FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH

Editor's note: New poems to this blog always come on Sundays, but since today is Friday the 13th, I figured it would be bad luck not to post it on the "right" day!

If you have superstitions,
As many people do,
I don't share your affliction,
But I sympathize with you.

Bad luck will come on Friday
No more often, let me say,
Even on the thirteenth,
Than any other day.

Black cat cross my path?
There may be truth in that;
It might turn out unlucky,
But only for the cat!

Some taboos are founded
On good solid thinking, hence
Not walking under ladders
Shows a bit of common sense.

I never see an omen
When I drop a fork or knife,
And spilling half a ton of salt
Would not mess up my life.

The reason I'm not troubled
By superstitious fears
Is the rabbit foot I've carried
For more than fifty years.

--Acres of Verse (1994)

LIVING AND LEARNING

From dust we have our beginning,
To dust we all shall return;
But in between there's a moment
When all of us live and learn.

All do not remain equal,
For we learn at a different rate;
Some will turn it to profit,
For others, it comes too late.

Experience teaches us all,
But slowly, and it appears
There's no other way to get it,
But through the passing of years.

It doesn't indicate wisdom
Because there's gray in your hair,
But everybody learns something
While Nature is putting it there.

I worked out many a problem
By stumbling through somehow,
When it would have been so easy,
Knowing what I know now.

No question at all about it,
A good many years ago,
I flubbed a legion of ventures
Because I just didn't know.

I'm sure I could have done better
In a hundred different ways,
If I'd been a little bit older
Back in my younger days!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

A REFLECTION

When I look into my mirror,
I am forced to realize
That, in any beauty contest,
I would never win a prize.

My face is not my fortune,
If it were, I'd be in Dutch,
For my financial statement,
It would not amount to much.

I suppose I could be bitter
That I'm not a handsome blade,
And my mug is not real pretty--
But I wouldn't care to trade,

For when I start comparing it
With others, down the line,
I don't see many, really,
That I'd rather have than mine!

My face, no, I don't mind it,
That's why I smile a lot;
I try to treat it kindly--
It's the only one I've got!

--Square Marbles (1978)

ONE EXCEPTION

Editor's note: "I guess everyone likes to put on the dog a little bit, but different people do it in different ways," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "While some go for things as modern as next year's hat, others spend their hard-earned shekels for bits of antiquity."

Some folks like to have the latest
Style in everything they own,
While others search the universe
For older things to fill their home.
To have whatever you would like,
I must admit, is very nice;
And it's all right with me, of course,
If you can stand to pay the price.

Ancient things are bringing more
Than if the stuff were made of gold;
With prices high up in the sky,
It's worth a lot because it's old.
My Lucy says she doesn't care
For antique furniture and such,
No early period things for her,
She much prefers the modern touch.

We don't have real expensive things,
Or spend a lot to decorate
Our little home; it's only that
She likes to keep it up to date.
When something starts to show its age,
She goes and trades it in, you see;
I guess the only worn-out thing
She keeps around the house is me!

Hominy Grits (1986)

DO UNTO OTHERS

Editor's note: "When it seems the whole world is about to cave in on you, a teaspoonful of encouragement is worth two quarts of sympathy," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

When the burden you carry is heavy,
And your will is beginning to wane,
And you wonder if ever the sunshine
Will come to conquer the rain;

Wouldn't it be like a rainbow,
And clear the clouds away, too,
If somebody walked up and said,
"I heard something nice about you?"

A smile, a word, or a handshake,
From someone along the way,
Could make your load a lot lighter,
And brighten a dull dreary day.

Wouldn't you find it rewarding,
When you come to a hard day's end,
To feel a hand on your back,
And hear, "Well done, my friend!"

Wouldn't it be a great blessing,
If you knew, in times of despair,
You had a friend you could turn to,
And find encouragement there?

Without a great deal of effort,
Perhaps this all would come true;
If you'd be this kind toward others,
They might be as kind toward you!

Hominy Grits (1986)

MONEY

Editor's note: "There are many ways to make money, and many ways to spend it," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "But the time will come when you won't need it!"

I've made a bit of money,
In my lifetime here on earth,
But I don't have much to boast of,
When I total up my worth.

I've barely broken even,
And I guess that is fine,
Although there's nothing showing,
When I reach the bottom line.

Some people call it moola,
While others call it jack;
They spend it by the bushel,
And hoard it by the stack.

Spondulics, bread or sugar,
I guess it's all the same;
It really doesn't matter,
For there's nothing in a name.

Though you may call it lucre,
Or to you it's scratch or dough,
You still can't take it with you
When your time has come to go.

For when you seek admission
To the land of milk and honey,
The bottom line will be how much
You're worth without your money!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

WEATHER OR NOT

Editor's note: Grandpa used to predict the upcoming weather by his rheumatism, and he was no slouch at it," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

In this age of specializing,
Titles take a high-flown twist;
Every weather prophet now
Is a meteorologist!

With all their fancy gadgets,
And computerized technique,
They figure out a schedule
Of our weather for a week.

It often doesn't happen
Very close to how they list it,
But they won't say a single word
Admitting how they missed it!

If they can't guess correctly
For tomorrow, tell me how
We can take and trust their word
It will rain a week from now!

And, even more no-brainy,
Every now and then we hear
Some silly nut forecasting
For the entire coming year.

Sure, I could do no better,
But I hope you realize
A Monday morning quarterback
Has a right to criticize!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

WILL POWER

"Where there's a will, there's a way"
Is a maxim I learned long ago;
And it has inspired many mortals,
Down through the ages, I know.

This adage has brought motivation
And success to many a man;
No matter how great the challenge,
If you think you can do it, you can!

Robert, the Bruce was defeated
Time after time, as you know,
But he never gave up the struggle,
And finally bested his foe.

I'll not belittle the power
Of will, but to tell you the truth,
I'm not so quickly inspired
As back in the days of my youth.

Sometimes it's not so easy
To do as philosophers say;
I still have plenty of will, but
I'm a little bit short on the way!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

A SMILE

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

"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

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!

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

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 MILE OF SMILES

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)

JOKERS UP FRONT

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)

MEASURE TWICE

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

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 FLU

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

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

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!

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!