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)
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
NET WORTH
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)
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)
Sunday, July 3, 2011
FRIED CHICKEN
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)
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)
Sunday, June 26, 2011
WORDS
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)
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)
Sunday, June 19, 2011
THE SANDS OF TIME
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)
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)
Sunday, June 12, 2011
DYAMIC SERENITY
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)
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)
Sunday, June 5, 2011
A FEW MORE THINGS
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)
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)
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