of trial and error.
However, the magic words, “How To Straighten Your Hair”
written in a Blow-Dryer-Manual-To-Idealism,
would become her ticket to conformity.
It worked.
Wow, her curls transformed into streaming stands of shining fullness
Farah hair, incredible Farah hair.
Now the lioness of straightness was Queen.
Except when it rained.
Perfect hair was a task only for the willing.
Swimming became a chronically planned de-curling event.
“The bad hair weekend”, also known as “Camping”, was
a militaristic regiment of self nurturing for the hair flawed.
She could not show her corkscrewed inadequacy in its nakedness.
Not Ever.
Campfire sing songs by angelic girls
and their bouncing mounds of straight, flat, free-swaying weather resistant quaffs of silk
made her project of fulfillment a mission for the mentally trained.
Ready to securely paste her frizz mountain to her head,
she always came equipped with camping’s mandatory primary tools,
“elastic bands”.
Backpacking through Europe
was no match for the disciplined straightener.
Dual powered blow dryers, multi-colored elastics, back-up cream-rinse,
and lastly the most coveted travel tool known to mankind,
the electrical adaptor.
You see,
she was the General Extraordinaire of Straight Hair
and she knew it.
Nothing,
not one single thing
could prevent The Straight Hair Plan from being executed.
The births of four sons required carefully packed hospital bags.
Days of one hundred percent humidity,
also known as ‘Mission-to-Prevent-Insanity’,
were only a challenge for the bald.
She witnessed others with defective hair
holding a secret desire to straighten out there lives too.
She knew, Straight Hair was at the root of all problems.
And then it happened.
The unthinkable.
The event that could not be forecast.
The most unpredictable moment in her history.
After 46 years of never failing herself,
she had forgotten to elasticize her mound of glitches after swimming.
Side tracked like she had never been, her hair dried:
On its own. without any tools of chore.
As her husband approached, mouth hanging open like a feeding trout,
he blurted, “Your Hair Hon!, I like it, it looks great”
The Hair General was weak kneed. Ready to fall.
Eyes tightly closed, she courageously headed towards her reflection,
Before plunging into truth,
she cautiously peeked through the corner of her right eye,
With her mouth hanging open like a feeding trout,
her brain processed what must have been,
1000 twisted zags of reality.
This wasn’t for the faint of heart,
but the General could do it.
She knew it.
She forced both eyes open into a stare
lasting 46 years for one second.
She gently touched her sheep head,
feeling each kink, for the very first time.
Her swirls had never been left to their own devices.
Never.
She was witnessing a first.
Now you can look in the top left hand side of her dresser,
Among her keepsakes sits a dusty blow dryer
and a perfectly good flat iron.
From time to time she reflectively looks in on them.
She even ponders their use again someday.
But she has discovered something so cutting edge
it holds her back:
She cannot go back to who she is not.
Her individuality, her confidence, her smile, her soul,
her giving nature is what makes her beautiful.
She is her own person, and she appreciates,
for the first time in her life,
that Curls don’t make or break the girl.
Today she rinses, repeats, applies leave in conditioner,
muffles her curlicues, looks into the mirror
and knows who she is:
A grown woman,
the lioness of curly,
the embracer of self,
too busy to be held hostage by curls.
by Barbara Tremblay Cipak, copyrighted
