Friday, June 22, 2012


Editor's note: It is fitting that this poem, my personal favorite, brings to a close almost three years of weekly poems published at this blog. It is fitting also in that it marks, to the day, three years since Dad left our world on June 24 (although it still seems like yesterday). To those who have stopped by for a weekly glimpse at his talents, I offer my whole-hearted thanks. I'm sure he'd echo that sentiment; nothing much gave him more pleasure than knowing that one of his poems had elicited a smile, or an outright chuckle, to brighten someone else's day. It's been a wonderful three-year journey for me, and I hope you'll come back once in a while. I know I will.

There's a long, long path a-winding
All along the way I've come,
Tho' I'll never be returning
Back to where I started from;
But others who may follow
Will perhaps discover where
I've gone along before them
And left my foot prints there.

I remember, in the springtime,
My stride was firm and strong;
My foot steps never faltered,
As I hurried right along.
There were places where I tarried,
And where I seemed to stray.
But then I straightened out again,
And proceeded on my way.

My earnest hope is others may
See where I've traveled thru,
And left some marks to follow,
And a few impressions too;
Thru the burning sands of summer,
And across the winter snow,
I'd like to leave behind me
Some foot prints when I go.

The trail is growing narrow--
Where it ends they'll put a stone;
But I hope to be remembered
Not because of that alone.
Descending down the mountainside
Into the vale below,
I'd like to leave behind me
Some foot prints when I go.

Sunday, June 17, 2012


Editor's note: "Good humor is habit-forming, but sometimes it takes a little forced practice until you become addicted," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Smile all the smiles you can today,
Don't save them till tomorrow;
For, any hour along the way,
You may encounter sorrow.

Grin all the grins that you can show
To fellow men this morning;
For tragedy can strike, you know,
Without a minute's warning.

Chuckle all the chuckles you
Can muster, though you're battered,
As if to keep on smiling through
Was the only thing that mattered.

We never know what Fate will bring,
Or what may be impending,
But still, we can't plan everything
As if the world were ending.

The purpose of my little verse
Is not to scare or frighten;
But I suggest you could do worse
Than have your bearing brighten.

Make the most of every day,
And everything that's in it;
Don't let bad humor waste away
A single precious minute!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

Sunday, June 10, 2012


Some people work together
In accordance, it would seem;
They complement each other,
Like peaches go with cream;
But Lucy has her own way
Of doing things, you see,
And, being fair about it,
You could say the same for me.

So, she is doing her work
And I am doing mine;
That's just the way we like it,
And we get along just fine.
We're raking leaves this morning,
As we do it every year;
She is in the front yard,
While I am in the rear.

We're not inclined to battle,
Not the kind to fight and fuss;
You'll seldom find a couple
More compatible than us;
But we avoided trouble
By learning at the start,
We work together better
When we're half a mile apart!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

Sunday, June 3, 2012


Editor's note: "I once had an aunt who thought little boys couldn't grow up straight and tall unless they consumed great quantities of vegetables, especially the leafy green type -- and this she endeavored to impress upon me," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "She never succeeded."

I was brought up in the country,
And I learned, when just a boy,
To be thankful for the blessings
I was given to enjoy;
I'm sure not high-falootin',
And I'm not a man of means,
But if you please, don't ever try
To feed me turnip greens!

My mother always taught me
That it was very rude
For little boys to grumble,
Or complain about their food;
We were 'bout as poor as church mice,
And I know what hunger means,
But I never did get quite so low
As to eat no turnip greens!

I enjoy good country cookin'
More than I could ever tell,
And I'll always come a-runnin'
When they ring the dinner bell;
I'm not a fussy eater,
And my fancy always leans
Towards old-fashioned vittles,
But not t'wards turnip greens!

Now, dandelions ain't so bad,
When they're fixed with bacon grease,
But turnip greens, like spinach,
Were made for ducks and geese!
I could live on corn and taters,
And I don't mind navy beans,
But please, dear Lord, deliver me
From eatin' turnip greens!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

Sunday, May 27, 2012


Editor's note: "The ability to relax is worth a lot in this modern rate race," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Lucy says I'm the best relaxer she ever saw."

A man of simple pleasures,
I'm not very hard to please,
So, without a bit of trouble,
I can put myself at ease
When a day of aggravation
Is a-drawin' to a close,
By lyin' on the davenport
Jist a-wigglin' my toes!

It's a most effective method
To improve your muscle tones,
It relaxes all your tensions,
And it loosens up your bones;
You can minimize your worries,
And forget about your woes,
By lyin' on the davenport,
Jist a-wigglin' your toes!

Some men prefer to go and spend
An evening on the town,
And slop a little alcohol
To help 'em settle down;
It gives a high-strung feller
More enjoyment, I suppose,
Than lyin' on the davenport,
Jist a-wigglin' his toes!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

Sunday, May 20, 2012


Editor's note: "In relationships between the very young and the very old, generation gaps are often temporarily bridged," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

There's nothing in the world, I guess,
Can bring a Grandpa joy
As much as holding on his knee
A little toddler boy.

Or teaching him his letters,
Also how to count to ten,
And reading favorite stories
To him, time and time again.

Pretending you can't find him,
When he hides behind the door,
And letting him defeat you,
Shooting marbles on the floor.

The little fellow never
Wants to get undressed for bed;
He'd rather play with Grandpa,
Till he falls asleep instead.

But time has made a difference,
And I regret to say
Things are just not quite the same
As they were yesterday.

Scotty doesn't seem to care
For marbles any more;
Our toddler weighs one-eighty-five,
And stands at six-foot-four!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

Sunday, May 13, 2012


Editor's note: Dad's Slim Acres character got his start as a "Slim Acres Says" series in the local newspaper. Entries usually consisted of one-or two-line quips, his version of limericks (which he called "Slimericks") and short poems. This week, I decided to republish a few of these gems.

Some folks crave attention,
But, me it doesn't bother;
Whenever I feel neglected,
I think of Whistler's father.


Of all the trials and burdens
That confront us in this life,
The hardest to bear are the ones
You can't blame onto your wife!


The saddest of words
Are these below:
I'll think it over
And let you know!


Some people watch
Their diets with care,
Calories here,
Cholesterol there;
But shux, as long
As there's vittles in sight,
I keep right on eatin'
Till my britches get tight!


I'll try to be honest with thee,
But if thee are not honest with me,
There's just this much to it:
To thee I would do it,
To keep thee from doin' it to me!


Whether a man's successful,
I always did allow,
Depends pretty much
On what he does
When the ground's too wet to plow!


Bobby Shafto's gone to sea,
Silver buckles on his knee;
When he comes back he'll marry me,
Or Daddy'll shoot the ittle S.O.B.


Cousin Danny used to claim
To be a judge of women;
But what he took
To be a peach
Turned out to be a lemon!


It's very few letters
That I ever git,
Except for the kind
That say, "Please remit!"