The Best of Slim Acres

A SMILE

2012-01-29T06:08:00.000-08:00

Like a little ray of sunshine,
On a dark and gloomy day,
Just a little bit of cheeriness
Will go a long, long way;
When things are going backward,
And a body's feelin' blue,
It's a most amazing wonder
What a friendly smile can do.

When the blahs have really got you,
Just remember that a frown
Is a most unpleasant picture
Of a smile that's upside down;
So, turn it up the other way,
You'll feel better if you do;
What's more, a lot of other folks
May take a cue from you.

So when I'm socializing,
Or just walking down the street,
I try to smile a greeting
To 'most everyone I meet;
While some may think I'm silly,
To be grinning all the while,
I may give a lift to others
With a warm and friendly smile!

NOT LIKE I USED TO BE

2012-01-22T05:54:00.000-08:00

"Most of us feel the effects of the passing years and often use time-worn phrases to remind our associates that we're not quite as young as we used to be," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Sometimes it's a cop-out."

I'm not the man I used to be,
And I'll admit it's true
I can't kick up my heels and all
Like younger fellers do.

Youth is not eternal,
And it's very plain to see
The one we call Old Father Time
Has left his mark on me.

I don't complain, you understand,
Or feel my race is run,
I'm not in such a sorry shape
That I'm not having fun.

I guess it's just a custom
For older folks to say
They cannot cut the mustard,
As compared to yesterday.

"I'm not the man I used to be,"
I've often said before,
I said it once to Lucy,
But won't do it any more.

I might have known I wouldn't get
Any sympathy from her,
She looked at me and shook her head,
And said, "You never were!"

--Autumn Acres (1982)

ODE TO WINTER

2012-01-15T05:31:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Some folks dread to see winter arrive; others hate to see it go," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "I guess it depends on your appetite for weather."

The northern wind is howling
Like a banshee in the night,
Overcoating lawn and garden
With a coverlet of white.

Wires along the highway,
Whining in the cruel cold,
Cry that winter's got us
In its bitter strangle hold.

The hoary frost has settled
O'er the garden corner post;
In the pale moonlight it shimmers
Like an eerie sheeted ghost.

I appreciate the beauty
Of the snowy winter scene;
With the world in fleecy garments,
It appears to white and clean.

But let me clear the record,
So as not to be amiss--
It doesn't take me long to get
My belly full of this!

STANDING IN LINE

2012-01-08T05:37:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Some folks don't believe in making resolutions, but I think overcoming my shortcomings begins with recognizing them," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. All I know is that there's no doubt I inherited the same gene.

We mortals have got
To suffer a lot
Of worry, hassle and strife;
We cannot attain
Exemption from pain,
For that is the essence of life.
Now, generally I
Am a good humor guy,
Hard knocks, I handle them fine;
But I must admit
I fester a bit
Any time that I stand in a line!

A checkout may go
In an orderly flow,
With nary a hitch or a fault;
But I'll guarantee,
With the entrance of me,
Everything will screech to a halt!
At times, I take heart,
As I chauffeur my cart,
And think I'm in excellent shape;
But then, up ahead,
Somebody drops dead,
Or a register runs out of tape!

I may carefully choose
The best line to use,
But the one I pick is a dud;
For reasons unknown,
My selection is prone
To move like a cow in the mud.
I surely agree
And acknowledge, to be
Considered a leader is fine;
But I caution you,
Whatever you do,
Never follow me in a line!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

MY RESOLUTIONS

2012-01-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "The custom of making New Year's resolutions undoubtedly originated with the ancient Chinese, like most everything else," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "History does not record how successful they were in keeping them."

Self improvement ought to be
A goal for everyone,
And New Year's resolutions
Point the way to get it done.

It's a practice I have followed
Some fifty years, I'd say,
I make my resolutions
Never fail, come New Year's Day.

I'm glad I had the fortitude
To look inside of me,
And try to straighten out my life,
The way it ought to be.

I saw that I was falling short,
And therefore, I began
To search my soul for ways that I
Could be a better man.

It doesn't take a lot of thought
When once you've seen the light,
You realize that wrong is wrong,
And the only way is right.

My resolutions, this New Year,
Are very fine, I know,
For they're the very ones I made
Some fifty years ago!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

2011-12-25T06:12:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Some people celebrate Christmas," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Others celebrate at Christmas and don't really know the difference."

The bells ring out, and music resounds
In ten thousand cities and country towns;
New York to Podunk, and in between,
The glitter and flare of the Yuletide scene.

Rivers of people meander and flow,
Into and out of the markets they go,
Spending their money in huge amounts,
And going the limit on charge accounts.

"Come all ye faithful," these words we hear,
Through the clangor and din that falls on our ear;
"Come all ye faithful, spend all your dough,
It comes only once each year, you know."

Cash registers whirring and buzzing away,
They gobble up money like horses eat hay!
Oh, how the merchants rejoice to hear it!
Their cups runneth over with Christmas Spirit!

All these gaudy activities stem
From a peaceful village called Bethlehem,
Where a star shown down on a placid sight,
And a baby was born on a silent night.

Come all ye faithful! Join in the throng!
But let's not forget, as we scurry along,
We should be rejoicing at Christmas because
It's the birthday of Jesus, not Santa Claus!

--Hominy Grits 1986

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

2011-12-18T05:19:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "If Christmas came only once in ten years, still, most of us wouldn't do our shopping till the last minute," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

The Christmas game is on again,
All my money's gone again,
And yet, I'm only halfway down my list;
I'll have to figure out a way
By hook or crook, so I can pay
For something like a dozen I have missed.

I'll re-avow, come New Years Day,
That, ere the summer slips away,
I'll pick up little items, one by one;
Once again, I'll swear that I
Won't let another year go by,
To find me at the end with nothing done!

But this is what I've said before,
I guess, for thirty years or more,
And somehow seem to never carry through;
December twenty-third is when
I'm sure to find myself again
With all my Christmas shopping yet to do.

I guess what really bothers me
Is all the many folks I see
Doing the same, because I realize
when I'm among this frantic crew,
I'm being just as dumb as you
And fifty million other stupid guys!

Hominy Grits (1986)

A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT

2011-12-11T05:47:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: Some people never expect anything for Christmas, and they are never disappointed," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Anything added to nothing equals something."

Most people look forward to Christmas morn,
And wonder what Santa will bring,
But Lucy has said she doesn't expect
The old fellow to fetch her a thing.

She says, with the clothes she already has,
She's been getting along very well,
And though her things are all out of style,
She'll try to make do for a spell.

Her kitchen ain't fixed as fancy as some,
With up-to-date gadgets, it's true,
I've never believed in throwing around
My money, like some people do.

I buy all the stuff that we really need,
And manage to pay all our bills,
But I'm not a guy to squander his dough
On presents and trinkets and frills.

So, on Christmas morn, I don't think she'll look
For a present under the tree,
And anyway, what in the world could she want
When she's already got me?

--Autumn Acres (1982)

TAKE IT LIKE IT IS

2011-12-04T04:46:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Some folks worry so much about getting old that they promote the process by trying to hold it back," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Some people fret and worry,
As the years go rushing on,
Missing joys of the present,
While lamenting what is gone.

This fact of life is certain,
Very sad, but true,
You can't stay young forever,
No matter what you do.

When this becomes apparent,
And the wrinkles start to show,
Some measures can be taken
That will minimize the blow.

Perhaps it won't be noticed,
If only you will stay
In dark and shady places,
And avoid the light of day.

When your hair starts getting thinner,
And your jowls begin to sag,
You might conceal your features
In a supermarket bag!

So you won't be reminded
That the bloom of youth is gone,
When you look into a mirror,
Never have your glasses on!

But better yet, old timer,
Be contented with your lot;
Think the least of what you're losing,
And the most of what you've got!

Hominy Grits (1986)

A MILE OF SMILES

2011-11-27T06:12:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "When I was a lad, my grandfather called me "Grinny Britches." But as I recall, when I grinned at someone, they usually responded in kind," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. I figure that in this hectic season of cooking, shopping and rushing thither and yon, we all could use a reminder to smile now and then!

The other morning I chanced to meet
A neighbor of mine from down the street,
And he hollered, "Good morning, Slim!"
With a vibrant voice, chock full of cheer,
And a great big grin from ear to ear,
And I couldn't help smiling at him.

Now, I'd been feeling a little blue,
As, once in a while, most people do,
When they've been taking their lumps;
But after I met this cheerful guy,
I felt a little ashamed that I
Had been so down in the dumps.

I felt rather sheepish because I knew
The trials this chap had just been through
Were greater than any I'd known;
So, straightening up, with a quicker stride,
I felt a whole lot better inside,
From the spirit this fellow had shown.

A little further on down the street,
Another acquaintance I chanced to meet,
And I hollered, "Good morning, Jim!"
He looked my way, and nodded his head,
And I grinned as wide as my face would spread,
And I got a big smile out of him!

So, I resolved, the rest of the day,
I'd foster good will in a similar way,
With folks wherever I went;
I found the idea to be worthwhile,
I got a great lift from every smile,
And it didn't cost me a cent!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

THANKSGIVING FARE

2011-11-20T06:17:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: It's that time of year again: One big bird gets a Presidential "pardon" and thousands of others make their way to the cooking pot to satisfy the cravings of Thanksgiving celebrants. I'm sure I speak for most of us when I say I always eat too much - and Dad's poem for this week sums the whole thing up rather well!

Thanksgiving time is on us,
And we've cause to celebrate,
But I've been doing, maybe
More than what I should, of late.

For almost every evening
Finds me occupied somewhere,
At a banquet table loaded
With that good Thanksgiving fare!

Heaping mounds of turkey,
And the dressing piled up high!
Cranberry sauce and salad
And delicious pumpkin pie!

I'm thankful for the bounty
Of this gala festive board,
But my middle section shows it,
Which I cannot well afford.

I've been a turkey lover
For many, many years,
But I'm so full of turkey now
It's running out my ears!

When I came home last evening,
And the same the night before,
Lucy came and let me in
When I gobbled at the door!

--Hominy Grits (1986)

WELL, WELL, WELL!

2011-11-13T04:43:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "It's usually commendable to strive for improvement, but sometimes it's better to quit while you're ahead," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "The trick is in knowing when to settle for what you've got."

One time, my Uncle John perceived
His well was going dry,
And so he drilled another one
To get a good supply.

At forty feet he had a flow
That, near as he could tell,
Would give sufficient water
And serve him very well.

Now Uncle John was well aware
A shallow well is cheaper,
But still, he felt it might be well
To drill a little deeper.

He reasoned well, but after they
Had drilled a hundred more,
His well did not produce as well
As it had done before!

I have no doubt my uncle feared
The worst, as well he must,
When, at a hundred eighty feet,
His well was full of dust.

Two hundred feet below the ground
And still dry as a bone;
He should have stopped at forty feet
And let well enough alone!

A LOT OF THINGS ARE BETTER

2011-11-06T06:28:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "When we dream about the good old days, we tend to embellish our memories and sort of gloss over some of the rough spots," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

When old friends get together,
There is never any doubt
That happenings of yesteryears
Is what they'll talk about;
Many are the joyful hours,
In memories they raise,
Recalling all the happy times
They call the gold old days.
But when I think it over,
You know, it seems to me
A lot of things are better now
Than what they used to be!

I'm sitting, right this minute,
Where the old "Heatrola" stood,
And yonder, in the corner's
Where we stacked the kindling wood.
But now I dream about it,
Sitting in my easy chair;
We have automatic heating,
And we've got conditioned air;
Outside, it may be zero,
Or in summer, ninety-three--
A lot of things are better now
Than what they used to be.

In the evenings, I remember
How we listened, long ago,
To the Lum and Abner program
On the batt'ry radio;
And now, we watch a ball game
Or the picture of the week;
Or maybe see the president
And listen to him speak.
We enjoy it all in color,
On our spankin' new TV--
A lot of things are better now
Than what they used to be!

How clearly I remember
When they put the 'lectric in;
'Twas a great emancipation,
Most like being born again;
Then we added modern plumbing,
To provide the final touch,
And replace the old "two-holer"
Down the path we used so much.
If this was your experience,
I'm certain you'll agree
A lot of things are better now
Than what they used to be!

There are many precious mem'ries,
As I dream of yesterday,
My eyes get kind of droopy,
And I just sort of drift away.
Then, a touch upon my shoulder,
And I feel a little shake,
And Lucy's saying, "Slim,
Are you asleep, for goodness sake?"
An' I look up at Lucy,
And she smiles down at me--
A lot of things are better now
Than what they used to be!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THOSE WINTER NIGHTS

2011-10-30T05:21:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "On winter evenings many years ago, basking in the warmth of the old base-burner in the "sitting room," two little boys were not very enthusiastic about retiring to their unheated bedroom," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. January isn't here yet, but since I'm seeing reports of heavy snowfall in other parts of the country, I figured this is a good time to remind ourselves of what it was like in the "good old days."

In our old farm house, long ago,
When I was five or six, or so,
And January came along,
And winter set in good and strong,
We hated so to go to bed,
In chilly quarters overhead;
My younger brother Frosty, he
Was two years younger yet than me.

We hesitated on the stair,
For it was mighty cold up there;
Both were entertaining dread
Of climbing in our frigid bed,
But Mother countervailed our fear
By gently nudging from the rear;
We were still reluctant, though,
Those winter evenings, long ago.

Finally, in our straw-tick bed,
With rafters creaking overhead,
Covers tucked around us tight,
We snuggled for the winter night;
And when the angry north wind came,
To rattle window sash and frame,
Little mounds of drifted snow
Appeared upon the sill below.

After snuffing out the light,
Mother vanished from our sight,
Quietly down the narrow stair,
Leaving us to shiver there;
Wrapped in flannel, at our feet,
Two flat irons provided heat;
No electric blanket, though,
Those winter nights of long ago!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

JOKERS UP FRONT

2011-10-23T05:07:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "I guess there's nothing wrong in acting like a simple-minded idiot, if that's what you're being paid to do," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

A little nonsense, now and then,

Is relished by the best of men;

And very rare indeed is one

Who can't enjoy a bit of fun.

Through the ages, fools have known

A favored place before the throne;

For even monarchs like to smile,

And be amused once in a while.

Ancient peoples tried to bring

Some entertainment to their king;

And sought to add a lighter touch

By hiring jokers, fools and such.

History tells us George the Third

Was quite a crusty, sad old bird;

But had a jester on his staff,

To horse around, and make him laugh.

Queen Victoria, even she

Had not one royal fool, but three!

It took some doing to erase

That sour expression from her face.

Modern leaders hesitate

At hiring Jokers Designate;

But that's okay, for quite a few

Are in the House -- and Senate, too!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

A BIT SHORT

2011-10-16T05:01:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Given the economic woes of the world (and the folks who occupy it), this poem seems appropriate for this week. And given that it was written some 25 years ago, it seems the more things change, the more they stay the same!

Financial experts tell us

We should have a savings plan,

And get the thing established

Just as quickly as we can.

For, fiscal independence

Is the goal to keep in sight,

And saving on a schedule

Is the way to do it right.

You can't expect perfection,

And you'll have to understand

That things won't always happen

In the order you have planned.

I've had a little trouble,

As I realized I would,

In sticking to my schedule,

But I've done the best I could

In looking down the road a bit,

It's pretty plain to see

How my financial planning

Has been working out for me.

If I continue saving

At about my present rate,

I'll owe a million dollars

At the age of ninety-eight!

Hominy Grits (1986)

MEASURE TWICE

2011-10-09T06:24:00.000-07:00

Some years ago, when I was just

A bit a-helpin' Pa,

He used to say, "Son, measure twice

Before you start to saw."

Measure twice before you start

To saw a board in two,

It's a pretty good rule, no matter

What the job you have to do.

I've thrown away a board or two,

And, some I've had to splice;

And all because I didn't take

The time to measure twice!

It always pays to double check,

Before you carry on,

For once you've cut a board too short,

The time you saved is gone.

And so, in life, at work or play,

Remember Pa's advice,

And always, before you start to saw,

Be sure to measure twice!

OCTOBER

2011-10-02T05:35:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Every bard since Homer has composed a verse or two about autumn," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Surely one or two more won't hurt much."

I love the Autumn season,

When a nip is in the air;

And silver patches glisten

On the rooftops, here and there.

The frost is on the pumpkin,

And the beans are in the bin;

A bumper crop of yellow corn

Is being gathered in.

Overhead, in vee formation,

Flocks of geese are flying high,

Winging on to warmer quarters,

Underneath a southern sky.

This bright October weather

Really suits me to a T;

If it stayed like this forever,

It would be okay with me!

But I know a change is coming

'Round the corner just ahead,

And I always face the Winter

With a little bit of dread.

We can't control the weather,

But I'd give 'most anything

If we could skip a season,

And go straightway into Spring!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

THE SALES TALK

2011-09-25T04:49:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "A good many country folks look forward to the time when they can tear themselves away from the land and retire to an easier life in the city," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Giving up the old home place, however, is sometimes easier said than done. A good many strings have to be cut." Take it from someone who's been "downsizing" to a new home after close to 50 years in the old one, he's right!

So you saw my ad in the Times Gazette

Where I wanted to sell my farm? You bet!

I've had enough of this work and toil,

A-wringin' a livin' from out of the soil,

I'm a-gonna git me a place in town

Where me and Ma can settle down.

Is it good land, you ask me now,

My friend, you never will sink a plow

Into better dirt than this right here,

I've farmed it for better'n forty year,

And I ain't never had a failure yet,

When the season was dry, or when she was wet.

And you can see that them buildings ain't

A-needin' nothin' but a little paint,

And that there house, let me tell you,

Is hardwood timber through and through,

She's sound and solid in every way--

They sure don't build 'em like that today!

An' there's a good deep well that never goes dry,

An' that water's cold as ice in July,

And under the shade of them cottonwood trees,

On the hottest day there's always a breeze.

When we move to town, I do declare

I'm sure gonna miss this clean fresh air!

And yonder's the woods, where we used to roam

And pick wild flowers, when the kids was home,

And hickory nuts, and blackberries, too,

And the biggest mush-a-rooms that ever grew!

I tell you, mister, if Ma was well,

And could git around good, I wouldn't sell.

Me and Ma started housekeepin' here,

And we've worked together, year after year,

To pay off the mortgage, and to lay away

A little nest egg fer a rainy day--

If we was both still hearty and hale --

Aw shucks, mister, she ain't fer sale!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

I SHALL NOT COVET

2011-09-18T06:12:00.000-07:00

"Fortune comes to everyone who waits," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "This old saying may be true, if you don't run out of time."

I don't care how far you've gone
Toward acquiring fame;
It doesn't bother me at all
That people hail your name.

And I don't give a hoot because
Your house is bigger'n mine,
And you've got such a fancy place,
And all fixed up so fine.

You're welcome to your Cadillac,
You drive with such delight;
I don't begrudge you all of this,
As a jealous fellow might.

But, if we're even, all of us,
And equal at the start,
It's hard to see how we can get
So many bucks apart!

For your good fortune to arrive,
You hadn't long to wait;
But it appears that mine will come
Too little and too late.

With all the riches you have gained,
I say hooray for you!
Though I'd be better satisfied
If I could have some, too!

This is another of those "I don't know which book it's from" poems. It was submitted to the Brethren's Retirement Community newsletter by my Aunt Olive (Dad's sister) -- she's been doing that in his honor ever since he passed away.

MUTUAL AID

2011-09-11T05:43:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "A sincere offer to help is sometimes, in itself, the best kind of help you can give or receive," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. Not bad advice, Dad - methinks you're on to something!

If you are in the doldrums,
In the mood to fret and pout,
And you have a little problem
As to getting straightened out;
Maybe just a little boost
Will make it all okay,
So, what can I do for you,
To brighten up your day?

All clouds are superficial,
That are drawn across the sky,
So both of us together,
If we buckle down and try,
Might liberate the sunbeams
That hide behind the gray;
So, what can I do for you,
To brighten up your day?

When all is well with you again,
And like it ought to be,
Perhaps a bit of sunshine
Will also fall on me;
So I'll do everything I can
To drive those clouds away;
So, what can I do for you,
To brighten up our day?

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE FLU

2011-09-04T06:31:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "There are lots of remedies for the flu, and some of them will work if you give them enough time -- say about ten days," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. I'm not sure which book this one comes from, but it's one his sister Olive picked for the Brethren Retirement Community newsletter. I picked it because we just got notices that it's time for our annual flu shots once again so figured it's appropriate for the season!

If you've got the flu,
About all you can do
Is rest your carcass in bed,
With shivers and shakes,
While everything aches,
From your toes to the top of your head.

The skin on your nose
Is red like a rose,
Excruciating to touch;
Your voice, when you speak,
Is husky and weak,
And so you don't talk very much.

You feel like you're beat,
And all you can eat
Is chicken soup, three times a day;
You swallow enough
Of the doggone stuff,
You feel like you're floating away!

Steaming hot tubs,
And vigorous rubs,
Won't get you well any quicker;
Whatever you have,
Inhalants and salve
Only make you smell a lot sicker!

Just rest in the sack,
Lie flat on your back,
No matter how sore it may grieve you;
You may as well stay
And wait for the day
That bug takes a notion to leave you!

SEPTEMBER

2011-08-28T04:56:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: When I was a youngster, time never passed quickly enough. Now that I'm at an age when each day is a precious gift, it seems to fly. Interestingly, Dad was about my age when he published this, so maybe that's a sign that the time is right for posting it here.

O, September,
What's your hurry?
I haven't said goodbye to August; still
Along you come without my bidding;
Your dewy days portend of autumn's chill!

O, September,
Will tomorrow
Bring us showers, frost, or blazing sun?
Your varied weather
Sounds a warning
That summer's gone, and fall has now begun!

O, September,
What's your hurry?
You needn't be in such a rush to go!
On so quickly
You have scurried,
It seems you only stayed a week or so!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

MEALS ON WHEELS

2011-08-21T06:19:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Many worthwhile programs don't get off the ground simply because their time has not come," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. Or maybe, I'd suggest, government leaders just can't agree on what to do next.

The notion for meals on wheels began
Centuries ago, with primitive man.
The truth of the legend, nobody knows,
But this is the way the story goes:
With home-made spears, a Neanderthal pair
Went out in the woods and killed a bear.

After their hirsute tummies were tight,
One remarked, "A deplorable sight!
There's more bear here than we can eat,
What'll we do with this leftover meat?
It's a shame to let it spoil and decay--
Can't we dispose of it some other way?"

The other replied, "How true, how true,
And here's what I would suggest we do:
There must be many people out there,
Who'd love to have the rest of this bear;
We'll load these leftovers into our car,
And feed these folks, wherever they are!"

A kind and considerate thought, as it were,
A great idea, but premature;
They couldn't use their automobile,
For nobody yet had invented the wheel!
And that's why nothing was done back there,
And vultures consumed the rest of the bear!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

COUNTRY ISN'T COUNTRY ANY MORE!

2011-08-14T05:07:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "The stuff they're calling country music in these moving times lacks a lot of being the real thing," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "If rock is music, horse droppings are vegetables!"

I don't know which book this poem is from -- Dad's sister Olive chose it for publication in the August/September 2011 issue of the Fanfare newsletter from the Brethren Retirement Community in Greenville, Ohio, where he lived for several years. As I read it, I couldn't help recalling the many times he and I sat next to our old floor-model radio listening to the Grand Old Opry when I was a kid. Truth is, though, I have a cheatin' heart; I like the "new" country music too. That said, I certainly understand what he means (are you listening, Hank)?

Nearly fifty years ago,
We still had only radio,
And country music was my cup of tea;
There wasn't anything around
Could beat that Grand Ol' Opry sound,
Those rustic tunes were good enough for me!

Then television came along,
With country music going strong
We took it all in stride, with unconcern;
But then, the sordid sixties came,
For rural rhythm took a hippie turn.

Now we see them on the screen,
Mouthing phrases near obscene,
Interspersed with wail and caterwaul;
The amplifiers boom-de-boom,
As earthquake tremors shake the room;
To call it music takes a lot of gall!

All decked out in costume weird,
Unkempt hair and scraggly beard,
Each one tries to be the most bizarre;
Whether one knows how to sing
Doesn't seem to mean a thing,
A garbage-head can be a superstar!

There's no longer any doubt,
Rock has crowded music out;
The Opry isn't like it was before;
There's nothing I can do about it,
But I can darn well do without it,
For Country isn't country anymore!

BANK FAILURE

2011-08-07T05:11:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Most banks are safe enough," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "But once in a while, we hear about one going belly-up."

I held my bank in high esteem,
Never dreamed that it would falter;
Because, to me, it always seemed
As solid as Gibraltar.
I felt secure in every way,
With unhesitating trust;
Never thought I'd see the day
My bank would bite the dust.

Humble thoughts, I always try
To hold, but, being frank,
It made me feel secure when I
Had money in the bank.
I felt a little bit of pride
That I had laid away
That modest nest egg, put aside
Toward a rainy day.

Entertaining not a doubt,
Not even for a minute,
I thought I took the proper route,
To put my money in it.
I trusted it with all my cash,
But that was back before
I caused my piggy bank to smash,
When I dropped it on the floor!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

THE DEVIL'S EDGE

2011-07-31T07:41:00.000-07:00

Saint Peter and Satan, they say,
Had a big disagreement one day,
And their tempers soon escalated;
Each thought the other should fix
The gate by the River Styx,
Which kept their domains separated.

As he spoke in the red telephone,
Saint Peter, in menacing tone,
Told the Devil his patience was waning;
He said, "I guess you're the sort
That has to be taken to court,
That's my only recourse remaining."

The Devil cackled with glee,
He said, "You're gonna sue me?
Just how do you think you can do it?
Consider a minute or two,
Because, I think, if you do,
You'll find there's a little more to it!

"If you threaten invasion of Hell
By force, I know very well
You might raise a great army of warriors;
But when you say you will sue,
That's a horse of a different hue.
Old boy, you don't have any lawyers!"

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

WEATHER WORDS

2011-07-24T05:05:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Nobody is happy about the weather all the time," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Some complain about it more than others, and everybody comments on it when they can't think of anything else to say."

Whatever the kind of weather
You'll seldom hear me complain;
It makes no difference whether
It's a blizzard or mid-summer rain.

Or when the north wind is blowing,
Cold enough to tingle your spine,
Or sleeting or hailing or snowing,
With me, the weather is fine!

If the mercury goes above ninety,
And it's muggy and humid today,
No matter how droopy I'm feeling,
I'll declare the weather's okay!

I don't prefer lousy weather,
Could do very well without it;
But since I can't have my druthers,
There's no use to holler about it.

Snowing, blazing or blowing,
In Summer, Winter or Fall,
Whatever kind we are having,
It's better than nothing at all!

To the Man who creates the weather,
I say, "You're doing just fine,
And I won't complain about your work
If you don't complain about mine!

Hominy Grits (1986)

IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD!

2011-07-17T05:42:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Positive thinking is a powerful weapon against the encroachment of senior debilitations," Dad wrote as the introduction of this poem. Amen to that, but I'll be the first one to add that the older I get the harder it is to do!

The bitter pill of growing old,
I'm sure you've heard it said,
Is really just a state of mind,
It's only in your head.

Father Time exacts from all
A toll, but it appears
Some maintain the glow of youth
Into their senior years.

I understand this premise,
And I'm willing to concede
A youthful way of thinking
Helps to keep you young indeed.

Observing different ways of life
Would lead us to conclude
How well you handle growing old
Is in your attitude.

Your friends may all assure you
There is little cause for dread
Of growing old, because it's
Altogether in your head.

But when they put it that way,
Somebody's kidding you;
Take it from your Uncle Slim,
It's other places, too!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

NET WORTH

2011-07-10T05:19:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Your assets are listed on one side of the sheet, and your liabilities on the other," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "I guess you're not supposed to add them together."

My banker said he'd like to have
A statement, up to date,
So he could see, in black and white,
My true financial state.

The numbers didn't seem to make
A bit of sense to me;
I didn't have a bottom line,
As far as I could see.

To solve the whole dilemma,
It was clear the only way
Was to give the whole kaboodle
To the local CPA.

How that fellow pawed the dust
Was something else to see;
At handling figures, he could make
A monkey out of me!

He noted what my income was,
And showed how much I spent;
He spelled it out, precise and clear,
Where every nickel went.

He showed a right substantial sum,
There on the bottom line;
But then, he went and spoiled it
With that ugly minus sign!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

FRIED CHICKEN

2011-07-03T08:41:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Since many folks are enjoying picnics and cook-outs in honor of Independence Day this weekend, I thought this poem would be appropriate. Nothing, I hasten to add, has ever tasted better than fresh-from-the-coop chicken fried up in a pan by my mother -- dad's "Lucy" -- even though most times I had to help her scrape off all the pinfeathers first (dunking the bird in a bucket of boiling water and then adding a little elbow grease usually did the trick)!

They call it Southern recipe,
They call it finger-lickin';
I guess there's fifty-seven ways
For fixin' frying chicken!

Some brown it on a griddle,
After they stew or bake it;
But no one fixes chicken
Like my mother used to make it!

Half a dozen spices,
Or eleven -- doesn't matter;
Mom used salt and pepper
In a milk and cornmeal batter.

The bony parts are useless,
Mom never even fried 'em;
Now they sell 'em anyhow,
But try their best to hide 'em.

The wishbone's non-existent,
And the thighs are abrogated;
The breast is subdivided,
With the ribs incorporated.

That chicken used to have a tail,
Protruding out behind it;
And I suspect it's there somewhere,
If only I could find it!

You can use a pressure cooker,
Or you can broil or grill it;
But don't tell me you fried it
If it never saw a skillet!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

WORDS

2011-06-26T04:59:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Written and spoken language separates us humans from lower animals, but the inability to use words sometimes gives animals the edge," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Words are tools
Of kings, philosophers and fools;
Tools that mold the mortal clay,
Or bend the twig, or lead the way;
Tools that move the common herd,
The written and the spoken word.

Some words are kind,
Bringing comfort, peace of mind;
Words of care, and words of praise,
That help to brighten gloomy days;
These words of kindness, I have learned,
Are seldom lost - they'll be returned.

Some words are keen,
harp and cutting, vile and mean;
Use of evil words, we find,
Will indicate an evil mind,
For they are now, have always been
The implements of little men.

Words we say
We may regret another day;
From lessons gathered long ago,
And painful still, how well I know
Words we've spoken soft and sweet
Are never the ones we have to eat!

Hominy Grits (1986)

THE SANDS OF TIME

2011-06-19T05:25:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Today is Father's Day, and later this week -- June 24 -- will mark the second year since Dad passed away.

The sands, we know,
Relentless, flow,
And, as the seasons pass,
Each golden grain
Will surely drain
Into the lower glass.

We cannot slack,
Nor hold it back,
Nor is it in our power
To take away
A single day,
Or add a single hour.

We'll never see
It come to be
That Time will turn in flight
Thereby to give
Us to relive
A numbered day or night.

We can't command
The trickling sand,
But its passing we may ease,
If, in its place
We've filled the space
With golden memories!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

DYAMIC SERENITY

2011-06-12T05:47:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "My grandfather was a remarkable gentleman," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "He's been gone for forty years, but every now and then, I'm convinced, I get a message from him."

My easy-going grandpa
Had a manner most serene,
I'd say, a more contented person
I have never seen;
But grandpa seemed to think he ought
To do a little more,
And perhaps a little better than
Was ever done before.
I'd say that he succeeded
In most everything he tried,
But though he was contented,
He was never satisfied.

He had a sense of humor,
And he had a lot of fun,
But never took the attitude
That all his work was done;
He showed, by his example,
How a person ought to live,
Never thought about receiving,
But was always quick to give.
A little prayer he quoted,
May it always be my guide:
"Lord, let me be contented,
But not ever satisfied."

--Autumn Acres (1982)

A FEW MORE THINGS

2011-06-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "The sands of time eventually all run out for every mortal, but we shouldn't schedule our activities in anticipation of that event," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

When I look around and see buddies of mine
Witherin' up, like gourds on a vine,
I cannot ignore the years that have gone,
And I realize well that time marches on;
But before my race on this planet is run,
There's a few more things I aim to get done!

There's a few more trips I'd like to take,
And a few more friends I'd like to make,
A mountain or two I'd like to move,
And a few ideas I'd like to prove;
A few more challenges under the sun,
A few more things I'd like to get done!

Some will give up and say, "What's the use?"
"It's too late to start" is a flimsy excuse;
Well, I've other problems to worry about,
Than to dwell on the thought that time's
Running out;
I'd sure like to finish what I have begun,
And a whole lot more I'd like to get done!

I don't know how long it will take,
But Old Father Time can go jump in the lake!
For I don't figure I'm over the hill,
And I'm not so sure that I ever will;
I've always been a stubborn son-of-a-gun,
And there's still a Lot I aim to get done!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

FAMILIAR FACE

2011-05-29T04:37:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Since this is class reunion time, I thought this poem would be appropriate. I don't know about you, but the older I get, the more this happens to me)!

Your face is real familiar,
But I can't recall your name,
My mem'ry's kinda foggy,
But I know you, just the same!

In fact, it's right remarkable
That we should meet this way,
For I've been thinkin' 'bout you,
It was only yesterday.

I said to Lucy, "Honey,
it's a doggone dirty shame
I haven't kept in touch with
My old buddy, what's 'is name!"

It sure is nice to see you,
After all these years again;
Let's have a cup of coffee,
And tell me, how've you been?

Father Time has been real kind
To you, it's plain to see;
It seems you haven't changed a bit
From what you used to be!

I'd know you anywhere, because
You still look just the same;
Your face is sure familiar,
But I can't recall your name!

--Square Marbles (1978)

AT SEVENTEEN

2011-05-22T04:47:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "My hat's off to graduating seniors," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "I can even forgive them for being a little bit cocky. History repeats."

Looking back from later life,
On my emerging phase,
I marvel now, how bright I was,
In my adolescent days.

When just a toad-head youngster,
Hardly dry behind the ears,
I felt I'd grown in wisdom,
Far beyond my tender years.

Before I'd finished high school,
I was sure I had it made;
There couldn't be much more to learn,
Beyond eleventh grade!

And, after graduation,
For at least a year or so,
There wasn't any question,
I knew all there was to know.

I haven't suffered memory loss,
To any great extent;
But yet, I wonder, now and then
Where all that wisdom went!

I'd be the shrewdest pundit
Anyone has ever seen,
If I were half as smart today
As I was at seventeen!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

HAPPINESS

2011-05-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Any way you look at it, happiness is a stopping place between having too little of something and having too much," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Happiness has been defined
A thousand ways, I guess,
And just as many given how
To find it, more or less.

Happiness is how it is
When everything's okay;
Not how it was a week ago,
But how it is today.

It may be only fleeting,
Or it may go on and on;
It's often-times elusive --
Now you have it, now it's gone!

It's not a destination,
Or a goal that you can set;
The more you try to gather in,
The less you're apt to get.

It isn't something you can see
Inside a crystal ball;
It may be late in coming,
Or it may not come at all!

Happiness is better shared
With others, for it's known
That hardly ever anyone
Enjoys it all alone.

Sow little seeds of happiness,
And that is what you'll reap;
The more you try to spread around,
The more you get to keep!

Hominy Grits (1986)

GUNG HO!

2011-05-08T04:53:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Sometimes it seems our luck has run out and we might as well toss in the sponge," but that's not the way to win a ball game," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

What in the world can a poor man do
When his losses are many and his gains
Are few?
How can a fellow continue to hope,
When he's just about to the end of
His rope?

How can the poor guy carry his load
While pushing uphill on a rocky road,
Fighting ahead, to gain no more
Than what he already had before?

How can he hold his chin up high,
And keep a determined gleam in his eye,
While trying harder, only to find
He keeps on getting further behind?

It's easy to falter, and a great many
Will,
But a few press on to the top of the hill;
For this is the method that life employs
While separating the men from the boys!

Records of history demonstrate well
The proof of the story I'm trying to tell;
The ones who win all the marbles and stuff
Are those who hang on when the going is
Tough.

So, don't knuckle under, no matter what,
Give it the very best you have got;
Set your sights on a distant star, --
You're never licked till you think you
Are!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

MONEY PROBLEMS

2011-05-01T05:06:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Everyone knows the dollar has been shrinking at an alarming rate, so it's not surprising to see a new dollar coin resembling a quarter," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Since it will buy about twenty-five cents worth of stuff, maybe its size is fitting. If it's going to act like a quarter, it might as well look like one."

Our economy's surely
A matter of great
Concern all over the nation;
Most folks are having
Trouble today
Keeping up with inflation.

My Lucy contends
We're falling behind,
No reason have I to dispute her;
So I took all my figures
Down to the bank,
And ran 'em thru their computer.

The monster came up
With an answer of sorts,
So quickly it ain't even funny:
We could pay fifty
Percent of our bills
With ninety percent of our money!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

NOAH'S CONCERN

2011-04-24T05:21:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Sometimes our faith is shaken because our prayers aren't answered," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "Sometimes, our prayers aren't answered because we're not asking for the right things!"

Four hundred and fifty feet long,
The ark stood three stories high;
The seams well-coated with pitch,
To keep all the occupants dry.

Two of every known creature,
Down to the tiniest bug,
Noah took them on board,
And made them cozy and snug.

He and all of his kinfolks
Were finally quartered inside;
His sons were Shem, Ham and Japheth,
Whose wives went along for the ride.

Then all the fury of Nature
Cut loose the very next day;
It rained from the first week in April,
Almost to the middle of May.

The gates of the heavens were opened,
And the water spilled and it poured,
But Noah was never affrighted,
He'd been assured by the Lord.

And so his faith never faltered,
Tho it went on week after week;
He didn't pray for the rain to stop --
He prayed his boat wouldn't leak!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

PRUDENT TOLERANCE

2011-04-17T06:18:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "We really should have two houses," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "One to live in, and one to store our junk in!"

My Lucy makes a practice
Not to throw away a thing,
From paper bags and boxes
To rubber bands and string.

Now, I've the inclination
To toss away our trash;
Anything that cannot be
Converted into cash!

Old mail order catalogs,
And moldy magazines,
By me are not considered
To be worth a hill of beans!

Now, I could put my foot down,
And demand she change her ways,
But from my past experience,
I've found discretion pays.

For oftentimes it's better
To let well enough alone,
Even though her frugal ways
Are different from my own.

So when I think it over,
I hush up, and let it be,
Lest she might get the notion
She could do away with me!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

FALLING IN SPRING

2011-04-10T05:29:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "With all living beings, hunger is a powerful urge; but in spring, it ranks in second place," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

In the spring a young man's fancy
Lightly turns to thoughts of love;
His mind is filled with romance,
And the gal he's dreaming of.

He can't resist the arrows
Flung by Cupid, though he tries,
When all Nature waxes greener,
And the sap begins to rise.

His eyes are clouded over,
With a sort of misty haze,
As he goes about his business
Like a Zombie, in a daze.

With her, in blissful union,
He envisions joy untold,
Living happy ever after,
Like in fairy tales of old.

He is absolutely certain
Only sweet and loving words
Will ever pass between 'em,
Like the cooing of the birds.

He thinks he entered Heaven
On the lucky day he met her,
But when he gets as old as me
He'll know a dang sight better!

Hominy Grits (1986)

COUNTRY FLAVOR

2011-04-03T05:14:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "The fresh air in the country is exhilarating as a tonic, never tainted by foul odors or pollutants," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Well, almost never!"

It's time for Nature's reveille call,
And we know that winter is done,
When birds and bees, and flowers and trees,
Awake to the springtime sun.

Along with the coming of Spring are some
Of the signs of the changing scene;
Pleasing scents of the season will come
With the turning of brown to green.

I love the clean fresh smell in the air,
That comes with the April showers;
No store perfume will ever compare
With the fragrance of blossoming flowers.

I love the scent of the new-turned loam,
The gentle zephyrs will bring,
From the fields around our suburban home,
When the farmers plow in the Spring.

I love the aroma of newmown hay,
As it cures in the summer sun;
I love the smell as they stow it away
In the barn, when the haying is done.

If country odors were all like these,
Everything would be Heavenly there;
But now and then, borne on the breeze,
Is a smell that would curl your hair!

When one of these rare odors assail
A veteran born to the range,
He holds his breath, and he doesn't inhale,
As he waits for the wind to change!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

SPRING WEATHER

2011-03-27T05:22:00.000-07:00

As dawn comes up like thunder
On the road to Mandalay,
So Spring will burst upon us,
Now just almost any day.
As Old Man Winter falters,
In this second week of Lent,
His grip's begun to weaken,
And his force is nearly spent.

I often make predictions,
And it's true I sometimes miss;
But I have never been so sure
Of anything as this.
In fact, I've made a wager
There'll be no more heavy snows,
Or I will roll a peanut
Up to Rossburg with my nose!

I'm absolutely certain
We'll have no more zero days
From now until December,
Or this weather prophet pays.
I'll stand behind my wager,
For I'm not the welching kind,
But if April brings a blizzard,
I may be hard to find!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE COMING OF SPRING

2011-03-20T04:46:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Spring is when things get green," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "Little boys roll hoops and fly kites. Big boys ride around with their windows rolled down and their elbows sticking out, and whistling that anything that flutters. The little girls are playing hop-scotch, and the big girls flutter."

Spring's in the air,
So the poets declare,
And winter has left us again;
But whether you're gay,
Or the opposite way,
Depends on the tilt of your chin!

The optimist sees
All the birds and the bees,
And the blossoms beginning to bud;
While the pessimist pouts
At the weeds and the sprouts,
And cusses the rain and the mud.

The difference, you see,
Is plain as can be, --
The scene can be cheery or glum;
The picture you view
Depends upon you,
And the slant that you look at it from!

You can look down your nose,
And lament all your woes,
If that's how you'd like it to be;
Or lift up your chin,
And put on a grin,
And enjoy spring fever, like me!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

WEATHER WORDS

2011-03-13T06:54:00.000-07:00

OLD DOGS

2011-03-06T05:51:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Just because an adage has been around for a long time is no reason it can't be challenged," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. As for me, special thanks goes to a wonderful young man from "back home" who found and sent me a copy of Hominy Grits, the only one of Dad's books I didn't have. It's chock full of wonderful poems, so Chris, I can't thank you enough!

Old dogs never learn new tricks
As quickly as younger ones do;
This saying leaves the assumption
It applies to old people, too.

But let me tarry a moment
To put a bug in your ear --
Old dogs are oftentimes better
At learning than they may appear.

Maybe the trouble is really
The tricks you're trying to teach,
Like a preacher on Sunday morning
With a lousy sermon to preach.

Maybe the old dog is slower
Accepting newfangled ways
Because he has better judgment
Than back in his earlier days.

Don't ever take it for granted
That he's unable to learn;
Maybe you haven't impressed him,
And he just isn't giving a durn!

And let me add a reminder,
By way of summing it up:
Many an old dog remembers
The tricks he learned as a pup!

Hominy Grits (1986)

YOU CAN'T WIN

2011-02-27T05:28:00.000-08:00

"Get out of this house!"
She shouted one day,
"I'm tired of you sittin'
Around, in the way."

Now I'm not made of granite,
And my feeling were hurt;
Nobody likes to be
Treated like dirt!

So I got in my car,
And I drove into town;
Went nowhere special,
Just wandered around.

For more than an hour,
I continued to roam,
Till I figured it might
Be safe to go home.

The first thing I heard
When I tippy-toed in--
Her melodious voice,
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

--Square Marbles (1978)

NEIGHBORLY LOVE

2011-02-20T05:48:00.000-08:00

We're taught to love our neighbor,
Which is really well and good;
All of us could live in peace
If everybody would.

No doubt our home on earth would be
More like the one above
If we could chase away the hate,
And fill the world with love.

There isn't any question,
That's the way it ought to be,
And I have come to realize
It has to start with me!

If I can do my little bit
To give this cause a shove,
My neighbor may reciprocate,
And show a little love.

So I made a resolution:
I would try, no matter what,
And, with firm determination,
I would give it all I've got.

But up to now, my program
Isn't getting any place,
The blonde informed her husband,
And the redhead slapped my face!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

HEADS OR TAILS

2011-02-13T04:26:00.000-08:00

One way to avoid the dissension and strife
That often crops up in marital life,
Is for the pair to agree on a way
Where one or the other will have final say.

In spite of true love, disagreement will come,
And it might lead up to a crisis for some,
Unless you've agreed beforehand, like us,
Which one will prevail in case of a fuss.

Before any serious squabbles began,
My Lucy and I arrived at a plan:
We decided to take a nickel, and toss
To see which one was to be the boss.

I'm not so sure that I'd recommend
This same identical plan to a friend;
Fifty percent is the chance you will take,
And that's assuming you get a fair shake.

If I had it all to do over again,
We might do it different than we did then;
I never did see that nickel she tossed,
But whichever way it landed, I lost!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

GRANDMA'S CHICKEN SOUP

2011-02-06T05:24:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: When Jack fractured his ankle by falling on some ice in our front yard last month, our friends Michele and James delivered a big, and much appreciated, pot of chicken soup. Hey, maybe they're on to something!

When one of her offspring, in Grandmother's day,
Came down with stomach-ache, measles or croup,
The very first thing that Grandma would say,
"Let me fix you a bowl of hot chicken soup!"

Grandma never would take any stock
In drugstore medicine, tonics or pills,
The broth of a big old fat Plymouth Rock
Was a sure cure for anyone's ills.

Nine healthy children, husky and strong,
Grew up under Grandma's benevolent eye;
Her treatment was surely not very far wrong,
As nine examples would all signify.

My Grandpa lived for many a moon,
But took to his bed at age ninety-five;
Grandma stood by his side with a spoon,
And for more than a week kept him alive.

But Grandpa was called by the angels one day,
And went up to sing with that Heavenly group,
And down at the courthouse, the record books say,
"Death caused by drowning in hot chicken soup."

--Autumn Acres (1982)

ROAD TO RICHES

2011-01-30T05:28:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "There are many roads to riches, if you have enough to build on," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "But one sure-fire method doesn't take much capital."

It's really not too difficult
To become a wealthy man;
Once the formula is known,
Almost anybody can!

If you will pay attention
To what I have to say,
With only one lone dollar bill,
You can soon be on your way.

You buy an item wholesale
For your buck, and when you do,
You turn around and sell it
To some other guy for two!

Repeat the same procedure,
Just the way I've told you how,
And, if you're perspicacious,
You have got four dollars now.

The next plateau is eight, you see,
And then you reach sixteen;
Then thirty-two, and sixty-four;
Now you're getting what I mean.

Now, take your calculator,
And multiply some more;
Double your money twenty times,
And a million is your score!

In case you might be wondering why
I'm not a millionaire,
I got too old before I had
A dollar bill to spare!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

THE BEAN AGE DAYS

2011-01-23T05:18:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: As I was chowing down a can of Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup at home alone on one of the days my husband Jack was in the hospital after slipping on the ice and fracturing his ankle, this poem came to mind. My love of bean soup, I'm sure, came from Dad! I rarely make it, though, since our son-in-law Jerry is the only member of our family who will touch it (I always said he has good taste)!

Any time I sit and ponder,
My thoughts are sure to wander
To those times away back yonder,
That I call the bean age days;
When I was but a youngster,
And later, in my teens,
I often ate for dinner
Very little more than beans.

Of course, we had a measure
Of happy wiles and pleasure,
And memories to treasure,
In a thousand different ways;
We had our better moments,
And we had our in betweens;
But when the times were hardest,
We sure ate a lot of beans!

It wasn't that our station
Was a state of degradation--
We weren't poor relation
That our kin looked down upon;
But we never were so palmy
As to dine on fine cuisines,
And I remember clearly
When we nearly lived on beans!

I'll use the space remaining
For just a word, explaining
I'm really not complaining
That those bean age days are gone;
I enjoy old fashioned cookin',
And the simple life routines,
But prefer a bit of finer fare
To supplement the beans!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

POOR CONNECTIONS

2011-01-16T05:16:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "The most versatile and complicated machines have the most parts to wear, corrode and deteriorate," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. I picked it, though, because it just seemed appropriate: Earlier this week, my husband Jack slipped on the ice in our yard and fractured his ankle in 3 places. After surgery he's back home and doing well, but Dad's poem really hit home (no pun intended) this time!

My foot bone is connected
To my ankle bone, they say,
I couldn't walk so good if it
Were any other way.

My head bone is connected
At my body's other end,
And swivels on my neck bone,
So it can turn and bend.

These joints cause a problem
For some people I have seen,
But my vexation hinges
On some couplings in between.

Time marches on, relentless,
And it changes things a lot;
I've just begun to realize
How many joints I've got!

As age-induced erosion,
And the wear on these increase
They're getting stiff and creaky,
Like they need a little grease!

But yet, I'm really thankful,
From the bottom of my heart;
If I lost all my connections,
I suppose I'd fall apart!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THOSE WINTER NIGHTS

2011-01-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "On winter evenings long ago, two little boys were not very enthusiastic about retiring to their unheated bedroom upstairs," Dad recalled in the introduction to this poem. This time of year here in northeastern Ohio, I sure can feel his pain -- figuratively and literally!

In our old farmhouse, long ago,
When I was five or six, or so,
And January came along,
And Winter set in good and strong,
We hated so to go to bed,
In chilly quarters overhead.
My little brother Frosty, he
Was two years younger yet than me.

We hesitated on the stair,
For it was mighty cold up there;
Both were entertaining dread
Of climbing in our frigid bed;
But Mother countervailed our fear
By gently nudging from the rear.
We were still reluctant, though,
Those winter evenings, long ago.

Finally, in our straw-tick bed,
With rafters creaking overhead,
Covers tucked around us tight,
We snuggled for the winter night;
And when the angry north wind came
To rattle window sash and frame,
Little mounds of drifted snow
Appeared upon the sill below.

After snuffing out the light,
Mother vanished from our sight,
Quietly down the narrow stair,
Leaving us to shiver there.
Wrapped in flannel, at our feet,
Two flat irons provided heat;
No electric blanket, though,
Those winter nights of long ago!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

SUCCESS

2011-01-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "I suppose every living person was born with a desire to be successful, which is good, except for the fact that there are different definitions for success," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. That seems to me to be food for thought as we start a new year.

I'd like to be successful,
Like some fellows that I know,
And get my name in newsprint,
And on the radio;
And have a lot of money
To spend, or give away,
And just sort of take it easy,
And live from day to day.

I reckon that's wishful thinking,
It's not for the likes of me;
I'll live and die a poor man,
As far as I can see;
But sometimes a fellow's better
Off than what he knows,
There's more to life than money,
And fame, and fancy clothes!

And when I stop and study 'bout
The blessings that I've got,
I feel ashamed to think that I've
Complained about my lot.
I've got a home and family
That money couldn't buy,
And no king, in all his glory
Has had more fun than I.

I've made a lot of friendships
That time will not erase,
And I hope that my departing
Will leave a little empty place.
Oh, it's nice to dream of money,
And the pleasure that it brings,
If we don't forget the value
Of some other precious things.

So when we inventory,
Let us pause, and ponder whether
We have counted all our blessings,
When we add it all together.
When our numbered days are over,
And we're called to meet our fate,
Will we brag about our riches,
To the keeper of the gate?

Will he ask us how much money
We have stored away on earth,
Or will he have some other way
To figure up our worth?
Yes, I'd like to be successful,
So would everyone, I guess,
But let's all be mighty careful
How we define success!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

I LIKE WINTER

2010-12-26T06:13:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "There are many things about winter that are beautiful and fascinating, but of course it depends on your vantage point!" Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

I like snow;
I love to hear
The north wind blow;
Not just a cold December breeze,
But really howling through the trees,
Like screaming, wailing
wild banshees.

I like the frost,
On door and window
Pane embossed;
And hung like garlands, clean and bright,
On fence and shrub, reflecting white;
Or ghostly in
The pale moonlight.

I like to see
The drooping branches
On a tree,
Bent down, to touch the ground below,
Each one transfixed into a bow,
By weight of heavy
Sodden snow.

I like the season,
For each above
Related reason;
Oh, yes, I love it, every minute
Have no complaints at all ag'in it,
If I don't have
To go out in it!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

ODE TO WINTER

2010-12-19T06:11:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Some folks dread to see winter arrive' others hate to see it go," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "I guess it depends on your appetite for weather." I don't know which book this is from -- it's one my Aunt Olive, Dad's sister, chose for publication in the December/January issue of "Fanfare," the Brethren Retirement Community's newsletter. Looking outside and seeing half a dozen or so inches of white stuff on the ground, it seemed appropriate for posting here as well.

The northern wind is howling
Like a banshee in the night,
Overcoating lawn and garden
With a coverlet of white.

Wires along the highway,
Whining in the cruel cold,
Cry that winter's got us
In its bitter strangle hold.

The hoary frost has settled
O'er the garden corner post;
In the pale moonlight it shimmers
Like an eerie sheeted ghost.

I appreciate the beauty
Of the snowy winter scene;
With the world in fleecy garments,
It appears so white and clean.

But let me clear the record,
So as not to be amiss,
It doesn't take me long to get
My belly full of this!

'TIS THE SEASON

2010-12-12T06:20:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: Dad never was one to get excited about holidays, most likely thinking for the most part they're a waste of time and money that could be better spent elsewhere. And for the most part, he had a good point -- perhaps never more accurate than this time of year.

'Tis the season to be jolly
Time for mistletoe and holly;
Merry hearts are full of cheer,
Christmas Day is almost here!

Joybells ringing all around,
From every side, the carols sound;
Christmas music fills the air,
Yuletide spirit everywhere.

Toddlers, thrilled as they can be,
Climb and sit on Santa's knee;
Whisper in his ear what they
Would have him bring on Christmas Day.

Nearly hidden, under all
This hoopla, din and fol-de-rol,
A manger scene that seems to shout,
"Hey, here is what it's all about!"

No question, Christmas has become
Commercialized too much for some;
But no one dares to advocate
We lose our right to celebrate.

And though I deem that well and good,
And wouldn't change it if I could,
I've had enough of Christmas cheer
To do me for another year!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

CHRISTMAS CARDS

2010-12-05T05:30:00.000-08:00

"Our Christmas card list is a little shorter this year," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "We've crossed out the names of those folks we haven't seen for ten years, people who owe us money, and all relatives no closer than third cousins."

From friends and kinfolks everywhere,
We're getting Christmas cards;
Some with little notes inside,
To give us their regards.

Up to now, we've seventeen,
But expect that many more
Before the season ends, because
We sent out thirty-four.

Some are cheap, some are not,
And Lucy's keeping track;
You can tell how much they cost
By the numbers in the back.

Here and there, we find where we
Can cut our card expense,
If one we sent cost half a buck,
And theirs was twenty cents.

Perhaps the difference ain't enough
To be concerned about,
But they never seem to total up
To as much as we paid out.

I'm sure we won't break even,
No chance of coming near it;
But anyhow, I'm happy we
Have got the Christmas spirit!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THANKSGIVING FARE

2010-11-27T06:24:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: Many of you know Dad was a popular after-dinner speaker for many years, and with that came some pluses and minuses. "After-dinner speaking is not, in itself, fattening," he wrote as the introduction to this poem. "But the environment is conducive to overeating, especially around the holidays." Most of us don't do the public speaking circuit, but this time of year, I think we can relate to what he's talking about!

Thanksgiving time is on us,
And we've cause to celebrate,
But I've been doing, maybe,
More than what I should, of late.

For, almost every evening
Finds me occupied somewhere,
At a banquet table loaded
With that good Thanksgiving fare!

Heaping mounds of turkey,
And the dressing piled up high!
Cranberry sauce and salad,
And delicious pumpkin pie!

I'm thankful for the bounty
Of this gala festive board,
But my middle section shows it,
Which I cannot well afford.

I've been a turkey lover,
For many, many years,
But I'm so full of turkey now,
It's running out my ears!

When I came home last evening,
And the same the night before,
Lucy came and let me in
When I gobbled at the door!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

I SHALL NOT COVET

2010-11-21T05:37:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "Fortune comes to everyone who waits," Dad reminded in the introduction to this poem. "This one saying may be true, if you don't run out of time."

I don't care how far you've come
Toward acquiring fame;
It doesn't bother me at all,
That people hail your name.

And I don't give a hoot because
Your house is bigger'n mine,
And you've got such a fancy place,
And all fixed up so fine.

You're welcome to your Cadillac,
You drive with such delight;
I don't begrudge you all of this,
As a jealous fellow might.

But, if we're even, all of us,
And equal at the start,
It's hard to see how we can get
So many bucks apart!

For your good fortune to arrive,
You hadn't long to wait;
But it appears that mine will come
Too little and too late!

With all the riches you have gained,
I say hooray for you!
Though I'd be better satisfied
If I could have some, too!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

KNOW THY NEIGHBOR

2010-11-14T06:43:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "I'm sure we all sometimes recognize a person with whom we are not acquainted, and are also acquainted with some we don't really know," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

I chanced to meet an acquaintance
While strolling, one autumn day,
And each of us said, "Good morning,"
And went on his merry way.

It wasn't in any way different
Than what we had done before;
We'd greeted and passed each other
On a hundred occasions or more.

But I'd never shortened my sail
Or paused for a second look;
As goes the old country saying,
We'd howdied, but never had shook.

I knew where he lived on the corner,
With a vacant lot out behind,
But what he did for a living
Had never entered my mind.

"A mighty find fellow," I pondered,
As his name I tried to recall,
Then I realized, all of a sudden,
That I hardly knew him at all!

So I vowed to learn more about him,
And the hand of a neighbor extend;
I found it well worth the effort --
My acquaintance became my friend!

I learned a valuable lesson,
And I have this moral to tell;
If a man's worth knowing at all,
He's certainly worth knowing well!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME

2010-11-07T04:21:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: "When I was a lad, if we wanted to go to work an hour earlier, we just set the alarm clock as hour earlier. Pretty dumb, huh?" Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. No, Pop, I think maybe you were on to something.

The whole thing began, so the story goes,
With an Indian chief called Running Nose.
I understand this redskin bold
Complained because his feet got cold,
For his blanket wasn't sufficient quite
To reach from end to end at night.

When he pulled it up beneath his chin
It seems his troubles would then begin,
For that would leave the other end bare,
And it stuck out in the frigid air,
And that is the reason, so I suppose,
That he got the name of Running Nose.

So the tribal council gathered around
The campfire on the communal ground,
And debated how to afford relief
From this problem besetting their mighty chief,
And they proved to be, at this big pow-wow,
Just about as smart as we are now.

These wise old chiefs decided to lop
A foot or so from off of the top
Of his blanket, which then he could sew
Onto the end that was short below!
The logic behind this remarkable plan
Explains how Daylight Savings Time began!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

NO DEAL

2010-10-31T05:26:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Envy is one of the inherent traits of human nature and causes more troubles than ragweed or mumps," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "The grass is always greener in somebody else's pasture, our troubles are greater than the other fellow's, and why couldn't we have been born rich and talented like that guy over there?"

I used to ponder quite a lot,
And think perhaps I should have got
A better deal from Nature when she passed the talents out;
But when I try to pick a guy
I think is better off than I,
I come to this conclusion: There's a lot to think about.

Comparing talents, more or less,
Is like comparing kids, I guess.
When taken all together, your own are not so bad;
If we could trade for others, just
To try a little while, I trust
We'd all decide we much prefer to keep the ones we had.

Of all the people I have met,
I've never known a person yet
Exactly like the man I think I'd like to be;
All things considered well, I find
I'm satisfied, with peace of mind,
It's just as well I can't be anyone else but me!

--Down Country Roads (1970)

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

2010-10-24T05:16:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "It's nice to have someone to blame all our troubles onto, even if we have to go a long way back to find a whipping boy," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

In the Garden of Eden,
A long time ago,
No evil existed,
No sin did they know;
Till the Devil slipped in,
And soon after that,
Adam and Eve
Began to begat!

No longer allowed
In the garden to remain,
They promptly went out
To raise a little Cain;
And that was the start
Of the whole human race;
Their descendants begatted
All over the place!

This chain reproduction
Which they set in motion,
Led up to the present
Population explosion;
So, let us remember,
Not that it matters,
The whole thing began
With those first two begatters!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE FISHERMAN'S DREAM

2010-10-17T05:11:00.000-07:00

I had a dream the other night,
While deep in peaceful slumber--
I dreamed I died and traveled on,
For Fate had called my number;
And as I crossed the Great Divide,
And hurried on alone,
With eager step I made my way
Into the Land Unknown.

And there, before my very eyes,
Was a grand sight to behold--
I saw a sportsman's paradise
Instead of streets of gold;
For dancing down the mountainside,
In the sunset afterglow,
A brook was singing on its way
To meet the lake below.

The mossy bank was smooth and green,
'Neath the overhanging trees,
While flowers on the mountain top
Added perfume to the breeze.
The stream was full of finny folk--
I saw them flash and shine;
O, such a spot I'd never seen
To wet a casting line!

And as I stood enraptured there,
I heard a footstep fall,
And coming down the path I saw
An old man, gaunt and tall.
"Please tell me, sir," I cried to him,
"Please tell me, if you will,
Where I can find a rod and reel,
So I may try my skill!"

"I need some tackle right away,
No matter what the price;
I never dreamed, when down on earth,
That Heaven would be so nice!"
The old man slowly shook his head,
Quoth he, "It can't be done.
I'm afraid that you're just out of luck--
You ain't in Heaven, son!"

--Down Country Roads (1970)

TV and B-O

2010-10-10T05:20:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "The latest census figures lead to some startling disclosures," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "I can't vouch for their accuracy, but some are very interesting!"

Figures show we have today,
From census tabulations,
Twice as many TV sets
As bathtubs in our nation.

Now this is most amazing,
And it isn't true, I hope,
That people watch soap operas,
But neglect to use the soap!

There are many TV watchers
With bright and shiny faces,
But one begins to wondeer,
Are they clean in other places?

And what about the ratings,
That tell who's watching shows?
Would the sponsor care how many
Need a bath, do you suppose?

One thing helps a little,
For this is also known
That most who skip the bathing
Do use twice as much cologne!

Everything considered,
I have come to this decision:
A lot of dirty people
Have been watching television!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

LIFE BY THE TENS

2010-10-03T05:58:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "We tend to consider the life span of man in decimal units," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "Nobody, for example, looks at thirty-six or fifty-two as turning points."

At twenty, no longer in your teens,
You've become a grown-up at last;
Your future's a shining beacon ahead,
And darkness swallows your past.
You reach your peak of vigor and vim
At the age of thirty or so;
Now, you're smack in the prime of ife,
And full of the old gung-ho!

At forty, they tell us life begins,
For some people maybe it will;
But others now are fighting the fear
They're almost over the hill.
At fifty, you've come to the awkward age,
And are losing some of your fire,
Feeling the wear and tear of life,
But still too young to retire!

The next decade goes galloping by,
Faster than ever, it seems;
You find that you're beginning to have
More memories now than dreams.
Seventy falls in the golden years,
But also, let me remind you,
Three-score and ten decidedly means
Your future is mostly behind you!

I hate to end on a negative note,
But there's another thing to it,--
If you haven't made your pile by now,
You probably ain't gonna do it.
If I had any precept in mind,
Or moral, in writing this rhyme,
It's give it your best, at whatever age,
And to heck with Old Father Time!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE COLD WAR

2010-09-26T06:27:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Some animals act like people, and some people act like animals," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "When you put them together, they sometimes imitate each other." It seemed to me an appropriate poem as election time -- with all those annoying, mud-slinging TV commercials -- is upon us.

Politics in Washington,
And world affairs as well,
In situations here at home,
All have a parallel.

Our neighbor's dog is just a cur,
And he's nothing much to see;
I've got no use for him at all,
And he hates the sight of me.

He barks whenever I come out
To get the morning mail;
It's pretty certain I'm a guy
That he would love to nail!

But I don't aim, if I can help,
To give that mutt a chance
To chew a swatch of denim
Out of Mister Acres' pants!

He snarls at me, I snarl at him,
We go on day by day;
But never have got closer yet
Than a dozen feet away.

If we don't hold the status quo,
And worse does come to worst,
I think he'll turn his tail and run,
If I can bite him first!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

ENDANGERED SPECIES

2010-09-19T05:11:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Down through the ages, species have lingered awhile, then disappeared -- often being victims of their own folly," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.My hope is that someday soon we learn the error of our ways!

A hundred million years ago,
Give or take a week or so,
Lived the Brontosaurus;
It isn't logical to think
Man caused him to be extinct,
For he was long before us!

We are told the larger ones
Weighed as much as thirty tons,
A mass of bone and muscle;
He was such an awesome beast,
Adequate, to say the least,
To give any foe a tussle.

Being such a massive thing,
It surely took a lot to bring
Him down, but then, I wonder
If perhaps it might have been
A little bug that did him in,
A germ that laid him under.

Maybe, if we knew the score,
We wouldn't wonder anymore,
On matters appertaining;
Those critters found, I wouldn't doubt,
A way to wipe each other out,
Till there were none remaining.

Our race may disappear, somehow,
And others, many years from now,
May guess what happened to it;
They may surmise we found the means
To blow ourselves to smithereens,
And were stupid enough to do it!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

SLOW WIT

2010-09-11T17:36:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "How many times have you said something stupid and a few minutes or a few hours later thought of a perfectly brilliant remark that you could have made? I envy those who always say the right thing at the right time," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. I suspect most of us have been there, done that!

I can always come up
With a snappy reply
After it's too late to say it;
I'm really a witty
Sort of a guy,
But I'm just too slow to display it.

By the time I can think
Of a good repartee,
To enliven a dull conversation,
Everyone's gone
From the party but me,
And I talk to myself in frustration.

I'd like to be quick,
And master the trick
Of returning a salient word;
It's awful to be
A pokey like me,
And appear like Mortimer Snerd.

Some day I'll come back
With a timely wisecrack,
It's a dream I'll cherish forever;
But it may be as late
As Heaven's front gate,
That St. Peter will tell me, "How clever!"

--Autumn Acres (1982)

OVER THE HILL

2010-09-05T07:11:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: This really was Dad's "take" on life -- and a bit of advice that makes sense to me as well!

I'll never lament,
As some people will,
Bemoaning the fact
That they're over the hill.
Though somewhat the worse
From the wear and the tear,
I'm not ready yet
For the old rocking chair!

I'm not looking backward
But looking instead
To the rest of my life
That lies up ahead.
I can think of a million
Things to be done,
And I know I'm still able
To have lots of fun;

There's no use to mope
And complain of our plight.
We can't change the past,
But the future, we might.
Though I couldn't run back
Up that hill if I tried,
I can live all the way
Down the opposite side!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

NOAH'S CONCERN

2010-08-29T05:19:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Sometimes our faith is shaken because our prayers are not answered," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "Sometimes, our prayers aren't answered because we're not asking for the right things."

Four hundred and fifty feet long
The ark stood three stories high;
The seams well-coated with pitch,
To keep all the occupants dry.

Two of every known creature,
Down to the tiniest bug,
Noah took them on board,
And made them cozy and snug.

He and all of his kinfolks
Were finally quartered inside;
His sons were Shem, Ham and Japeth,
Whose wives went along for the ride.

Then all the fury of Nature
Cut loose the very next day;
It rained from the first week in April,
Almost to the middle of May.

The gates of the heavens were opened,
And the water spilled and it poured,
But Noah was never affrighted,
He'd been assured by the Lord.

And so his faith never faltered,
Tho it went on week after week;
He didn't pray for the rain to stop --
He prayed his boat wouldn't leak!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

HAIR TODAY - GONE TOMORROW

2010-08-22T05:04:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "A bald head is a Heavenly thing; there is no parting there," Dad quipped as the introduction to this poem.

My neighbor Sam is frugal bent;
He holds on tight to every cent.
And almost all his married life,
His hair's been barbered by his wife.

Clippings from her trusty shears
Accumulated through the years,
For she adored his curly locks,
And saved them in a storage box.

But Father Time is known to bring
Degressive change to everything;
And so, my neighbor, thru the years,
Grew less and less above his ears.

So there's no reason, here of late,
To snip or slip on Sammy's pate;
His noggin's like a billiard ball,
With nothing growing there at all!

It almost broke his spouse's heart
To see his tresses all depart;
For, where his wavy crown had been,
Emerged a dome of barren skin.

But she's so glad she saved his wool,
Half a dozen boxes full;
Up in the attic, stored away,
Mementos of a better day,.

And often, when she's feeling low,
She'll take a little break and go
To spend a tender moment there,
Running her fingers through his hair!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

THE MISFIT

2010-08-15T06:41:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "'One size fits all' -- hogwash!," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem. "And almost as ridiculous is the idea that three sizes will fit everybody!" As a lanky, long-armed man who stood 6 feet 3 inches in his size 12 stocking feet, I guess he should know! Truth is, I feel his pain; the difference is that my challenge is sideways, not up and down.

A serious problem on my mind
Moves me to wax poetic;
I know that I will surely find
Many readers sympathetic;
For I am not the only guy,
With chassis long and tall,
Who does not fall within the class
Of medium, large or small!

I try to buy some underwear,
Some longies, if you please;
The ones that fit my torso
Won't reach below my knees!
I buy a large size jacket,
And the shoulders fit me fine;
But the sleeves don't nearly cover
These yard-long arms of mine!

I get pajamas extra large,
And the same with BVDs,
But they make me look like a scarecrow,
A-flappin' in the breeze!
Now I'm no freak of nature,
But I wasn't made at all,
To fit no dad-blamed pattern
Of medium, large or small!

I wouldn't be particular,
Nor hard to please, I swear;
All I want is something
That'll reach from here to there!
And when my robe they hand me,
Up above, on Judgment Day,
If it's small, or large, or medium,
I'm headin' the other way!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

ROAS'N' EARS

2010-08-08T03:25:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Sweet corn, cooked on the cob, has been one of my favorite foods ever since I was taken off the bottle," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. I don't know if the gene pool plays any role in what our taste buds hanker for, but if does, I know where my love of "roas'n' ears came from!

Though I aim to be discreet,
I must admit I live to eat;
And I ain't found, in all these years,
Nothin' better'n roas'n' ears!

Steamin' hot, piled on a plate,
I might eat six, or maybe eight,
Or even more if I really tried
And was a little on the hungry side!

You can't be fancy when you're eatin'
Roas'n' ears, you can't be neat;
And people who enjoy 'em most,
Pay no mind to Em'ly Post.

If you can't afford high-priced spread,
Just smear on oleo instead;
Then cut loose and wade right in,
With grease a-drippin' off your chin!

Ever' six or seven rows,
Pause a bit and wipe your nose;
Take a breath of air, and then
Grab aholt and go again!

If your lowers tend to skid,
Put 'em in your pocket, kid;
You may not do a fancy job,
But you can gum it off the cob!

Slide that roas'n' ear to and fro,
Slowly rotate as you go;
When one is gone, pick up another --
That's what I call eatin', brother!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE GREAT PYRAMID

2010-08-01T08:26:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "The greatest wonder in some of the noted doings of mankind is not so much in the worth of the venture as in the motivation behind them," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Away out there, in the desert sand,
Near the River Nile, in Egypt land,
Cheops built the great pyramid,
(Or if he didn't do it, somebody did).
Seeing the thing, so lonely and bare,
You can't help wondering why it is there.

Standing four hundred eighty feet tall,
A stack of stones, worth nothing at all;
Experts say, to them it appears
It must have taken a great many years,
To build it there, at a terrible cost,
In money and time and lives that were lost.

It puzzles our present-day engineers
How, way back there five thousand years,
Builders with only primitive means,
No great engines or hoisting machines,
Managed to raise a structure they say
Would present a challenge, even today!

The great pyramid is the only claim
That Cheops has to a vestige of fame;
Where did this ancient Egyptian king
Get the idea to build the thing?
Nobody knows, but I'd bet my life
It was on a list made up by his wife!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

DIMES AND TIMES

2010-07-25T05:09:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: A couple of days ago I spent close to an hour counting and packaging accumulated dimes and nickels that finally filled up our "piggy" banks. It's a chore I hate, but in the end we got enough to pay for one night's stay at a motel on our trip to Maine this fall (and maybe even a meal). It proves that little things count, of course, but they sure don't seem to go as far as they used to. I guess Dad would agree.

I remember well the time,
When I was in my teens,
I often didn't have a dime
In the pocket of my jeans

But I fit in the common run,
Accustomed to co-mingle
With many other farmers' sons
Who had no coins to jingle.

But also, I can recollect
How much a dime would buy,
Like a Danish roll and coffee,
Or a king-size slab of pie!

Five pennies bought a candy bar,
A milkshake went for ten;
A guy who had a dollar bill
Was sitting pretty then.

I realize we can't return
To the so-called good old days;
We have to take it like it is,
And bow to modern ways,.

But anyhow, I'm keeping up
With these inflated times;
For I am short of dollars now,
Instead of short of dimes!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

OF BIRDS AND WORMS

2010-07-18T05:49:00.000-07:00

The early bird catches the worm, they say,
Most everyone knows it is true;
Maybe that's good, and maybe it's bad,
Depending on your point of view.

The worm might tell you, if worms could talk,
That being early's absurd,
Why should a worm be in a hurry,
To be grabbed by a mean old bird?

Our feathered friends, on the other hand,
Would be very likely to say
That getting up early, for a nice fat worm,
Is the best way of starting your day.

The more you study the question, it seems,
The less the issue confuses,
In Nature's design, when somebody wins,
There's somebody else who loses.

The moral resulting from this little rhyme,
Good common sense will confirm,
Whether it's best to be early depends
On whether you're a bird or a worm!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

THIN ICE

2010-07-10T17:13:00.000-07:00

"There comes a time in every person's life when some inner sense says, 'Be careful,'" Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem:

Man is never perfect,
And, as far as I can see,
With all his warts and foibles,
He was never meant to be.

We all have had our moments,
And we all have seen a day
When scruples were forgotten,
And we went a bit astray.

Temptations come so often,
To the restless and the young;
They listen to the Devil,
And a little fling is flung!

I know it's human nature,
When our years begin to fade,
To think about our failings,
And the record we have made.

There'll be a day to settle,
And it comes to everyone;
We'll have to pay the fiddler
For the dancing we have done.

I'm tempted very seldom now,
My errant ways are few;
I walk the straight and narrow,
Like a person ought to do.

I guess I'm not too different
From any other sinner;
We skate with less abandon
Where the ice is getting thinner!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

NO COMPLAINTS

2010-07-04T05:40:00.000-07:00

Some folks are always complaining,
And never content with their lot;
Too concerned with what they are missing
To appreciate the blessings they've got.

Recalling their errors of judgment,
And dreaming of what might have been,
And how their lives would be different
If they could start all over again.

Reliving our past is a privilege
That Providence will never allow;
The past is no part of the future,
But the future is part of the Now.

I intend to enjoy the remainder
Of the race that's yet to be run,
And looking back over my shoulder
Isn't my idea of fun!

The march of time is relentless,
And life is dwindling too fast
To be spending half of my future
Lamenting half of my past!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

THE SANDS OF TIME

2010-06-27T05:27:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: Dad's been gone just over a year now -- he passed away last June 24. Reading through his books to choose poems for the blog turned up this one, which somehow seems perfect for this week. Memories can't take his place, of course, but I treasure them all the same.

The sands, we know,
Relentless, flow,
And, as the seasons pass,
Each golden grain
Will surely drain
Into the lower glass.

We cannot slack,
Nor hold it back,
Nor is it in our power
To take away
A single day,
Or add a single hour.

We'll never see
It come to be
That Time will turn in flight,
Thereby to give
Us to relive
A numbered day or night.

We can't command
The trickling sand,
But its passing we may ease,
If in its place
We've filled the space
With golden memories!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

MORNING AFTER BLUES

2010-06-20T15:59:00.001-07:00

When I was a youth, and still in my prime,
As we used to say, full of Old Ned,
I remember the way we fellows went out
On the town, and painted it red.

We knew how the morning after would feel,
But very little difference it made;
We accepted the face as a matter of course,
The fiddler, he had to be paid.

We did it again each Saturday night,
Made whoopee till one, two or three;
Taking the view, the fun that we had
Was worth all the headaches to be.

A lot of water has gone over the dam,
Father Time has taken his due.
And now, I discover, I'm looking at things
From a slightly different view.

I hate to complain or be grumpy, although
I'll have to admit I deplore
That morning after feeling, when I
Have done nothing the evening before!

--Square Marbles (1978)

THE SKULL SESSION

2010-06-13T12:43:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "I have no doubt there are many very capable psychiatrists in the business of analyzing and treating mental disorders. It just happens the only two I ever knew seemed to be in need of a little help themselves," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Two psychiatrists, meeting one day,
Were chewing the fat in a casual way,
When suddenly one to his counterpart said,
"How would you like to examine my head?"
The other replied, "Now, that would be fine,
And while we're about it, you look at mine!"

Now I can't swear for certain it's true,
But the way I heard the story, these two
Shook hands on the spot and agreed, it appears,
To measure each other between the ears;
Undoubtedly thinking it would be nice
To have this exchange of expert advice.

So, Doc number one, as most patients do,
Relaxed on the couch of Doc number two;
Answering questions formed and designed
To expose the kinks in a tangled-up mind;
Then, Doc number two, his questioning done,
Was examined in turn by Doc number one.

So the two head-shrinkers applied their art,
And skillfully took each other apart;
Switching their doctor and patient roles,
They proved their minds and explored their souls,
And each one decided, no maybes or buts,
Beyond any question, the other was nuts!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

FALLEN ANGEL

2010-06-05T16:44:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "Sometimes the passing years play dirty tricks with the near-sacred objects of our most precious memories; or maybe it's just that our memories play tricks on us," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

When I was in the second grade,
At Jackson Number Three,
A little girl in pigtails
Had the desk in front of me.

When she smiled in my direction,
Cupid shot another dart,
And put a perforation
In my palpitating heart!

But when she moved, and left us,
It's a most amazing fact
That somehow I survived it,
And my heart remained intact.

How oft, in reminiscing,
As the years dissolved away,
I wondered why she hadn't been
Declared Miss U.S.A.

To make my story shorter,
My great moment came at last,
When I met this little princess
I remembered from the past.

She had a mug as ugly
As a human face could be,
And a figure like that schoolhouse,
Where she sat in front of me!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

A MILE OF SMILES

2010-05-30T05:25:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "When I was a lad, my grandfather called me "Grinny Britches." But as I recall, when I grinned at someone, they usually responded in kind," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem.

The other morning I chanced to meet
A neighbor of mine from down the street,
And he hollered, "Good morning, Slim!"
With a vibrant voice, chock full of cheer,
And a great big grin from ear to ear,
And I couldn't help smiling at him.

Now, I'd been feeling a little blue,
As, once in a while, most people do,
When they've been taking their lumps;
But after I met this cheerful guy,
I felt a little ashamed that I
Had been so down in the dumps.

I felt rather sheepish because I knew
The trials this chap had just been through
Were greater than any I'd known;
So, straightening up, with a quicker stride,
I felt a whole lot better inside,
From the spirit this fellow had shown.

A little further on down the street,
Another acquaintance I chanced to meet,
And I hollored, "Good morning, Jim!"
He looked my way, and nodded his head,
And I grinned as wide as my face would spread,
And I got a big smile out of him!

So, I resolved, the rest of the day,
I'd foster good will in a similar way,
With folks wherever I went;
I found the idea to be worthwhile,
I got a great life from every smile,
And it didn't cost me a cent!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

THE COMMON MAN

2010-05-23T05:44:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: If anyone could personify the Golden Rule, it was Dad; wealth, "station" in life and possessions didn't matter a whit when it came to how he treated other folks. In fact, the only times I recall him ever saying anything negative about another human being happened when that person failed to do what the Good Book tells us we should. My Aunt Mary, Dad's "baby" sister, says that comes from Dad's Quaker "first, do no harm" philosophy. Not a bad concept when you think about it, huh!

Prestige doesn't concern me much,
Neither does money or fame;
I'm not impressed by titles and such,
Nor awed by a famous name.

And furthermore, I care not a whit
To be told of your family tree;
Not concerned the least little bit
With your royal blue pedigree.

I've always been for the common man,
Who has to work for his dough;
The fellow who does the best he can,
While having a tough row to hoe.

I've been for him who doesn't have much
In the way of material things;
Who's used to battling life in a clutch,
And accepting whatever it brings.

I've been for the man who's had to cope,
And knows how it is to be poor;
Who's tied a knot in the end of his rope,
And defied the wolf at the door.

I'll favor the right of these little guys,
The reason is easy to see.
I really couldn't feel otherwise,
Because one of them is me!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

GUNG HO

2010-05-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: "Sometimes it seems our luck has run out and we might as well toss in the sponge -- but that's not the way to win a ball game," Dad wrote as the introduction to this insightful poem.

What in the world can a poor man do,
When his losses are many and his gains are few?
How can a fellow continue to hope,
When he's just about to the end of his rope?

How can the poor guy carry his load,
While pushing uphill on a rocky road,
Fighting ahead, to gain no more
Than what he already had before?

How can he hold his chin up high,
And keep a determined gleam in his eye,
While trying harder, only to find
He keeps on getting further behind?

It's easy to falter, and a great many will,
But a few press on to the top of the hill;
For this is the method that life employs
While separating the men from the boys!

Records of history will demonstrate well
The proof of the story I'm trying to tell;
The ones who win all the marbles and stuff
Are those who hang on when the going is tough.

So don't knuckle under, no matter what,
Give it the very best you have got;
Set your sights on a distant star --
You're never licked till you think you are!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

SLOW POKE

2010-05-09T04:08:00.000-07:00

I'm not the sort of feller who
Is always in a stew,
I seldom get all lathered up
Like lots of people do;

Some folks think they have to go
In high gear all the time,
They say that resting is a sin,
And loafing is a crime.

That hurry, scurry kind of life
Was never meant for me,
The slow and easy-going type
I much prefer to be.

I've never had the least desire
To gallop through the day,
But like to take the time to smell
The flowers along the way.

I can't see any use in bein'
Forever on the run,
And maybe that's the reason why
I don't get nothin' done!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

THE NON-VOTER

2010-05-05T05:40:00.000-07:00

"A double-jointed mule can kick in any direction. So can a guy who doesn't vote on Election Day," Dad wrote in the introduction to this poem.

My neighbor never takes the time
To vote on election day;
I think he'd rather stay at home,
So he can always say
He didn't vote for so-and-so,
And then he'll rant and shout,
"It's time for all of us to rise,
And throw the rascals out!"

If Democrats are faring well,
And winning good and strong,
Then he's a hot Republican
And hollers loud and long.
But if the wheel of fortune brings
A turn-around from that,
And the G.O.P. should sweep the state,
He becomes a Democrat!

Like my neighbor, lots of folks
Are never satisfied;
No matter who's in office,
They're on the other side.
Election day, they won't assist
Any candidate to win,
So they can say they didn't help
To put the rascals in!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

OUR TRAP LINE

2010-04-25T04:41:00.000-07:00

More than sixty winters
Down the line, have come and gone,
Since me and brother Frosty
Ran our traps before the dawn;
Sometimes the wind was howling,
And we fought the drifted snow;
It might be damp and foggy,
Or it could be ten below!

The moon still brightly shining,
Or as dark as pitch, perhaps;
No matter what the weather was,
We had to run our traps!
Muskrats, they were common,
Down along the open ditch,
But any time we caught a skunk,
We thought we'd struck it rich!

The pattern of his marking
We could hardly wait to see;
A "broad" would bring a dollar,
But a "star" would get us three!
We walked to school that morning,
Quite elated, and I guess,
We gave off all around us
The aroma of success.

Our teacher didn't take the time
To ask us where we'd been;
She simply took a whiff or two,
And sent us home again.
This didn't spoil our appetite
For trapping, I'll admit;
Besides the money, we received
A nice fringe benefit!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

GOLF!

2010-04-18T04:52:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: This poem seemed appropriate for this week since golf season is almost in full swing (pun intended).

Some friends of mine are golfers,
And they say it's lots of fun,
So I lets 'em take me out one day
To show me how it's done;
They said I'd take right to it
Like a kitten to a string--
The club was made to do the work,
All I had to do was swing!

When I see the other fellers,
And watches how they do it,
It seems to be so simple
There just ain't nothin' to it;
So I gits me out a golf ball,
And I sets it on a tee:
All the time a'thinkin'
How durn easy it's gonna be.

Well, I draws back my shillalah,
And I takes a mighty swing
Jist like the fellers showed me,
But I didn't hit a thing!
Said I,
Now what the dickens,
This won't do, by gee;
No little hunk o' rubber
'S gonna make a fool of me!"
So I grit my teeth and swung agin,
But I missed it jist as bad.
I sprained a lot of ligaments
I never dreamed I had!

Driver, spoon and brassie,
And the irons, I tried 'em all;
I moved a lot of real estate,
But I never touched that ball!
Mid them laffin' wild hyenas,
Right there and then I swore
With a little fancy language,
That my golfing days were o'er.
Next feller tries to take me out
And show me how it's done,
I'm gonna grab my twelve-gauge,
And make a hole in one!

--Down Country Roads (1970)

A PROUD BUCKEYE

2010-04-11T05:05:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: When I was born, my parents lived on a small farm in Ohio just across the Indiana state line. Since the only hospital within many miles was on the other side of that line, I was born a Hoosier. After about a year on the farm, we moved into town (half of which is in Ohio and half is in Indiana, by the way, and we were on the Indiana side). When I was in the third grade, we moved back to that same Ohio farm. I've been a "proud" Buckeye ever since!

I write as the "Buckeye Poet,"
Spelled with a capital B;
Using a lower case letter
Would not be favored by me.

Depending on how you spell it,
The meaning will be clear cut;
Webster tells us that "buckeye"
Is the name of a worthless nut!

I'm proud of being a Buckeye,
The handle suits me first rate;
It labels me as a native
Of Ohio, the Buckeye State.

Both my parents were Hoosiers,
And that is dandy and fine;
But I don't regret for a minute
Being born this side of the line.

A capital H makes Hoosier
An honorable title today,
But "hoosier" was formerly used
In a less complimentary way.

At any rate, in the future,
When you are referring to me,
I hope you do me the honor
Of using a capital B.

--Acres of Verse (1994)

WHAT GOOD HAVE YOU DONE?

2010-04-04T05:39:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: "It's awfully easy to become so obsessed with making good in the world that we're apt to forget we are supposed to be going a little good while we're here," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. Somehow it seems appropriate at a time when many of us are celebrating Easter and Passover.

"What good have you done,"
I inquired of a friend,
Who is getting along
Toward life's journey's end;
"What good have you done
In the years gone by,
What for the world
To remember you by?

Now, he knew that I knew
He had prospered in trade,
And he knew that I knew
Of the fortune he'd made;
So he thought I was speaking
In jest, and in fun,
When I asked him the question,
"What good have you done?"

"What good have you done?"
My query, this time,
Was asked of another
Good neighbor of mine.
He is well on his way
Toward making a name
For himself in the shaky
Political game;

He knows all the angles
And tricks of the trade,
And he cultivates well
The connections he's made;
And he bragged about all
Of the votes he had won,
When I asked him the question,
"What good have you done?"

"What good have you done?"
Perhaps you and I
Should examine ourselves
With a critical eye.
Do we measure success
By material things?
Do we cherish the status
Prosperity brings?

Do we want recognition
For the good that we do--
A pat on the back,
And a monument, too?
Can we answer these questions
All, one by one,
And still be content
With the good we have done?

The same criterion
Applies, you see,
To my friend, my neighbor,
To you, and to me:
Man was created
The brother of man,
To do unto others
The best that he can;

No matter how lowly
His station at birth,
Regardless of what
His estate may be worth;
It comes down to this:
When life's race is run,
We're all to be judged
By the good we have done!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE RIB

2010-03-28T06:45:00.000-07:00

Away back there,
When the world began,
The Lord took a rib
From out of a man;
And so that Adam
Need not live alone,
He made a woman
From this hunk of bone,
And a few other things
That he had on hand--
A gob of clay,
And a few grains of sand;
Then He added a little
Of honey and spice,
Some curves here and there,
To make her look nice;
And then, from the stars
That brighten the skies,
He put that little twinkle
Of light in her eyes;
And when she was finished,
He called her a wife,
And Adam had trouble
The rest of his life!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

COUNTRY FLAVOR

2010-03-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

It's time for Nature's reveille call,
And we know that Winter is done,
When birds and bees, and flowers and all
Awake to the Springtime sun.

Along with the coming of Spring are some
Of the signs of the changing scene;
Pleasing scents of the season will come
With the turning of brown to green.

I love the clean fresh smell in the air,
That comes with the April showers;
No store perfume will ever compare
With the fragrance of blossoming flowers.

I love the scent of the new-turned loam,
The gentle zephyrs will bring,
From the fields around our suburban home,
When the farmers plow in the Spring.

I love the aroma of new-mown hay,
As it cures in the Summer sun;
I love the smell as they stow it away
In the barn, when haying is done.

If country odors were all like these,
Everything would be Heavenly there;
But now and then, borne on the breeze,
Is a smell that would curl your hair!

When one of these rare odors assail
A veteran born to the range,
He holds his breath and doesn't inhale,
As he waits for the wind to change!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

THE JUST REWARD

2010-03-14T05:05:00.000-07:00

A rich man went to Heaven,
And stopped upon the stair,
While an angel opened wide the book,
To find his record there.

He said, "This page is blank, sir,
Now, that seems very queer --
Did you do nothing down on earth
To earn admission here?

The rich man thought a moment,
As he slowly scratched his head,
And then his eyes, they brightened,
And this is what he said.

"Why yes, I just remembered,
This ought to do the trick!
I once gave a man a dollar
Who was destitute and sick."

The angel closed the record
When the interview was through,
Then turned to old St. Peter
And asked him what to do.

St. Peter stroked his whiskers,
And then said, "Very well.
Let's give the man his dollar back,
And tell him to go to Hell!"

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

2010-03-07T05:26:00.000-08:00

I guess it's human nature,
When your race is nearly run,
To think what you've accomplished,
And how you might have done.

I could have played it smarter
Back when I was in my prime,
If I'd been more concerned about
The way I spent my time.

I might have made more money,
Stashing more of it away;
A little cushion, so to speak,
Toward a rainy day.

I could have skimped a smidgen,
Saved a dollar here and there;
Who knows, I might have ended up
A multi-millionaire!

But then, I'd face my maker
With a broken heart, I know,
For I couldn't take it with me
When my time had come to go.

So, everything considered,
I would rather not begin
To do a lot of grieving
Over how it might have been.

--Acres of Verse (1994)