My son’s poetry: Friday Night in Kennesaw  


Professor, poet, musician, writer, father extraordinaire.

I’m trying to convince my son to publish a poem on my blog at least once a month.

He’s the serious poet in the family, I’m the occasional poet. 

If poetry were food:  He gives you the steak and I give you hamburger…unless you’re a vegetarian.  Then his poetry is like a fresh garden salad while mine is the overcooked peas.

If you’d like to see more of his poetry, please let him know in the reply section.


Friday Night in Kennesaw


From thirty rows up I could see  

The whole of the field, spread out  

Its former farmland made spritely for  

Visitors, players, instrumentalists mulling about  


While the local team hammered the opposition,  

They call them warriors for days like this  

When nothing but lines of teenagers  

And aggression can’t be sealed with a kiss  


Or parents observing above. The stands,  

Metal antiquities pressed to hard, durable seating  

From forges and the 200-decibel loudspeaker to my right,  

And to my left, the mother I met at meet and greet  


Two years ago, dancing to the kickoff chant,  

A reminder of 90s clubs and flip phones we left behind  

Along with follicles and long dried conditioner,  

Of which those on the field have no knowledge,  


Nor would the child, holding her euphonium, marching  

For the first time across that same field, smile intact,  

And her father, iPhone raised in solemn recording,  

While the lady to my side tells me about why she’s apt  


To go back to school after four kids and twenty years  

Of no job, loudspeaker still pushing us against our hands  

And breezes, not from voice or line or even musical chants,  

Can take us back onto the lost and ever clamoring lands.  




More about my son:

  • He’s a full professor teaching Spanish and Portuguese language and literature. 
  • He’s a student working towards a Bachelor’s degree in Music.
  • He’s the single father of a soon-to-be-14 daughter who is too smart for her own good, and…
  • Yes, ladies, he cleans, cooks, and does laundry!

You can find more of his poetry at: