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!"

Sunday, May 6, 2012


Editor's note: "Lots of awards are given to the living, but many others are tardy and come after it's too late for the recipient to read the inscription or smell the flowers," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

It's easy to honor a fellow
When the organ is playing his song,
It's easy to ad up his merits
As the mourners go marching along.

Recalling the road he has traveled,
Overlooking where he has strayed,
Remembering what he's accomplished,
Forgiving mistakes he has made.

But why are we always so tardy
With credit, when credit is due?
When the fellow has earned our favor,
Why don't we follow it through?

Why not give him our plaudits
While he's still living, instead
Of sending flowers, and writing
A eulogy after he's dead?

He'll never enjoy his epitaph,
Or the stone it's written upon;
He'd rather have praise while he's living
Than a monument after he's gone.

--Autumn Acres (1982)