THE SANDS OF TIME

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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)