Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Dedicated to the 2000 National College Football Champions, the Oklahoma Sooners
Over fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan
Watched and reveled in their glories, every one;
But there’s no more glorious “Sooner Magic”
Than the Red October Run.
The new millennium's first football season,
Excited Sooners fans’ hopes did soar.
They had tasted victory in Bob Stoops’ first year;
Now, they wanted - no, expected - even more.
There was a glint of promise in Bob’s eyes,
Strength and confidence in his every word.
“Our Team has shown improvement”, is what he said;
“We’ll win!” is what fans heard.
By September’s end, the Sooners were 4 and O,
A “cupcake schedule” some anxious fans would say;
Twenty-two days in October would rule their destiny.
Texas, K-State, Nebraska, the teams they’d have to play.
“OU’s October is a gauntlet”, said ESPN;
“Play #10 and #2 and #1…and win”?
So, on a rainy Saturday morning in Dallas,
The Red October Run would begin.
The Texas State Fair at the Cotton Bowl,
Fans were welcomed by Big Tex.
They screamed, “Go OU!” and “Hook’em Horns!”;
But none could imagine what happened next.
Heupel was a dominating General;
The Sooners Offense, his relentless troops.
Calmus and the Defense assured a total rout,
The Coach of the Day was Bob Stoops.
Sooners fans were wild, delirious with glee;
But Bob seemed focused and sedate.
“We’ll enjoy this victory Sunday;
Then Monday, we’ll prepare for Kansas State”.
No time to revel in the Glory, #2 was tough.
Better than the Huskers? The possibility was real.
The road to #1 went through Manhattan,
And the Sooners would have to win it on the field.
The sportscasters had a field day.
Last year’s “coaching coup” was news again.
Beasley versus Heupel was “The Match-up”.
Could Heupel evade K-State’s awesome defense
and find a way to win?
Again, Heupel and his troops met the challenge;
And as the Sooners “D” assured a hard fought win,
Every Sooners fan’s heart was stirred.
Could our Sooners be “Big Red” again?
Mighty Nebraska, #1, was coming to Owen Field.
“Biggest OU - Nebraska game in years!” Corso said.
It would be 1 versus 2, a heralded gridiron epic
For the coveted title of…”Big Red”.
It was OU’s biggest home game ever.
The campus was alive with vendors and would-be
Every Sooners Fan’s heart was pounding.
Could the smell of #1 stoke the Sooners' fires?
The Huskers struck so quickly.
At 14 to nothing, Sooners fans were stunned.
It was shaping up to be a long, long day;
And it wasn’t going to be fun.
Quickly tho’, Heupel rallied his Sooners troops.
They scored and scored and scored again.
The Sooners “D” built a Wall at the 50,
And would not let the Huskers in.
Winners, the Sooners ran and jumped with glee.
Fans flooded Owen Field, milling all around,
Praising and hugging their Sooners Heroes.
They even tore the goal post down.
Now #1, the Sooners had won it on the field.
Their preparation had been well taught.
Bob Stoops, all his great coaches and assistants,
Took pride in how the Sooners fought.
Someone once said, “Everyone loves a winner.”
Everywhere you looked confirmed it’s true.
OU flags fluttered. Decals, hats, and clothes abound.
Come November, the Sooners and their Fans
had been renewed,
There’s no slighting the importance of Red October.
The Sooners came together as a Team.
No doubt too, without “The Red October Run”
Their National Championship would still be just a dream.
For the next five games, it was simply unacceptable
For the Sooners to even think that they could fail;
And, tho’ Heupel played injured, they won the Big 12 Championship;
Great Sooners Defense had prevailed.
But no one gave these Big 12 Champs the slightest chance to win
Against the mighty Seminoles of Florida State.
The Heisman Trophy Winner was their quarterback
And their defense was touted to be great.
At the coin toss, Team Captain Torrance Marshall
Said to their quarterback in words most serious and sure,
“You took our boy’s trophy”. Then he smiled,
“Now we’re gonna take yours”.
The Sooners “D” was everywhere and completely shut them down;
And, when Quentin Griffin’s touchdown closed the door,
Their quarterback knew that Marshall’s words rang true;
The not-so-mighty ‘Noles had not been allowed to score.
Yes, Bob Stoops and his Sooners knew the challenge:
To win Each game ‘til Every game’s been won;
Win for Sooners and their Fans the unchallenged right
To revel in the Glory of being #1.
Yes, my Sooners Team goes on and on,
Different faces, different names;
But these Sooners Champions will be well remembered
For the Season they won Every game.
Undefeated National Champions!
Before October, who would have ever dreamed?
Why, just last year, we didn’t even know the players' names;
And now, they’re College Football’s Greatest Team.
To overcome all adversity and rise to every challenge,
The reward for such a feat is being #1;
Their path to Glory born of a Sooners Legend
Called The Red October Run.
Long poem by
Prince Rage | Details |
Oppressor and the oppressed.
Who is the oppressed and who is the oppressor?
Who has the right to beat a random person on the street?
Who has the right when to pronounce a person guilty or to see that they is the victim?
Who has the jurisdiction to carry a gun and to unload on a random person because of the way they is playing life's game?
There is a president but he has a nation that needs to be run, there is a mayor but he or she needs to govern protection and education for every man,woman, and child. There is those who vote and those who do not, there is those who KILL for a FEE and those who KILL to protect those who threaten and attempt to poison their feed.
In the Crayola box there is over 8 colors and how many of them do you see fighting to maintain a piece of land that doesn't even have their name? These colors have managed to get along but why has us as artist slander there good name?
You may agree we should be free, others may agree to lock them away, the third party may vote that we should have a Hunger Game and declare a winner from each district and let them be reminded by name and plaque.
Will it not be funnier if things went back to being the same before the post-Europeans, before the ice age, before slavery, before time itself? Before evolution, before the industrial revolution, do you believe it will solve the conflict of today? Do you believe it will create a new name of a newer society that is under a different system?
The enforcers enforce a punishment that themselves would not want to see happen to people of there kind, the victim sometimes is the guilted, the drugs may make a person a bit deranged or even appearance may look strange. But deep within their brain hides another person who has experienced a pain that became so unbearable so they hid behind a false name. Drinking, smoking, feeling of looking at trees in 3-D is all the same when you are being called a different name, but let it not change you into something that you did not dream of to be.
Look at me, I am me, you may see prince, others may see another black person, another person may ask me name and they may read my palms and tell me that I carry. Both a Spanish and African name that I was originally given to from birth. But hey life is a curse. You can argue with what happened in the past but will that change the date of today's oncoming past!
But the most funniest thing about our past is how much we cherish it and pray for its ways to be continued on today. But look around you what do you see... I won't say any name for my name is not even copyrighted, BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO START A RIOT! I look at the people around me and I think how can you say that we need to bring change when your thinking and doing the same as the person who once stabbed you in the back?
I'm not saying don't hate the Man, I'm not saying say **** THE POLICE, I'm not saying that the president is part of some dummy corporation, I'm not saying that their isn't a war that has begun, but if you choose to believe what you hear than you will get what you perceive to be your reality!
I'm not saying don't go to school, I'm not saying don't drink, smoke weed, or snort yayo, I'm not saying that you have to rob and be branded a theft, I'm not saying that you shouldn't give love a chance, but everything is up to thee on how thou wants to perceive the world.
I'm not saying that if you close your eyes you will dream, I'm not saying that if you smoke crack you will become a fiend, I'm not saying that THERE IS NO DEMONS ONLY REASONS, I'm not saying that if youse look into the mirror you will see another person in your eyes, I'm not saying that the soul lies behind the eyes. But if you believe the lies you will think that when the truth is told you will think that, that is the lie.
There is a oppressor and there is there oppressed. There is the depressed and there is the depression that we all feel. There is two eyes but they act as one. Nobody asked to be POOR, nobody asked to have WEALTH,nobody asked to have POOR HEALTH, nobody asked to be born with ways that needs to confine to limited space.
But hey the more you believe the lies. The more that you have to believe you will be confined Into thinking that this life is a lie.
There will be battles, but instead of battling and slandering. Why don't we make our voices be heard like that over a beat slapped with claps and a set of drums. Kicking the inside of ears.
Let us prevent the internal bleeding of our heart that is beating (BREATHING)!
Long poem by
Erin Soares-Anselmi | Details |
I was born fifty years ago on April 10th 1964
Looking back through the years I began to explore
My mama said when it was time for me to be born
I decided to come early and fast in the wee morn
Born five week premature with jaundice I had to stay
High fevers, convulsions and even a coma would come my way
But by the grace of God I made it through each and every one
I could have died before my life really started or even begun.
And through my fifty years God has shown me grace and mercy
As I look back I’m so glad he loved me and thought of me worthy
I remember my first home in Hayward on Burr way
Memories are a little foggy but my sense of home will stay
Moved to Dixon when I was just four years old
To a big beautiful house where my life started to unfold
This would be the place I would meet my life long best friend
She was playing in our backyard the first day we moved in.
So many memories in this house in Dixon on Marvin way
A Baby deer named Bambi and our first dog named Maggie mae
My life sized doll house my parents gave me as a birthday surprise
I would spend hours in there with my plastic appliances making mud pies
Life was blissful and I had not a care in the world I was living
Until the day my parents sat us down and said they were splitting
I just remember crying and in total shock this was happening
My parents would no longer be together my whole life unraveling
We ended up moving to a two story house with mice and peeling paint
Mom worked long hours to feed us four kids who showed no restraint
My mom struggled to balance work and being home with us four
Soon my brothers moved to dads who’s idea was it I’m not sure
My dad died August 19th 1979 at the age of forty from a massive heart attack
I didn’t know then how this would change my life but now can see its full impact
My teen years were cut short because I decided to become a mom
How scared I was to have to drop “mom, I’m pregnant” bomb
Have you ever heard of the song “Going to the chapel of love?”
Married now at seventeen feeling all grown up; well sort of.
On January 2nd 1982 my daughter Melinda was born fuzzy & screaming
Didn’t know what I was really get into, I must have been dreaming
She was the first baby born of the year and was the winner of two contests
So many prizes couldn’t collect them all but we sure tried to do our best
Isn’t it funny how you imagine how it would all work out in your young mind?
But then reality sneaks up on you and smacks you hard on your behind.
Now a single mother at the age of nineteen and moved back in with my mom
And throughout my life I will make poor decisions but no need to write every wrong
Pregnant at twenty with my son Joshua and Melinda now two almost three
I didn’t know what I was going to do but knew they deserved better than me
This you see will be the hardest thing I would ever have to do in my life
I chose to give Josh new parents whom I lived with until I said goodbye
I was blessed to have pictures and letters sent through his growing up years
I remember the first letter I received from Josh I was so nervous eyes filled with tears
My son Brandon was born on my mom’s birthday he was my biggest and my last
He was my little dare devil and escape artist who was always trying to get past
He would like to climb out of his crib and sneak out the front door for a stroll
I chained and locked the door and even barred the windows thinking I was in control
Till one day two police officers were at my door wanting to see him and talk to me, I guess
They said a neighbor called out of concern and then the police threaten me with CPS.
I have been married more than my fair share to tell the truth and it’s hard to admit
I have walked down the aisle six times and finally found the one to whom I commit
TJ is my husband who I met six years ago and have been married to him for three
Unable to have children of his own he now is known fondly as Dad, Padre and Papa T
My grandchildren make me smile just thinking of them and oh how I miss their precious faces
I have eight all together and love each and every one so much my heart had to grow extra spaces
As I look through my mind’s eye and examine my past adventures, blessings and sorrows
I have come to realize to cherish each and every moment because no time can be borrowed
My fifty ….. In a nut shell.
Long poem by
Roy Jerden | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/cruisin_the_drag_412689' st_title='Cruisin' the Drag'>
Sipping cherry limeade, driving in the car parade,
We're cruising in the Lone Star state
Didn't want a bucket seat; the thing it couldn't beat,
Was sitting up close to your date
One hand on the wheel of daddy’s Oldsmobile,
My arm around my brown-eyed girl
Feeling pretty sporty, radio on top forty,
I was cooler than the Duke of Earl
The lady of the cruise had her penny loafer shoes,
Her bobby socks were turned down twice
With a little eyeliner, she couldn't be much finer
Too much and it wouldn't be nice
There’d be no wild oats under those petticoats
She’d never go all the way
Just a perfect flip-up 'do and cute look number two
Practiced in the mirror all day
Hear those tires squeal when I make the rubber peel
For the flyboys waiting on the bus
To take them to the base where they don't feel out of place
Not cruising like the rest of us
I was the drag's head honcho as we pulled across the Concho
And we saw the lights along the riverside
We'd had quite a lark at Neff's amusement park
Playing putt-putt and going on a ride
The cheerleader squad rode a killer hot rod
With a spinner on every rim
A perfect tuck and pleat on every single seat
Courtesy of Wanda's Auto Trim
Candy apple red, it would really knock you dead
It was a drop-top Pontiac
One was there to steer and three were in the rear
Posing up on the back
Those football beauty queens in their skin-tight Levi jeans
Were followed by their biggest fan
Checking out those lasses in his Buddy Holly glasses
Was the nerdy little Aqua Velva man
In his stainless steel braces he grinned up at their faces
They iced him with a haughty air
He never would forget it; they would later on regret it
When he became a multi-millionaire
A four girl bevy in a big finned Chevy
Were riding west on Sherwood Way
Four guys right behind in a pick-up state of mind
All ready to make their play
Thought they were the smartest cruising pick-up artists
But those gals were pretty astute
When they stopped and the guys started telling all their lies
The chicks started putting on the cute
We turned the car around and headed back downtown
Cruising down the boulevard
Stay cool daddio, bear right at El Patio
And take it down Beauregard
There were lots of pleated skirts and those button-down shirts
The flattops were everywhere galore
From a Lincoln Continental, we heard an instrumental
Mister Acker Bilk's “Stranger on the Shore”
We slowly pulled through BJ’s, listening to the deejay’s
Announcement of the next hit song
Leaning on their doors with their Brylcreem pompadours
Two hoods were playing Mr. Wrong
Completing their disguise, they slouched with narrowed eyes
And did their best at looking mean
With a twist of his pelvis, one was doing Elvis
The other did a fine James Dean
Like a sweet potato vine, the bride of Frankenstein
Was entwined around the Marlboro man
With the passion of their make out, they should have gotten takeout
And opted for a bigger floor plan
With her big black beehive hair and his fancy western wear
They were putting on quite an awesome scene
I had to give a chuckle at his huge silver buckle
But those M.L. Leddy boots looked mighty keen
I pulled the Olds on through, and we bid BJ’s adieu
And I put us back onto the street
With those four whitewall tires, we made for McIntire's
To get ourselves a bite to eat
We stopped for some fuel, over near the school
In those days they came right out to you
Best place on Earth, ‘cause with a dollar’s worth
They’d check your oil and clean your window too
The drive-in, painted green, was quite the social scene
With people mingling car to car
Everyone was caring; the drinks they were for sharing
Especially when they were in a mason jar
She ate a big banana split, and then left me for a bit
To comfort an old friend not feeling right
A moment more to linger with that final steak finger
Then I took her home and called that one a night
That was many years ago, but some things you don’t outgrow
And I think back to when I was a teen
When doors were left unlocked, and children safely flocked
Unchaparoned at night on Halloween
And sometimes at night, when the stars are big and bright
And I’m deep in a Texas state of mind
I think of that lass who was in my high school class
And I wonder if she thinks of me in kind
August 10, 2012
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Long poem by
Maurice Rigoler | Details |
The last horse my grandfather had
he shot one spring morning behind
the shed in which his nameless horse
had lived in for many years. It was
April and chilly, with peach trees in bloom.
It was an old horse, its backbone
sagging like the roof of an old farmhouse,
and it still wore its matted coat
of winter hair, its mane coarse
like a spray of dried weeds, its hoofs
ringed with tufts of knotted hair,
bits of caked earth and dung.
Its tail fell listless from its roughened
rump like a cluster of bailing twine
that hung from a ceiling hook.
It was the last morning of its life.
My grandfather entered the shed
and led the old horse to the back pen.
I followed behind as I hsd so many
times. But that morning the old horse
walked with a limp – an infected knee.
Behind the shed a group of men
stood pressed against each other
with faces drawn like mourners.
Then I saw it, the familiar rifle
leaning against the weathered shingles,
the small red box of bullets next
to the butt. And I knew. I knew what
the old horse did not. In dread I ran
back into the small shed. I pressed
my hands hard over my ears, and I
waited. Waited for the shot that
would bring the old horse down,
the old horse I had befriended,
talked to morning after morning,
had fed pieces of carrot and
apple to; the gentle old horse whose
mane and tail I had often brushed,
the nameless horse I had brought
fresh well water to on hot afternoons,
and fresh shavings I spread over
its stable floor. And I waited. And I knew
what the old horse did not. And when
the shot rang out, my knees buckled
and I jerked as if the bullet had entered me.
I fell to the ground and groaned
and cried, and I kept my hands hard
against my ears, shaking my head
as if to dislodge the sound that filled
my head and amplified. And I heard
the old horse let out a sharp cry
and felt its hard fall rise through
my knees, as it collaped on itself,
its knees buckling under dead weight.
What hurt most that morning was
my grandfather’s casual treachery –
not so much as a pat on the old horse’s
shoulder, not a word of farewell, no outward
sense of loss or sadness, no tears. Only
a cold guiltless betrayal, it seemed to me.
And they roped the dead horse
to the tractor, the small hole in its
forehead still leaking blood like
a liquid red ribbon. They dragged
its body to a secluded corner of the field
grown thick with greening yarrow
and new shoots of goldenrods,
the men following behind, silent
and solemn, to where the earth
had already been gutted open, waiting
like a gaping mouth to swallow
the horse’s carcass: a large meal
that would take years for the soil
to digest, leaving only a small depression
and a stench of rotting flesh
escaping slowly through a growth
of prickly blackberry, purple vetch
and swarms of buzzing insects.
The men stood silent and watched
the dead horse dragged and fitted
into the open grave.
Then, to my surprise, my grandfather
removed his hat and stared pensively
at the nameless creature he had killed,
the horse he had known for most
of his old age, the horse that had
served him selflessly. He stood there
wiping his eyes with the back of
his hand, saying nothing, looking
at the dead horse, and walked away.
Certain men then took up shovels
and began to fill the hole, the others
following my grandfather to the house,
talking in whispers, as if they had
witnessed the burial of one of their own,
one they would never see again.
And for as many springs as they might
live, they would talk about the old man’s
horse, the horse without a name,
the harmless creature they had come
to watch die on a chilly April morning
when peach trees were in bloom.
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/went_fishin_547715' st_title='Went Fishin''>
Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.
A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.
My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.
He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”
He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”
While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”
As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on. My hands were steady.
Yellow with black dots and a weed guard.
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.
As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.
So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”
When the Bass broke water, it scared me.
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook! Set the hook!”
When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.
My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.
“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez. Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed,
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”
He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready. This is the part that’s great.
I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”
Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.
My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”
“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”
“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…
but for the great stories we get.”
I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.
You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.
They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”
Long poem by
William Masonis | Details |
I remember 20:
Aflame with ideas and visions,
A mind unfettered by necessity's constraints,
Spirit open to everything -
Tomorrow held no fears,
Yesterday no regrets;
There was only day following day,
Each new and with something to give,
And each corner I turned
Led down a new road
Where the joy was ever in the going,
With a horizon impossibly far and bright.
Do you still see that youth somewhere inside
When I gaze on you, Love,
As I still see that girl with the laughing eyes
Who ran down those roads with me?
That was our dreaming-time,
The cloudcastle years
When we could scarcely bear
The brightness of our own being.
The wonder of the world embraces the young,
And they return the embrace,
But like the children they so recently were,
They are distracted, and break away
Enticed by the next marvel
Peaking 'round the corner.
A part of us yet runs there, Love;
Running and running
Through the endless light.
I remember 30:
Young parenthood, responsibilities.
We showed them all the light we could,
Let them run into it and find their ways.
Small voices grew to sound like our own;
Busy days and nights fly past
Like leaves blown out of the grasp of their trees,
Tumbling, mixing, moving on
Until at last the bigger voices went off on their own,
Running down new roads
Chasing their own marvels.
Now and again they return,
And we share our found treasures
And fondly laugh together
At Youth's follies and discoveries
And sigh within
At the beautiful light.
This was the time when we were Fortune's Fools,
And proud and happy to be.
I remember 40:
The time of Action
The time of Challenge.
This is the time we found our strength,
Though it was sometimes purchased with pain.
This was the time of lessons,
Some of them hard.
This was also the age of flowing friendships -
Some growing, some degenerating, most holding stable,
Especially, of course, the good old ones,
The ones that stretch to childhood, and go on stretching still.
And finally, also our era of finding out:
Our spouses really are our best friends
How relative time truly is
Why learning to Just Accept pays off
Where the foci of our lives need to be
When to roll over and when to dig in
Who's a Friend and who's a Face.
The forties were something special.
So now we stand in the middle 50s.
Less ahead than behind, for sure.
Youth is still not quite out of reach,
But age is on the horizon and beckoning.
Has Age brought wisdom along?
I think yes, but she's holding back,
Not saying much just yet.
Now the light has begun to slant;
There are decades to go,
But the afternoon has come on,
The hot day is cooling ...
Sunset is gathering into its birth,
I know where we are now.
I know who we are now.
We walk the shore and look ahead,
Knowing that after sunset comes the dawn again,
After a little rest in the starland between
As go the hours, the days, the years,
Pulled out, away into the great Unknown.
Now we walk together towards that sunset
And all the mysteries waiting there.
Together we shall find them all,
And when we reach the last, the Greatest,
I expect to turn and find again
That girl with the laughing eyes beside me,
Ready to run, and run, and run.
Long poem by
Terry Reeves | Details |
The only train from Cincinnati to New York is scheduled to leave Cincy at 3:27 a.m. Yes, a.m. It is my habit to take the Cardinal, as it is called, whenever I go to the Apple. I really do enjoy the train experience even though it is an 18 hour journey. Of course, I could travel by air if it wasn’t such a hassle. I expect any day now to learn that a strip-search is required to board a plane and even should you get to JFK or Newark airports there is always the problem of getting into the heart of the city where I like to stay. Pennsylvania Station is at 33rd Street. I’ll take the train, thanks. I always get a sleeper compartment for privacy and comfort when I travel. The name of the compartment is a euphemism. Sleep is hard to come by on this milk-route which passes through the mountains of West Virginia and up the Eastern Seaboard.
As I waited to board the Cardinal, which, typically, was almost an hour late, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a semi-young man in the line. Something about him seemed so familiar I wondered if, perhaps, I knew him. Decidedly, I didn’t. The square cut of his jaw and the timber of his voice as he spoke to the porter gave me pause. I realized, with a jolt, that he reminded me of my first love, Chris, who had died tragically in his sleep so many years ago. I was mesmerized by the similarities between the two. It was uncanny.
During the time period when lunch was being served in the dining car I watched, like some lurking stalker, to see when this man might take his meal. I so longed to hear him speak and to look into his eyes, to watch how he carried himself. I entered the dining car and seated myself at a table where I could look directly into his face. I was enthralled. He was SO like Chris. What a treat it was for me to once again feast on the traits of a man I expected to spend my life with. His eyes, especially, held that light that always touched my heart whenever I gazed into Chris’s face. Was I imagining all of this? Oh, I suppose a case could be made for my WANTING him to remind me of my happiest time but certainly it was not all wishful thinking. I tried to be as objective as I could as I studied this stranger. Yes, Chris was in there. Most assuredly.
At the dinner service that evening, just before we entered New York, I decided to have my meal in my compartment. I could imagine myself entering the dining car, rushing over to this bewildered man and snatching him up in an embrace, making a compete fool of myself, resulting in a police escort off the train in Penn Station. I could see the headlines in the Times…well…probably The Daily News: DERANGED WOMAN ATTACKS AMTRAK PASSENGER…Film at 11. Eating dinner in my compartment was not a bad idea, I think. Then, too, there is a fine line between nostalgia and pain.
My stalkee was met at the station by an attractive woman with whom he was so obviously in love. I couldn’t help but be a little jealous. In another time and place, it could have been Chris and me. I’m grateful to this man for filling my heart and mind with precious memories and setting me up for a glorious visit to my favorite city. Because of this encounter my stay in New York was enhanced, all of my memories sharpened, for it was here that Chris and I were together. Thank you, dear stranger. I only hope that you are loved as much as Chris is.
Long poem by
Frederick Moore | Details |
Memories of a Green Beret
“Where have all the soldiers gone, Long time passing,
Where have all the soldiers gone, Long long time ago,
Where have all the soldiers gone,
Gone to graveyards, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?"
(an old anti-war folk song from the 60's)
Ho Chi Mihn Trail....'68
Ten warriors camouflaged in wait
Prepared to deal a grisly fate
Hunkered down in jungled hell
Assured they've set the ambush well.
In silence they lay upon the route
When 'Charles' walks in…. he won't walk out.
A cacophony of fire and screams
Laid down with deadly skills, this team;
With claymore mines and booby traps
Left fifteen fragged and torn or zapped.
A trail once quiet, now instead,
Was piled with black pajama'ed dead
A kill zone full of empty life,
From M16 and combat knives.
Metallic smells of blood and gore….
Back to the bush, fear to the core;
On the run, escape, evade
This area where the trap was laid.
Bust thru brush at breakneck speed
Thru swamp and bramble, cutting reeds.
They're on your ass, their voices near
Being captured is your highest fear.
If you're caught you won't survive.
They'll disembowel you, flayed alive.
Your final screams, heard near and far,
The price you pay for what you are.
In time you finally get away,
But it was the VC's judgment day
Praise God we lived, is what you pray.
Old memories of a Green Beret
As on and on this game of chess,
Your mind starts crumbling with the stress.
More bloody trails and bloody hunts
And soon gone thirteen bloody months.
You pack for home and say a prayer
For those you know that's still back there.
The sights and smells flash on and on
Though fifty years have come and gone.
They steal your brain and steal your calm
Sometimes you think you're back in 'Nam.
And still today played o'er and o'er
Are vivid flashbacks of the war:
Young warrior's lives, gone much too soon
Dying moans and pumping wounds
Flashing guns in hot fire fights
In wet and frigid jungle nights.
Camps attacked in human waves
Death piled high in bulldozed graves
Fear like ice picks in your brain
Comes with horrid scenes and pain
Prisoners tossed from chopper flights
Blood smeared chaplains give last rites
Green bags filled with body parts
Images not for faint of heart
Fear that drives you up the wall
Soothed by weed and alcohol
Village kids all blown apart
Blood and guts served 'a la carte '
Air support with steel and flames
Dog tag heaps with buddies names
Rot gut beer, Saigon whores
Seeping rotten jungle sores
Now, most are gone, long died away.
While others here are silver gray
Their comrades gone, now mostly dead,
They fight the fight still, in their heads
Late of night, in sleep they shout.
"Medic here, he's bleeding out.
Call in support--lay down some fire,
God help us all, they're in the wire."
I pen these words and I decree
They were ten times best what I could be.
My praise and prayers I'll not detract
For the many who never made it back.
From long ago and far away........
These memories of an old Green Beret
Author's Note: to all my old comrades, MANY WHOM never made it back
...De Oppresso Leber....rest in peace old friends-- Sergeant First Class Frederick Moore
, 6th SF, 7th SF, and 46th SF Thailand......