Poem Home

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Welcome to our landing spot highlighting the many poems from Flominic, who also is known as Dominic Farrenkopf. His poems will appear here regularly through the year. Weekly you can also find a printed copy at Chapter One Book Store in Hamilton. For many, many other poems check his website.

Shouldn’t

Cats are interesting
and hard to figure out,
and as soon as you do,
they’ll change on you no doubt.

You can always ask a question
to any cat
but chances are
he or she will turn you down flat.

Cats don’t go in much
for idle conversation
and they’re not fans of
giving up information.

“You hungry?” you ask.
The cat just scratches the wall.
He could add, “About time too, Bub.
Get on the ball.”

You fill his bowl, he eats it
and then asks for more.
He spills it, “Clean it up, sucker!
I’m out the door!”

He’ll want back in the house
in five minutes or less.
He’ll walk past
“Just seeing if you cleaned up the mess.”

You sit down on the couch
for an afternoon break
I’ll give you one guess
as to whose place she will take.

She climbs on your lap
and starts to knead with her claws.
“The cat owns the furniture.
That’s one of my laws.”

You move from the sharp claws
followed by the sharp tongue.
“Weakling. On a ladder
you’d be the lowest rung.”

You’re far away from the cat now
in your new seat,
when she climbs on your lap
“I’m just here to repeat.”

They lay on the front doorstep
or in the hallway,
“Go around, Pal.
I’m laying here,” they seem to say.

You try talking to them
they just seem to ignore.
They look away saying,
“My gosh but you’re a bore.”

They say: “if cats could talk
they probably wouldn’t”.
I’d like to add to that...
“They probably shouldn’t!”

Dominic “Flominic” Farrrenkopf
thesepoemsneedhomes@live.com
flominic.com

Half

When enjoying a treat
that I’ll share with my wife,
I apply a small method
that I’ve learned in life.
***
For instance, if we’ve ordered
two slices of pie,
I just wait while she examines
them with her eye.
***
She selects her’s,
I have the one she doesn’t take.
This same system applies
if we’ve ordered some cake.
***
If we’re at a function
and we’re going to share,
I cut down the center
being very aware.
***
She will survey the slices
and then take her pick.
I’ll take the other piece,
but keep the knife to lick.
***
At the county fair,
caramel apples are our treat.
I buy two, then she’ll choose
the one she’d like to eat.
***
I go in the ice cream shop
and buy two dipped cones.
She looks closely and picks.
To me they look like clones.
***
Today we ordered
a caramel espresso shake.
She wanted dibs on the whipped top,
make no mistake.
***
As she tasted
the espresso’s very first sip,
she made a cute remark
as I dropped in the tip.
***
“You always give me first pick
or the side I like.”
She teased, “Why don’t you tell me
to go take a hike?”
***
I just shook my head
and responded with a laugh,
“Well Dear, it’s simply because...
you’re my better half!”

Dominic “Flominic” Farrenkopf
thesepoemsneedhomes@live.com
flominic.com

Paper Poppies

The poetic verse, “In Flanders Fields”
penned by John McCrae,
though written in 1915,
its words still ring true today.

He writes of poppies blowing
in row upon row of crosses,
that mark the final resting places
of our war-time losses.

He writes of larks flying,
all singing bravely and full of cheer
above guns sounding off
cutting down those close enough to hear.

He writes of those dead-
and it is they who tell the poem’s tale.
A plea: hold high the torch,
fight the foe, keep faith without fail.

For if we break that faith
though the poppies grow, they shall not sleep.
And now it is with paper poppies
we show the faith we keep.

Since his poem, much time has passed
and many more wars have gone by,
there are more graves now
where these brave heroes will forever lie.

The poet writes of the dead:
“We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved...”
and I say still loved, we’d like those dead to know.

It’s with paper poppies
Pinned neatly to our collars and chests
that we remember and honor
those lying ‘neath the lark’s nests.

Arlington, Alexandria,
Fort Leavenworth, and Crown Hill.
Lexington, Jefferson Barracks,
Fort Gibson and Fayetteville.

There are many more cemeteries
too many to mention
and even the smallest sites-
to honor is our intention.

For who can place a value
on a father, son, or brother
and likewise a value
on a daughter, sister or mother?

The torch is ours to hold high
and light every last resting place
and in our hearts, minds and souls
hold our dead in a fond embrace.

We wear paper poppies
with devotion that never wields,
to remember our fallen...
in each form of Flanders Fields.

Dominic “Flominic” Farrenkopf
thesepoemsneedhomes@live.com
flominic.com

Common

The indications of spring
are eagerly sought,
and one of the first signs
is a bright yellow dot.

For the honey bees
it’s their first pollen station.
It’s a great treat
after staving off starvation.

Little boys and girls
collect them for their mothers.
They’re received with joy,
though less pretty than others.

Boys stand and sing,
for hours while snapping them off,
“Oh, Mama had a baby
and it’s head popped off!”

Girls sit in circles,
dreaming princesses in gowns,
weaving them together,
emerald and gold crowns.

The girls jump up
to chase the boys across the place.
The girls hold them down
and rub yellow on their face.

Ferrell rabbits scamper
and between bunny hops
they nibble the long stems
and tender flower tops.

As a nutritional food,
it’s roots will make tea.
It’s leaves make salads,
both are nature’s remedy.

When morning comes,
it’s head is all fluffy and white.
It makes this transformation
almost overnight.

People of all ages
blow for wishes granted,
and poof, just like that,
it finds itself replanted.

This plant wields it’s power
without even tryin’.
It’s the multipurpose...
common dandelion!

Dominic “Flominic” Farrenkopf
thesepoemsneedhomes@live.com
flominic.com

Prints

As Mother’s Day approached,
Dad said to us kids,
“Let’s make a craft for Mom.
Help with these paint lids.”
***
Dad had several cans
of paint from the garage.
“I’ve got paper.
Let’s make a handprint collage.”
***
The lids came off the cans
and the paint got stirred.
“Ok, Kids. Ready, set, go!”
Dad gave the word.
***
“All, right Kids,
making handprints shouldn’t be hard.
Have fun with this,
I’m going to mow the yard.”
***
Dad left the room,
and we kids were all alone,
so we got right into
the creative zone.
***
My sister led the charge
and said, “You know what?
This activity
is sure stuck in a rut!”
***
“I’m not sure what you mean
I don’t seem to understand.
Wouldn’t Mom like
a print of our hand?”
***
“Think about it, Sis,
our prints are up the halls,
on the fridge, the glass, the sink,
the tub and walls.”
***
“She’s constantly scrubbing
with a cleaning pad.
Let’s be different
and scratch the idea of dad.”
***
“What do you have in mind?”
I just had to ask.
“Well, just think about mom
with her makeup mask.”
***
“She covers her face
and doesn’t seem to mind.
Let’s make our own masks
but of the wall paint kind.”
***
“Sis, let’s start with you.
Now, hand me a paint brush.
I’ll pick some nice colors,
there’s no need to rush.”
***
I sat very still
as she began to work.
I wanted no mess
‘cause of a twitch or jerk.
***
It wasn’t long
before my paint job was done.
I was a little sticky
but it was fun.
***
“Ok, bend over the page
and make the print.”
I pressed my face
and looked up to see each tint.
***
It was a beauty!
The colors were so bright!
“Ok, your turn!”
She didn’t put up a fight.
***
I got started
and just a few minutes in,
here came our mom
just making an awful din!
***
“What are you girls doing!?
And where’s your father!?
To watch you kids
he doesn’t even bother!”
***
“This is my worst nightmare
disguised as a craft.”
My sister replied quickly
as we both laughed.
***
“Mom, you have our handprints
all over the place.
So, we thought you might like...
some prints of our face!”

Dominic “Flominic” Farrenkopf
thesepoemsneedhomes@live.com
flominic.com

Baskets

It was an early morning
on the first day of May,
and two little girls
were sneaking out for mischief play.
***
Gwen was ring-leader,
her sister Josie was muscle.
Josie pulled a wagon
Gwen said, “C,mon, let’s hustle!”
***
The wagon held paper baskets
all marked with a name.
Lilian, Ruth, Jackie, Mary-
no two were the same.
***
There were twenty-five baskets
the girls would be giving.
They were for the seniors
at the assisted living.
***
They ran up the street,
Gwen stopped them with a sudden lurch.
They reached their destination.
It was Saint Mary’s Church.
***
“Hide the wagon in the bushes!
We have to be quick!”
“Josie, do you remember
my flower picking trick?”
***
“Yes. I use my thumbnail
to score the tulip stem
and then I tilt it back
and twist off that little gem.”
***
“Good. Now we have to work fast
before anyone’s up.
They might have been fine
if it weren’t for the parish pup.
***
They were snitching tulips
from the flower garden.
The priest took his dog out
and said, “I beg your pardon?”
***
Gwen and Josie jumped up!
They had been caught in the act!
“What have we here?
Sisters bound up in a mischief pact?”
***
“We’re sorry, Father.
We just didn’t think to ask it.
We just want to make
the seniors a May Day basket.”
***
He smiled and said,
“Children, I’m not upset you see.
I’m actually just hoping...
you have one for me!”

Dominic “Flominic” Farrenkopf
thesepoemsneedhomes@live.com
flominic.com