Best Majors Poems
In Nineteen ninety-six, our son and wife, Majors
In US Army, moved to Izmir, their new base.
As usual, whatever place they were assigned,
We flew to visit them as well as dear grandkids.
So off we went to spend two weeks in Turkey, this
Outstanding country we had never been before.
So much to see at Ephesus—Metropolis
Of Antique Age; The Stadium, the Harbor Bath,
Basilica, the Marble Road, Heracles Gate—
All ruins now. Were sad to see these wondrous works
Of art and architecture now in disarray
And strewn about on fields on which they proudly stood.
Of varied striking sites in Pergamon, we saw
The City Walls, the Aqueducts, Acropolis,
The Temple Dionysus, that of Trajan too.
So many ages, periods had ruled this place,
Artistic wonders, structures turned to ruins—works
Of Persian, Greek, Roman and more, in pieces lay.
Besides the many ancient ruins visited,
We were amazed that many locals spoke our tongue.
They did their best to make us feel so much at ease,
Were gracious in combined Mid-Eastern/Euro style
Of hospitality and types of food they ate
And served, like cheese, tomatoes, olives of all kinds.
Izmir, a city mixed with culture old and new,
Like modern shops and open markets, outdoor stands
With fish and meats on ice, yet weighed on modern scales.
And women with fine bread on plates held up on heads,
Who walked the streets in morning, dressed in peasant garb;
Yet working business women wore more modern dress.
We ventured to the famous city, Istanbul,
Surprised to see the many high-rise buildings there,
And streets so overcrowded with their vehicles;
Large offices and business centers everywhere—
Ladies with fashion boots, purses and western dress;
Big contrast with those living back in country hills.
Such history surrounds this ancient, distant land;
So many varied cultures ruled their sacred world.
Museums filled with artifacts from centuries,
Safeguarded and in view to honor and behold.
This trip shall always hold such special, vivid thoughts
For us to cherish and remember for all time.
Of course, this one-time trip was many years ago;
We're happy we had ventured then instead of now,
For times have changed; such unrest grows within our world.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Memorable Vacations
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: May 8, 2015
Iambic Hexameter
Dangling hair, girls twirl, drum majors,
Baseball turned cap boys, screenagers,
Gum chew boys, girls curls, tweenagers,
Just teenagers, just teenagers.
Pixie sticks tootsie rolls swallows,
Gummy bears m & m's follows,
Reeses cups hershey bars hollows,
Tidbits mellows, tidbits mellows.
Marshmallow pillow stuffing jams,
Strawberries dribble squishing rams,
Peach clings and lemon rings swim crams,
Dollops mouth slams dollops mouth slams.
Dressed up, lollipop, a cutesome,
Suit, tie, flowers guy, a twosome,
Hoodies, both moody, don't getsome,
Great into some, great into some.
she is the music
that my whole body sings
like an orchestra
conducted by desire
the symphony of pleasure
in two majors
"Turning"
Turning
towards the beginning
at the tip of the tail end,
we push forward through
the tunnel screaming
through the pain bathed
in water and blood,
annnointed and slapped
rudely awake by the details,
in the hand we are shuffled,
chords are cut like ties that bind,
we are separated from the chaff,
we are called by name, numbered
and tagged for the game, then
the measure of us, weighed
and registered, certified
in deeds like paper weights,
the double majors abruptly
change to bugger alls,
it’s all about the
words spoken
and heard
another story
borne
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
He calls- seldom I answer
They feel stiff.
He cries- seldom I console
They feel weak.
He knocks for entrance
Though inside he lives
He enters- He observes me smiling
I shut him off completely- He’s out
I call- he’s always there
They smile.
I cry- he never turns his back
They tear.
I enter his world-I never knock
He welcomes.
I can hear some gossip in delight
Others just groan, vexed.
The more I see is delight
Yet the others, are always in sight
I call- I cry- I enter-
When I smile, I leave.
He calls- waiting for my answer
They shiver.
He cries-cries for help
They perish.
He knocks and enters
I give no care
He stands still staring
“I called for you, you never replied
Burden lifted, they’re gone.
My gloomy 'flats' and 'sharps',
Never felt your love, they left.
My innocent, smiling 'majors' and 'minors'
Never shared your laughter, they left.
Good bye my friend, Helen is waiting
Please pray for the Keller’s to welcome me home.”
During the time before television came to our home, My dad sat there in his car on many a dark Southern night. And I was somewhere close by, enjoying a wonderful
game of Major League Baseball on the radio.
O, there were several teams in the majors like The Pirates,
The White Socks and The Red Socks were popular
teams. But in my town in Northern Mississippi, baseball was all about the Cardinals, the Dodgers, and the Yankees.
There were many sights and sounds of baseball beaming from radios and television sets. I must say that I mean no disrespect to other good and decent sportscasters,
but Harry Carry and Pee Wee Reese made us feel like we
were there in the stands.
My dad had lots of friends, but two were rivals in the game.
There was his friend, the Yankee man name Mr. Baines;
And then, Mr. Mon, his other friend, was a Dodger fan.
But my dad’s heart was in St. Louis with Stan the Man.
In the memory of my mind, I can hear those games now on the radio.
Those nights were dark and hot, but the baseball captured and calmed me.
Reading newspapers and enjoying a baseball game on the radio were two
things my dad and I shared together. But also, later on, we obtained a television. With the snapshots tucked away in the frames of my mind, after 50-plus years, I can still see the Baseball Game of the Week.
I'm rather certain that neither my dad nor his two friends ever graced the stadiums of their teams. I'm proud to say that it was through them that I developed a deep love for the game. So, in a way, when I saw two games at Wrigley Field in Chicago, they were there also; or when I enjoyed two games of the Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, they sat right next to me.
They say that baseball is America’s great past time experience;
but for me, baseball was always about ‘now and then’, ‘today, and
‘tomorrow’ too. It was about a little country boy fantasizing
and dreaming today about what could be tomorrow.
Written 042010; Entry122422PS Contest, Matt Caliri, Poetry in Motion
The National Pastime, Phillip Garcia
also: (Screwed XV11 Contest, Rod Carmack; 10th Pl)
Twos, threes, and one-eyed jacks,
And jokers thrown in too,
These were the wild cards in our poker game,
May seem a lot to you....
But four of a kind to open,
Somewhat evens up the score,
And this was a time of fun,
And we did much, much more
This was our "Military Club"
An idea I did cook up,
To give reason to live,
For old men lost to desperate time
Who's life otherwise passed by them
Turned out an idea sublime
All got ranks in our club,
My uncles were Majors, you see
My father I made the Colonel
And poor old lowly me...
A mere Lieutenant
To drive the staff car around
This became so important to them
My idea had been more than sound
We loved our pool halls
Like most women love a shoe store,
And took turns at each others houses,
And what's even more
After pool we'd have some beers
In one of our watering holes,
And after poker later
A good meal would enrich our souls
Ah, to go one more time
Out with them,
Alas most are gone
And all I have is memories
To help me carry on.
A State Of Majors and Algebra
From a bridge I lift eyes weary from equation forms
Majors and Algebra instruct
From on high the state loves us
Instinctively feed us what we must know
Keep us in place for hours
Guns on every head…to get ahead
Conclusions always drawn on time
Lines of math carried like conversations to their ends
Fractions fix themselves in front of us
Captured by majors on their heels
Algebra comes undone
Undressed for our consumption
Work, like dreams, goes on forever
Tonight it waits for majors and algebra to merge
Ranks remove me to seclusion
Books fall with rain into retreat
Lives are bulletins with holes
When government controls
Shocked to life with streams of data
Or shot to death in line with reason
Options can be unkind
No one inspects the dark
Perhaps it is not there
No one suspects me
In this my figures lie in wait
To see what moves prove
A state of majors and algebra
Or my escape
I don't want you gone.
Life would be stone.
You are life and fun.
You are summer sun.
Stay a little bit longer.
We'll dance carelessly,
Sing majors eternally,
Make our dreams bigger.
The Irish pipe band played Amazing Grace
Their drum major showed his skills with the mace
In the air he threw it
But misjudged and blew it
When it came down and hit him in the face...
Written 22 February 2021.
They were hippies
and societal dropouts.
Scholars, poets and
pot smoking draft dodgers.
Civil right activists,
and anti-war protesters.
Patriots and soldiers
fighting an unpopular war.
Relationships were confused
and marriage became open.
Morality lost meaning and
God was largely forgotten
except to grape Kool-Aid drinkers.
They liked to “groove”
on a Sunday afternoon
and kids hid under desks
for H-bomb drills.
They were good and bad
and pretty and ugly.
They were raised on Dillon,
Joplin, Hendrix and Doors.
Motown was happening
with The Beach Boys, Zeplin,
and the Rollin Stones.
Paul Revere had his Raiders,
Love was a Spoonful and
Three Dog was the Night.
The Beatles reigned supreme.
Sullivan was a king maker,
Elvis was a soldier,
and Archie and Meathead
were "All in the Family."
They welcomed the British invasion
and hung out at Woodstock -
sometimes in the nude.
Many were students
who got high and
routinely cut class.
Most of them were psyche majors
trying to “find themselves?”
LSD was a bad trip
that many took.
Sex was free
and there was a lot of it.
They were spoiled, selfish,
lazy and genius.
They grew up late,
but at least grew up.
They hid their past
and regretted much of it.
They were artistic,clever
and very inventive.
They are also to blame for
much that is wrong.
Many are in denial
and most have regrets.
They were the boomers
of the baby boom generation.
First version
I hope that I will seldom be
On some sinking ship that's on the sea;
A ship whose captain and whose crew
Have found much better things to do
Than stay and try to rescue me
From going down beneath the sea.
I think that it is only fair
That I not drown in underwear,
Nor never need I to explain
The precise nature of that stain.
Kilmer once wrote the poem "Trees",
While lesser fools write parodies.
***********************************
Second version
I think that I shall never see
A poem as nice as my TV;
With screen that in the evening glows
With all those wondrous nightly shows
That make me feel so debonair,
So warm and snug, without a care;
The game shows that do stupefy,
With ads that show me stuff to buy.
I look at my TV all day,
And when it's broke I curse and pray.
This satire’s writ by fools like me,
But Samsung made my big TV.
*************************
Third version
I’ve heard there'll never better be
Than this: “To be or not to be”,
That famous line from Hamlet's scene,
But, what the hell, what does it mean?
A line that sounds good in the play
As if it had deep stuff to say;
A line that had great style and wit
Back in the day when it was writ.
My English teach tried to explain
To us dumb kids and make it plain;
Said Shakespeare’s words were just sublime.
But mostly they don’t even rhyme!
So Shakespeare wrote these words of note
And now it's his most famous quote,
And English majors study it
To get degrees in English lit.
Is there a reason why all ballplayers spit
Can they get to the majors, if a spittoon the can't hit
Twenty paces while chawing
On tabaccy while jawing
At the ump, methinks it's likely tradition I submit
© Jack Ellison 2015
It’s hard to meet someone serious at college. Everyone’s busy,
self-centeredly grinding away at their dreams. So much so that
people tell you to not even try (especially as a freshman).
I was mostly at ease with myself—as a freshman. I had an
excellent skincare routine—it was downright luxuriant,
and it kept me going, through that romantically lonely year.
But we humans hope—we buy lotto tickets to dream on—though we know the awful math. We Gen Z’s seem to have our own unique brand of loneliness, born of covid and Internet-age experience.
My romantic expectations, sophomore year, were low—ok, unmeasurable.
Looking around was depressing. There were socially awkward STEM majors, jocks, frat men (sure the world’s laid-out just for them) and ‘CSOM Bros" (business majors more interested in parlaying my Grandmère’s money than me) and the elusive, emotionally reserved, ‘regular guys.’
But the unexpected can happen. We all know how crowded campus coffee shops are—the students move in and out in tides as noisy as the real, salty ocean. And then there you were, a rumpled, 25-year-old doctoral student—from another world—asking to share my table.
The loudest thing in that room was your sense of stillness. You seemed to be a new, and distinct species, and as we talked, you seemed to somehow smooth my anxious edges. After a few meets, the thought, ‘I really like this guy,’ seemed to have its own gravity.
We somehow managed to thread the ‘too busy to care’ dynamic, and as time went by, you helped me channel my absurd, fiery, pastel-painted, first-love, early-twenty girlhood heat into something longer lasting, deep and authentic. Congratulations! It’s been two years.
Separating now, would be like removing the salt from the sea.
.
.
Songs for this:
Playing House by Kudu
So Much Mine by The Story