Poem of the Day and Other Poems


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TOC     

 

POEMS

 

Copyright©1998-2002 Taylor Jones
John Taylor Jones, Ph.D.

 

 Poem Of The Day
by
Taylor Jones

 

I decided to write a daily poem
To keep my word bugs crawling.
So when I’m writing the next great book,
There will be a lot less stalling.

 

I have a no-block way to start
That clever poem each day.
I poke my finger in a book
And that’s the word, Okay?

 

 April Showers
Thursday, April 1, 1999

 

God’s gifts come at any season at all.
They come in summer, winter, spring, or fall.
The come in morning, they come at night.
Whenever they come, with me, it’s right.

 

And time is not the major thing,
To a bride, it’s the engagement ring.
To the farmer, it’s snow and rain.
To the sick, it’s being well again.

 

When I think of all the years,
The toil, the blood, the veil of tears,
I see that God was always there,
Himself as sad as me and peers.

 

He was there on the battlefield,
A shining light to squelch our fears,
To the enemies powers, we would not yield.
We mourned our dead, we shed our tears.

 

Fight on my son, be strong willed.
You may be wounded or you may be killed,
But give your best, protect your friends,
For today is tomorrow which never ends.

 

And so some died while others lived.
Some were wounded, but their all they gave.
Some fought on for endless days,
But found their homes and wives and kids.

 

God’s gifts come at any season at all.
They come in summer, winter, spring, or fall.
The come in morning, they come at night.
Whenever they come, with me, it’s right.

 

 Association
Friday, March 19, 1999

 

This ugly word
Jumped out at me
From the daily rag.
This pretty word
My finger found
In an article on Y2K.

 

Too much used,
Too often heard,
Too often read,
This word can bring joy;
It can bring dread.

 

Enough said!

 

 Bake
March 26, 1999

 

Bake Dunlop
Was the donut man
Who made the big eclairs
Filled with yellow custard
And topped with chocolate frosting.
First, the cost was just a nickel,
Then it was just a dime.
Then they were
Smaller,
And
Smaller,
And my brother, Aaron
Said that inflation was the thing,
That a basket full of money
One loaf of bread
Would bring.
And
He was right.

 

In winter’s cold,
We folded newspapers
On his baker’s benches.
He laughed and gave us
Donuts to eat.
We gave him nothing back
But noise and chiding.

 

He never went to church,
Just his wife and kids.
Maybe he slept in on Sunday,
At least I think he did.

 

Once he sold me a roll of string
With which I flew my kite.
I swear it went a country mile,
It was out of sight.
Then the string broke,
The kite went down,
I ran two blocks to find it.
And I found the thing
In pretty good shape,
And the string took all night
To rewind it.

 

Finally, Bake hung up the towel,
He had a rounded face.
He boxed the spoons and knives and pots,
His eyes were round and gray.
He closed the cases and washed them down,
He was quite short and stocky.
He closed the door and walked away,
His soul was polished ivory.
I think of those days,
With friends, my pals,
Larry, Keith and Kent.
I think of peanuts
In Pepsi bottles.
I wonder where time went.
I think of slippery, icy streets,
The bikes sliding to the ground.
We risked our necks for those darn papers,
As we made our rounds.
At days end
The weather was bitter,
We wanted nothing but home.
A bowl of beans
With hot bread too
To warm our chilly bones.

 

Kent got burned by gasoline,
But somehow he survived.
It changed him to a better man,
To live a better life.
Larry flew the seven seas,
With the National Guard,
Keith, I guess just worked away,
No more I know of him.
Bake was a noble man,
So kind and good to me.
I know he’s in God’s book of life,
So kind to we three.

 

Someday, I hope to see Ol’ Bake,
I need his able hand
To make me a prewar eclair,
Ones that’s big and grand.
One that time can not touch,
Nor inflation’s evil hand.
One that anyone can eat and say,
Now that was mighty fine.
I think I’ll have another, now,
I’ll say, get back in line!

 

Peace be to you, Bake Dunlop.

 

 Beggar-lice
Monday, April 12, 1999

 

It’s a plant,
Not good fodder for a poem.
But beggars are beggars
And lice is lice,
That should let a poet roam.

 

Not that I claim
To be a poet.
No, I’m more of a
Think I know it
And can show it.

 

The beggar-lice
Has a prickly fruit.
Not much interest there.
Lice is different
If in your hair.
A holy terror!

 

I’ve seen it.
They about shut down the school.
Oh, how we dreaded lice.
Wash your hair, you fool!

 

Our nurse would say,
Now line up kids,
We got to check for lice.
I said, You’d better check
The Dietzer kids.
You better check them twice!

 

And sure enough
They had the crud
That kept them
Out of school.
Their hair was loaded with white crawly goop,
I wanted out of there too!

 

Now lice and beggars
Go together
Along with fleas and crabs.
It’s like the barnacles
On a ship.
It’s something they must have.

 

When I was
On Korean soil,
The fleas slept in our bags.
And we got sprayed
With DDT,
Which made us not so glad.

 

The white powder
Filled the air;
We were sprayed
From head to leg.
Sorry we have to treat you so,
But it’s better than the plague.

 

I’m tired of this poem
So no more I roam.

 

 BELOW
Monday, March 8, 1999

 

The word below is from a book
On the wild and woolly west,
Back when men were men,
And women were women,
And life was lived with jest.

 

Now, I know that’s not the word,
I did my very best,
But darned if I could find a word,
That rhymed so well with west.

 

Now, in the west,
They used some words
We never use today,
Like coffin varnish was coffee, bad,
And buck out meant to die.
And buttermilk was an orphan calf,
And Bible was Paper to role your own,
And buffalo wallow was a depression in the ground,
Where all of us must go–below.

 

So as the sun drops in the west
(Though, still some hours away),
I’ll see you, Partner,
On the trail,
Until another day.
 Bowdidge
Tuesday, May 4, 1999

 

Read to us,
We use to say
In English Class
On grammar day.
So she would read
To us once more;
Forget the grammar,
Such a bore.

 

We were in the AU
That wartime year;
The Articulating Unit,
If you are new.
That meant the government
Wanted us in the war
With our brothers and friends
That went before.

 

So the seventh and eighth grades
They did combine,
And Mrs. Bowdidge
Read all the time.
We loved her soul,
She was so sweet,
Skipping grammar
Was really neat.

 

And who needs grammar
In harms way?
A rifle, not grammar,
Could save the day.
But then, alas,
The war cut short
With atom bombs
Ending the sport.
So we turned out dumb,
But very well read;
The horrors of grammar
 Were still ahead.

 

Yes, Ms. Bowdidge
Was our lamb,
And we seldom had
To diagram.

 

 Can Do
Tuesday, March 23, 1999

 

She’s all wrapped up
In canning again,
Off to the cannery,
Then back, who knows when?

 

She’s the soul
Of the Little Red Hen.
I’m quite sure she’ll be
Going back again.

 

 Cannery Trip
Wednesday, March 24, 1999

 

Well, back to the city
To take our friend, June Price,
To pick up some pictures,
She’s always so nice.

 

And we went to the printer.
My nephew wants cheep books, Y2K.
To give to his clients.
He thinks it’s okay.

 

And we pigged out at the King’s Table,
A place cheep to eat,
And all would be well, except
I drove on a one-way street.

 

Surviving that,
I drove south, not north.
And she said how convenient,
There’s my favorite store.

 

So I sat on a hard chair
While they searched their crafts,
I sat and I sat and I sat,
They came out at last.

 

Then to the cannery,
For four cans of spaghetti,
We dry packed them ourselves,
Dry packing spaghetti? Really?

 

Then we went to Phoenix,
Found my art store, at last.
Bought some paint and a big canvas
And a projector to flash.

 

So tired and flustered,
I drove us all home,
Watching the evening sun
Change the mountain’s tone.

 

And she said,
It’s been a nice day.
And I guess it was
In every which way.

 

 Carl
Tuesday, May 11, 1999

 

Carl had a problem day and night
And never understood it right.
It was his love of fire and war
And an obsession of Venus lore.

 

When we were kids, we’d go down to the rodeo
Where they had fireworks after the show.
Carl always went back the next day
To get the firework casings which were thrown away.

 

Then he’d play war in a childlike way,
A war that he was too old to play.
He played like this
Everyday: Swish! Kaboom! Fire away!

 

When Carl played, he played alone.
If you were there, you were just a stone.
He fought his war with frantic pace.
You knew Carl didn’t have his neurons in place.
Carl had three sisters, each lovely and fair.
Carl always treated them as if they weren’t there.
Since I had four sisters, I thought this very strange;
Sisters always interact with bothers, if just to be a pain.

 

Well Carl moved away and I didn’t see him until 1951.
It was on a bus going from Salt Lake to Oklahoma and he was traveling alone.
He said he’d been in the navy as his uniform did testified,
But an early discharged, his troubles did provide.

 

Eleven years flew by and I returned to graduate school.
I learned that Carl was dead.
I went to the library and looked up the story,
Carl shot himself in a fit of fury.
He murdered a girl and maimed her too,
 The thing the devil he harbored made him do.
He tried to get help for that other self which plagued him terribly.
No help was given; he died young, leaving a family.

 

Sometimes I hear Carl,
Even to this day.
I hear him say,
Swish! Kaboom! Fire away!

 

 Cattle
(Monday, March 15, 1999)

 

Went fishing
This morning.
Didn’t catch
A thing.

 

And catching “cattle,”
With my pinky,
Is another word,
Quite stinky.
So again
I have an empty creel.

 

A cow, a calf,
A steer, a bull,
To be poetic,
I’d be a fool.
So I’ll stop here
While I’m ahead,
For pasture poems,
I really dread.

 

Now “meadow” has
A sweeter sound,
But in the meadow,
Manure is found.
So,
I’m going to let this thing go,
No lick of persuasion
Will
make me go.

 

Unless the word
“Grass” will do,
Cattle eat grass,
It’s in their doo doo.

 

It’s hopeless
You see,
Well, they have nice eyes,
Big and brown
Just like their pies.

 

I must quit,
I’m getting no where.
The tails that swish?
No! The flies,
That eat their lunch
On bovine pies!

 

What can you do
With such a word.
I think I’ll give you
The whole damned herd.

 

 Charge!
Friday, March 12, 1999

 

I got this word from a software book
That I charged on my Visa.
Charge is the plague
That breaks
Our hearts.
It
Once
Sent men to
Prison.

 

Charge is what the Light Brigade did,
That fateful day of yore,
And it’s the thing that men have always done,
When they go to war.

 

And it’s the juice
Your battery needs
That’s not always there.
Especially on a winter’s day,
When the weather is not fair.

 

Charge is the thing
That stirs your soul
When your team
Scores a goal,
Or when you hear your daughter sing,
Or watch a picture show.

 

And when you get
That unexpected check
In the daily mail,
A charge shoots
Up
your
neck.
You say,
“All is well!”

 

 Crackling
(Friday, April 16, 1999)

 

From a book of lit,
Crackling, I get.

 

It took be back
To the field
Behind
My house
Where we use
Sit at night
By the bonfire
And tell stories
While we
Baked
Potatoes.

 

Bonfires and cooking
We did a lot of.
We use to
Collect
Bottles
Along the highway.
These we would sell to Horsley’s Market.
Then we would pull our wagons
Down by the railroad tracks
And buy bottles at the junkyard.
These we took to Ken Horsley
And he would by them.
We made a penny or two on each bottle.

 

After awhile,
Ken would say,
NO MORE BOTTLES!
Then we would take the money we had earned
And spend every penny in Ken’s store.

 

We bought
Marshmallows,
Hotdogs,
Dill pickles from the brine barrel,
And candy.
Then we would go
To my backyard
And build a bonfire.
If we were too lazy
To collect bottles
Along the road
And to run
Our bottle
Business,
We just got carrots,
Potatoes,
Onions,
A chunk of meat,
Celery,
And
Spices
And
Made
A
Mulligan Stew.

 

If we were lucky,
Mother would make bread
On stew day
And we would
Dip it in our stew.

 

We always had
A
Crackling
Good
Time.

 

 Fairbanks
Monday, July 26, 1999

 

When I was a lad
We went to “Summer School”
To watch movies and play games,
We had little to do.
One day, Fairbanks came to the class
And grabbed me and Joe Burbank
To teach to tumble while we were still young,
But I was too big and missed out on that fun.

 

But when I joined the old A.U.,
There was Fairbanks,
The gym teacher of the school.
He said, “You better be good!
I’ve got this big board,
The board of education,
I’ll hit you hard if you’re not good.
Well, he never hit us with that board,
He used the leather strap of his whistle.
Why we loved the guy,
We never could figure.

 

His brother was the Sculpture
Of renown.
Fairbanks was a teacher,
Sometimes a clown.
He developed our muscles–
We lifted weights–
He taught us to box and to jump and to race.
And everyday,
As we went late to the shower,
He would lick our bare butts
With that leather whistle strap.
What did we learn from Fairbanks?
I can’t really say except
To not be late to the shower
And to play some each day,
And how to build a human pyramid,
How to do a flip,
Useless thing like that,
Still, with Fairbanks, it was some trip.

 

 Fooled Myself
Wednesday, March 17, 1999

 

I didn’t write a poem
Yesterday
Because
I was way ahead.

 

You see,
I
Wrote for Friday
And Saturday
Twice.

 

That’s
Because
Time
To
The brain
Is
Not Nice.

 

 Forward
Wednesday, March 10, 1999

 

Forward is a precocious word;
Perhaps she’s just a flirt.
Forward is a dangerous word;
Okay, men, hit the dirt!

 

Sweepers, man your brooms;
Give a clean sweep fore and aft:
Throw all garbage
Off the fantail.

 

Forward, ever forward,
As we–
Or is that
Onward, ever onward?
Same thing
I
Guess.

 

So it’s a lousy
Word
For
A
Poem!

 

Back to work!
Forward!
Or is that
Backward?

 

Goodbye!

 

 Grandma’s Girls
Thursday, April 8, 1999

 

When our neighbors moved to town,
I said, Send your little girls around,
So Sister Jones won’t be so sad,
It’ll give you a break,
You’ll be glad.

 

So on any given day
We’ll hear a tap come our way,
And Pat runs to the front door
And in comes Lucy and Katy,
Ages six and four.

 

Now Katy, she moves awfully fast,
Flips off her coat in just a flash.
Where are the dolls?
Where is the puzzle?
What treat today
Goes in my muzzle?

 

Lucy is a bit less subdued.
Let’s go outside and get the chest
From under the house where it does rest.
We’ll open the door with the special key.
We’ll have some fun, you and me.

 

I made the chest myself you know.
Of olden wood, their stuff to stow.
It is a work of art, I say.
You’ll have to see it
Some fine day.

 

They feed the birds
And fill their bath.
They run and jump
And make me laugh.

 

So when they come,
I’m always glad
That grandma,
Who misses her grandchildren,
Won’t be sad.

 

So what a clever rues that was
When I said, Just have your kids give us a buzz.
So now they come, sometimes with Anna,
Who is too young to reach the piano.

 

 History
Monday, March 22, 1999

 

I went to the Historical Society
Meeting this morning,
The town constable spoke,
A pot-bellied cowboy
Who never did smoke.

 

His dad was a cowboy,
A religion of sort,
His mother a Mormon.
To fight was his sport.

 

They lived in Little Green Valley,
Now under Roosevelt Lake,
Which has buried the grave plot
That his clan did make.

 

Now he collects photos,
Of the lives of his people.
He writes songs and strums the guitar
And still   plays the fiddle,
Which he says is worth a quarter mil,
Left to him in his grandpa’s will.

 

Said he was raised in Payson,
Or that Payson raised him.
Gave tribute to two old ladies
Who raised him as kin.
Then he sang to their honor,
A song that he wrote,
And walked out the door
After the last note.
And I wanted to ask him a question,
About his record past,
But he was gone,
Like the folks he makes last
By his historical etchings
On blank pages at night.
Some day he will meet them
And find they’re all right.

 

Well, he followed his daddy,
Instead of him Mom.
And so from the Church,
I’m afraid he’s long gone.
But you never know
About kids grown up,
Like doggies lost in the pines,
They sometimes come back.

 

 Jerry’s Dad

 

He did it in the garage;
An accident, they said:
He forgot to open the garage door;
That is what he did.

 

Well he was dead,
And no more rides,
And no more ice-cream cones and candy bars.
Jerry had to move down the street
To his grandma’s home.
And all good things his daddy bought
Were taken away.
His daddy got in some trouble, you see;
The pain he could not bare.

 

 Memories
Wednesday,
March 31, 1999

 

So goes the month of March,
A little poem each day.
It probed my mind a little bit,
Old thoughts came back my way.

 

Farewell, March.
Hello, April.
What’s in your file?
I’ll write it if I’m able.
 Neighborhood Murder
Blood upon the kitchen floor;
A Chevy coup speeds down the street;
A last shot fired, a suicide;
Now wasn’t that a Monday treat?

 

Terror in our little hearts,
A mother dead,
Her baby crying.
The killer speeding down the street.
The father too is dead.

 

A coup of gray
To match the mood;
The police chasing;
The man dying too.

 

Did we ask, “Why?”
We had another question:
Could that happen
In our house?

 

Blood upon the kitchen floor;
A Chevy coup speeds down the street;
A last shot fired, a suicide;
Now wasn’t that a Monday treat?

 

 Normally
Tuesday, April 13, 1999

 

Another stinking word
A poet never heard.
This one has me beat.
Normally, I’d retreat.
But the game is to write some lines
That may or may not rhyme.

 

Well, not another line.
The shortness suits me fine.
Besides, don’t you know
It’s income tax time?

 

 On Painting
Friday, March 12, 1999
I have no talent
For the thing,
I do it
Anyway.
I take a canvas,
Rock, or board,
And I paint away.

 

Sometimes
I
Cheat
To
Keep
Things
Neat,
I copy on a sketch.
It’s just that I can’t draw at all,
So I make this stretch.

 

So the paint goes on,
The mud appears,
I say this does look bad,
But then I have the pallette knife,
For when I do get mad.
I
Scrape
I
Smear
I
Show
No
Fear,
It’s just a piece of canvas!

 

Then I take my time,
And stop the whine,
And
Get
Buried
In
The Thing.
And then the picture
Does appear,
And I say to myself,
“It really ain’t all that bad.”
Besides
There’s Always
Another Day, A canvas new to wreck.
So I get out the paints again
And say,
“What the heck!
Break your neck!”

 

It’s like anything we do in life,
To paint a canvas blank.
We mess it up, then scrape and paint,
Until we get things right.

 

Well, not quite.

 

 On Life’s Dreams
Friday, March 19, 1999

 

God created the universe;
He left it to his Son.
Not too hard a thing to do
For the Holy One.

 

He created you.
He created me.
He made all that you can see,
The stars at night,
The sun at day,
All these things he placed away.

 

God saw,
That the work was good;
That includes King Kong
And Robin Hood.
In every man
Is the seed of God
To do great things,
To till the sod,
To make more folks
Like you and me.
He made Tom Sawyer
And Tom Mix,
And the boy at the dike,
Quite a fix.

 

Every person
Can do great things,
Like draw a picture
Or repair the kids swing,
Or hike a mile,
Then flash a smile.

 

He made Moses
And his magic rod.
He made the oxen
Who, over the plains, did trod.

 

See the little girl
Going to school,
Carrying her books,
All dressed in blue?
Now she paints portraits fine,
That is one of her gifts divine.

 

He made worms;
He made cars.
With the likes of us,
He spars.

 

See the little boy
Playing on the grass
Harassing his sister,
Showing no class?
Now he flies a super jet,
And he isn’t finished yet.

 

He created the vacuums
We call black holes
Where all the bad folks
Surely go.

 

See the infant
In mother’s arms?
See her spit
And giggle, and charm?
Now she writes most every day,
She is quite good. See her pay?

 

He made the fishes
In the sea.
He made Spokane
And Hudson Bay.

 

See the cripple
In the wheel chair
Who can not even talk?
Yet he is a scientist renown,
Using his finger to speak, expound.
He has the light of Jesus, found.

 

God created the universe;
He left it to his Son.
Not too hard a thing to do
For the Holy One.

 

 Pearson

 

Pearson taught us shop in school,
Westside boys would not be doctors.
He taught us how to saw and shape
And how to sand a model.

 

He told us what electricity was
And how to make a motor.
He showed us how to make a seam
In Mother’s new floor shoveler.
Well, it really was a scoop,
But that does not rhyme with motor.

 

He use to tell us lots of jokes,
The same ones over and over.
If we could get him started,
Our shop work was over.

 

He use to say to each of us,
“Someday things will be better.
I’m going to get a red Caddy convert
And spit in your eye as I run you over.
We loved Pearson
And he loved us;
We were what he had,
And there wasn’t one of us
That didn’t wish him
To be our dad.

 

He’s gone now,
I don’t know when,
But again we will meet.
I’ll say, “Pearson, I love you man!”
He’ll drive over me
With his new
Conversion van.

 

He’ll spit in my eye,
Going bumpity bump,
Over where I lay,
Then he’ll come back
And say to me,
“There was no other way because
I always mean
What I say!”

 

 Penny
Tuesday, March 9, 1999

 

I’m in a hurry today,
So I grabbed the dictionary;
I stuck my finger in the thing
And came up with a penny.

 

Now Penny is a girl’s name,
Or maybe she’s your horse,
Or is she payment for your thoughts,
Or the number of a nail,
Or just one hundredth of a buck?
To me, it’s all the same.

 

Ten pennies make a dime,
Now, maybe we can rhyme!
After that last stanza,
A rhyme would just be fine.
A boy, I was,
A scraggly rag,
With dirt upon my face,
But if I had a penny,
Off to the store I’d race.
That penny was an all-day sucker,
Licorice or gum,
For five, you’d get a pickle,
Much larger than Tom Thumb.
And a tattoo for your forearm was just a cent away.
I’ll take a penny in ’38
Over a silver dime today.

 

And if I see a penny,
I always pick it up,
Do you know how the saying goes? (1)
It always brings good luck!

 

 Phantoms of the Past
Christmas Poem 1998

 

Time moves on
With steel-clad wings
That tarnish not,
Nor fade away,
Ignoring all
The time-bound things
Like flowers and trees
And beast and man.

 

Time knows not
Love nor happiness.
He laughs at war.
He laughs at us.

 

So in time’s grasp
We feel the squeeze
Of autumn’s wind
And winter’s freeze,
Knowing that
The earth is ours,
A tomb of worms
And rot and bones.
But for our Lord
And Savior,
Time would be King,
But steel wings
Will fail
And Christ will reign
In Earth and Heaven
Forever.

 

 Pitch Not Roam
Monday, March 29, 1999

 

I decided no longer to write
Sunday poems.
So today is Monday;
The word is pitch
Instead of roam
Which rhymed some with poem.

 

Black.
Baseball.
Horseshoes.
Pennies.

 

That’s a smidgen of pitch,
Which is not a female dog.
Perhaps
An ancient log.

 

 Sail
Thursday, March 18, 1999

 

I poke my digit into a book
Of English literature.
I knew I’d find a good word there,
Of that I was quite sure.

 

But fate planted me on a picture
Of a ship far out to sea.
I landed on a sail.
Woe, is me.

 

The picture said not using words,
“I’m a greater poet than ye.”

 

 Sentiments
Saturday, March 13, 1999

 

On
This
Little Trip,
My finger did
Dip
Into
A
Book
On
English Lit.

 

The word
You can see
Is not worth a poet’s pea.  
Oh,
Those
Are only
My
Sentiments

 

 Snow
Monday, April 5, 1999

 

We took a ride yesterday,
With neighbors and their three
Little kittens,
All bundled in mittens.

 

Up on the Rim,
With the sky bright, then dim,
They jumped in the snow
And we saw them no more.

 

So Dad pulled them out
As the kids gave a shout.
Extracted from their pickle,
I got them icicles.

 

Then back home through Strawberry,
Then Pine, the sky was bright.
Then down the mountain, home again,
All things were right.

 

 The Poems of the Past
Saturday, May 1, 1999

 

No finger pointing
At words this month;
It isn’t polite to point.
But my poem of the day exercise
Has made me think-
While fiction I do write.

 

Images lost
Have crossed my brain
In one endless
Ten-mile train.
The spokes of life
Have spun by,
Images since
My life began.

 

So I wrote a title
For each poem
That I will write this month.
When I look
At the long list, I see that
I won’t have writer’s slump.

 

 The Mogollon Rim
(Monday, March 15, 1999)

 

I see I skipped Friday, Saturday and Sunday,
So I owe you three more days
Because it’s Monday.

 

Now don’t run away so fast,
This “Friday” poem
Should top the last.

 

You can see the Rim
North of Payson
That goes from New Mexico
Across Arizona
Then up into Idaho.

 

You see,
It’s not a poem at all,
Not so far anyway.

 

It looks like a shelf,
From where I stand,
That crosses Arizona.

 

I was up there today.
The “stand” is Ponderosa pines
Stuck here and there,
Not in a line.

 

Oh, Oh, watch out,
I saw a rhyme.

 

We dipped our lines
In Willow Springs Lake.
The wind blew hard
Leaving a wake
Of parabolic curves
That passed the shore,
It tossed into our faces,
The last cast lures.

 

But my cast was bad anyway.
I broke my pole,
Was ready to throw it away.
But then we fixed the thing like new,
Although, now it’s shorter an inch or two.

 

We watched the waves,
Lap the shore,
Washing the boulders
Evermore.

 

And we sat and watched the swaying trees,
Pulled on snags,
Munched on things,
Hoped for a bite,
Watched the boats
Get rocked by the waves,
And caught no fish.
Well, Willow Springs
Isn’t the only lake,
But then the truck
Began
To
Quake.
We blew a hose,
A fix with tape,
But there’d
Be no trip to
Knoll Lake
Where the fish were bitin’,
That’s for sure,
Be we were stuck
On Willow’s shore.

 

“Let’s go to Echo Canyon Lake,
A short hop,”
Said my companions
Woody and Bob,
But there we found
Quite a mob,
None catching fish,
I’m sad to say,
So we’d go fishin’
Another day,
Upon the Rim,
Called Mogollon,
Which rhymes with
Linoleum,
Well,
Almost
Anyway.
So that takes care
Of last Friday.

 

 Toga Virilis
Thursday, March 11, 1999

 

Toga virilis?
What an unlucky pick.
You know,
The
Robe
That young boys got,
When fifteen in ancient Rome?
I’ve wore a toga,
Only
Once,
A
Roast
Is
What
It
Was.
It changed my attitude on life,
For Mark Anthony,
I twas.
I gave that special speech of his,
In a very special way.
For my boss had just got canned
And we were partying him away.
In the toga,
I could blast away,
At that sad fate of his.
I wasn’t sure
I’d
Still
Have
A
Job,
But I blasted anyway.
It’s all on tape,
That fateful night,
That my dear friend “retired,”
But I did get those last words in,
And I never did
get fired!

 

 Von Euler
Tuesday, March 30, 1999

 

Of all the luck,
My finger stuck
On Biographical Names.
Now, there’s people
There of great renown,
But a bad pick, just the same.

 

Von Euler
Was the unlucky pick,
With Wernher von Braun above,
And Kurt Vonnegut, below.
Either one of those two greats
Would make a better show.

 

Von Euler,
A Swedish physiologist,
Was born in 1905.
He died in 1983,
You see,
He’s not alive.

 

His first name was Ulf,
His second,
Svante.
I think that’s enough
Of him
To recant.

 

Now, Wernher,
He made
The rockets fly.
He brought
Great fear
To you and I.

 

But he’s dead
Too,
The rocket man.
Let’s get to
Vonnegut
While we can.

 

Now,
Kurt’s a writer,
Or at least he was.
He says he’s
Quit writing,
Why, heavens above!

 

He can’t do that!
A writer of worth.
He can’t just quit!
For what it’s worth.
He has to write,
Doesn’t he?

 

Of American writers,
He’s the best,
His wit,
His humor,
His sad regret.

 

He wrote
The classic
Slaughter House Five:
The bombing
In Dresden
That left few alive.

 

He combed
The ruins
For cremated
Krauts.
There voices were silent
All about.

 

The blaze that
Killed them
Blazes on.
Our inhumanity,
Fans
The flames.

 

Kurt started painting
After that great war.
His words are the oils
That show the soils
That grow the pain
Of mortal toil.

 

So maybe my finger,
Just missed its aim.
Vonnegut was
The significant name.
The one who cares
About the struggle of man.

 

Yes,
That’s where my finger
Was meant to hit.
Get out your pen,
Kurt!
Get back to lit.

 

 Zipper
Tuesday, March 9, 1999
(He’s Always on My Mind)

 

A second thought just for the day,
I can not push away.
It’s of a black mass of fur
Who last fall passed his way.

 

We got him at the puppy farm,
Fourteen years ago.
He belonged to my son, Jimmy,
Who swore a solemn oath,
That he would groom and feed him,
And walk him down the coast.
He’d play stick-chase with him,
And wrestle him on the floor.
Why, Zipper would get more attention,
Than a ton of high-grade ore.

 

So, I fed and groomed him,
And walked him down the shore,
I taught him how to find a bird,
Although not real, of course.
And how to retrieve in tidal currents,
A natural knack had he,
For he could learn the changing currents,
As they came in from the sea.

 

One night, I threw a stick
Into the changing tide.
The stick was flat and hard to see,
From Zipper it did hide.
He swam the arc that he knew
Would bring him to the stick,
But when he missed, again he swam,
Now circling out to sea.
I waved him back, I feared his loss,
He swam the arc again,
And then he found the bloody stick
And we went home again.

 

Now, I drop a Wheaties® flake
Down on the kitchen floor,
I swear I hear his hustle,
But he is here no more,
For he has gone where doggies go,
Like that of human kind,
To Heaven’s restful peace until that special time
When dog’s awake and bark and play
And hear the Master’s voice,
When all men, and their pets,
 In God’s good hands, rejoice.

 

(Zipper was a thoroughbred registered Black Labrador Retriever who’s kennel name was Folklore Atlas )

 

The Park City Human Landslide 
by
John Taylor Jones, Ph.D.
November 29, 2014In the early 1990s,
We decided that we wanted to ski,
Not by why his wife, Pat,
Just Jim and me.So we hopped a plane from Philadelphia and
Flew back home to the West.
We didn’t want to ski in New Jersey,
We wanted only the best.

Jim didn’t need any training,
He geared up and flew down the hills,
But I had to enter the key school
With instructors Mary and Bill.

“You are not to drink any soda pop,”
Was our instructions from team leader Bill.
“You must always be well hydrated
If you are going to be king of the hill.

With that important instruction,
From ski instructor, Bill.
We grabbed onto the rope tow
And glided up the beginner’s hill.

Well I had no trouble at all with that hill,
I skied like a trooper of sorts.
Mary yelled, “Way to go, John!”
I thought I had mastered the sport.

Then Bill said, “You’re too good for this hill, John,
But those skis are way too long.
The gondola will take us to the top of this mountain,
and we’ll go sailing along.”

The ski shop guy said he was crazy,
Our instructor bill that is.
But I got shorter skis anyway.
Then I could really whiz.

At first it wasn’t too bad,
Though I knocked down a skier or two.
Folks were warned I was coming,
“Here comes that no-stop fool!”

Then the big hill loomed down before me.
I thought, “This is the end!”
But down I went anyway,
Very good on the straightaway
But there was a turn at the bottom of the hill,
And I knew I could not make it,
And would end up in layaway.

Is sped down the hill a like a cheetah,
Thinking that it would be neat a
To be able to stop a,
Or at least to turn a,
Because a steel cable was a
At the bottom of the hill a.

I decided I had to fall or die.
I banged my head on the icy slope.
And Bill shot down to give me hope.
He said, Want to keep skiing?
I said, “Nope!”

I went down by toboggan,
The ski patrol guiding.
Now that was great “skiing,”
Such easy gliding.

Jim thought I was dead
Or had broken a leg.
He said, “You okay, Dad?’ I said,
“I just broke my head.”

And that was the end
of skiing for me.
Park City had won,
But now I was free
To forget about skiing,
It was just not for me.

But still the slopes call to me
Here in Idaho.
“Come skiing, John, Come skiing, John!”
I’m only 82, but still I WONT GO!

The End
copywrite©2014 John Taylor Jones, Ph.D.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
The Park City Human Landslideby

John Taylor Jones, Ph.D.
In the early 1990s,
We decided that we wanted to ski,
Not by why his wife, Pat,
Just Jim and me.

So we hopped a plane from Philadelphia and
Flew back home to the West.
We didn’t want to ski in New Jersey,
We wanted only the best.

Jim didn’t need any training,
He geared up and flew down the hills,
But I had to enter the key school
With instructors Mary and Bill.

“You are not to drink any soda pop,”
Was our instructions from team leader Bill.
“You must always be well hydrated
If you are going to be king of the hill.

With that important instruction,
From ski instructor, Bill.
We grabbed onto the rope tow
And glided up the beginner’s hill.

Well I had no trouble at all with that hill,
I skied like a trooper of sorts.
Mary yelled, “Way to go, John!”
I thought I had mastered the sport.

Then Bill said, “You’re too good for this hill, John,
But those skis are way too long.
The gondola will take us to the top of this mountain,
and we’ll go sailing along.”

The ski shop guy said he was crazy,
Our instructor bill that is.
But I got shorter skis anyway.
Then I could really whiz.

At first it wasn’t too bad,
Though I knocked down a skier or two.
Folks were warned I was coming,
“Here comes that no-stop fool!”

Then the big hill loomed down before me.
I thought, “This is the end!”
But down I went anyway,
Very good on the straightaway
But there was a turn at the bottom of the hill,
And I knew I could not make it,
And would end up in layaway.

Is sped down the hill a like a cheetah,
Thinking that it would be neat a
To be able to stop a,
Or at least to turn a,
Because a steel cable was a
At the bottom of the hill a.

I decided I had to fall or die.
I banged my head on the icy slope.
And Bill shot down to give me hope.
He said, Want to keep skiing?
I said, “Nope!”

I went down by toboggan,
The ski patrol guiding.
Now that was great “skiing,”
Such easy gliding.

Jim thought I was dead
Or had broken a leg.
He said, “You okay, Dad?’ I said,
“I just broke my head.”

And that was the end
of skiing for me.
Park City had won,
But now I was free
To forget about skiing,
It was just not for me.

But still the slopes call to me
Here in Idaho.
“Come skiing, John, Come skiing, John!”
I’m only 82, but still I WONT GO!

The End
copywrite©2014 John Taylor Jones, Ph.D.


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