Sunday, November 6, 2022

GAS Featured Poet: Thomas M. McDade

 


Thomas M. McDade is a 76-year-old resident of Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.  He is a 1973 graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.  McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA, and at sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091.) His poetry has most recently been published by Chariot Press ReviewFeisty Runts, and Dear Booze.  



 The Storm Virgin


Aboard the Mullinnix

My first storm at sea

I’m a deck hand exempt

From the word passed

All hands remain inside

The skin of the ship

I fight my way

Out a watertight door

To secure loose gear

On the 01 level

I wrestle the gale

To trap a canvas tarp

That wants to sail

Me high and away

I battle it over a reel

Of cable as a kidnapper

Might a victim and pull

The eely draw line taut

As a lifejacket strap

The rain is a plague

Of antic inoculations

And there is no Navy

Vessel christened 

USS Immunity




Thanksgiving High


Over the Wabash welcome

To the Crossroads of America

Wild Turkeys a driving hazard:

 In Ohio Indiana and Kentucky 

Gas up at a Marathon Station

Kentucky Christian University

The times of your life

A Preaux Life decal on a semi

Hello West Virginia

Hal Greer Boulevard

(NBA jersey #15)

State Capital in sight

How many fast breaks away

Charleston Stadium

The Chuck Yeager Bridge

How many have mistaken

Their arms for wings

By God he flew under it

Korean War Vets sign on

38th Parallel North Highway

Wild turkey hunting

Season is in October

The same-named whiskey

Never disappoints

The ads say





 Moon Handling


A red ring

circles the moon

and I’m walking

the Parkway

but just take peeks

must beware

of cars and trucks

that might want to

do more than just

scare or blind

No sidewalk stroll

as trees have

popped roots

turned the asphalt

into tripping zones

An overpass

has fencing rising

from its rails that

curves inward

nine feet up

yet a man

or women with

half a mind to leap

to the road below

need only walk

to either side of

the barrier to

find a way

when eyes act

like binoculars

to make two

headlights into one

and more moons

than a mind

can handle

and the crimson

lunar ring

is a pair

of red lips

propped open

in aria or in

mock distress




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