Long Fifty six Poems
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Was just a young'un in the big band era
But it seems just like yesterday
Remember listening to Miller and Dorsey
Still love it right to this day
Miller's Modernaires, and Dorsey's Pied Pipers
With their smooth harmonic blend
Chattanooga Choo-Choo and The Trolley Song
Brought me so much pleasure no end
Guess I was influenced by my older sisters
Was not even ten at the time
It just goes to show the impact they had made
For those long ago days I still pine
It wasn't until Elvis debuted in fifty-six
When Rock'n Roll took over
The Big Band era came quickly to a halt
And ended it's popular exposure
Don't even know what is popular today
Or even if they've given it a name
Guess I'm just an old guy living in the past
Progress is the name of the game
© Jack Ellison 2014
Dartmoor in a rainy morning light
On the shoulders a well full pack
Regulation fifty six pounds hanging
On an already near breaking back
Marching on a compass bearing
No deviation allowed
Hour after hour
Under low hanging cloud
Forcing boot after boot
Water already seeping in
Wanting to kill the Doc
For his banter and his grin
I’ve been driving a desk
For more than three years
Wanting to kill the Rupert
That went and sent me here
Just a grinding march
In a murky moor haze
Mile after mile suffering
In an exhausted daze
The Doc’s cheerful voice
Dragging us along
But oh lord I’ll kill him
If he sings again that song
There’s Don stoutly walking
Showing his stiff upper lip
While Reg curses madly
As he takes a near trip
And I’m staggering on
Just by the power of will
Compiling my growing list
Of folks I intend to kill
Dartmoor in October rain
There’s an approaching end
And I suppose really
The Doc’s not a bad friend
The three day’s route march
That I thought I’d never make
Is finally finished and
I’m grinning through my aches
I had a dose of tonsillitis
The M.O. a sadistic swine
Proved beyond doubt
He was no friends of mine
His successful cure
Caused me so much pain
He sent me off to Dartmoor
In the pouring October rain
Never Neglect 2022 Financial Goals
Miracle Man’s Opinion
12/29/2021
It was that time of year, while thinking resolutions,
we surveyed our problems seeking possible solutions.
We thought anything’s possible, if together, we had a plan,
We made goals not wishes covering a long term span.
On one bathroom mirror I once listed these goals,
both were reminded daily as each played our roles.
We checked net worth yearly, leaving no areas gray,
still thinking early retirement at an opportune day.
But early retirement would require more than saving,
so as novices we started investing money made slaving.
We understood that risk was commensurate with reward,
so we invested weekly in those things once explored.
Soon we were investing in things having more risk,
checking progress monthly storing on a floppy disk.
Often things went against us and didn’t make money,
but we stayed with our goals until they turned sunny.
The stock market is like baseball, some days produce doubt,
“You win some, lose some, and some are rained out.”
God has blessed us greatly and we’ve learned a few tricks,
enabling both to retire early, me at age fifty six.
The T.V. Set is blaring, as usual for it is the law to keep it on.
Year 2035, and the gatekeepers need to watch people twenty-five six.
Yes, I know it used to be twenty-four, seven, but the ghouls recalculated.
There are fourteen months now too; twelve was not enough.
Announcement: Researchers say that thirty-percent of world is blind and deaf.
I stare at the T.V. set. Surely that figure is too low.
I think of all the people I know who cannot see the truth
Even after it climbs into their laps and bites them on the nose.
Preferring to believe the experts of their favorite stations over their observations.
At least fifty-six percent of the population is deaf.
For I have seen all the mothers in the grocery store not doing a thing
While their children yell, scream, swear, and torment other shoppers.
It might be sixty-six percent. Think of all those fathers at the ball games
Who must not be able to hear their own words as they scream stupidity at the coach.
Announcement: Seventy percent of the world are mad.
This propaganda is getting way out of hand. I know only one person who is not mad.
She sticks her tongue out at the T.V. set and puts her foot through it.
ALERT! ALERT! Destroyer at 627 Hemlock Street! Destruction of Government Property!
They haul me out for hanging three seconds later.
I’ve got this! He said in a snappish way, that day.
He was young and eager, with an ego in the way.
The store manager heard, and let it go this time.
He knew the snickering and pointing would be kind of fine.
Bananas fifty six dollars a pound.
This was funny all around.
The women in line were making fun at an enormous rate.
Taking selfies, and snapping up bananas like a Potassium date.
The young eager clerk was going to fix his mistake
But the manager held up his hand and said “let’s wait!”
Bananas fifty six dollars a pound.
Was bringing customers on down!
Other women ran to the store to see the bananas now.
They laughed loud and hard. The joke was a wow.
Do you think you can do something this silly each week? The manager asked.
For this blundering blowhard, it was no enormous task.
McDonald's once counted burgers sold,
proudly posting the number on a big sign
outside of each of their restaurants.
It stopped when the number got too big.
(Would people not believe that
one-hundred and forty-seven billion,
nine-hundred and twenty-three million,
seven-hundred and fifty-six thousand,
three-hundred and eighty-nine
Big Macs, Quarter-pounders and
delicious double-cheeseburgers
had not been consumed, quelling
the hunger of the masses?)
Now the signs read simply,
"Billions and billions sold"--how prosaic!
So how may we count--
and post the number of souls in the world?
Looking at it in cosmic time,
souls are like fireflies,
flicking their luminescence,
on and off, on and off,
a moment of brightness is a lifetime:
a wondrous light show
in that black and fecund
sweet summertime evening
we call eternity....
Still Growing
seventy-three and one-half years young
can’t forget the half-don’t want to appear
younger than I actually am
seems like yesterday I was living in
a foster home and working on the farm
and that was fifty-six years ago
my biggest regret was all the
potential friendships I destroyed
because I was an angry person. I
came from a dysfunctional home
where every form of abuse was acceptable
I had PTSD of a sort so the shrink said
which stunted my social skills
my biggest triumph was accepting
Jesus has my savior. I have slowly learned
to forgive others and just as importantly myself
it has been a life long process and my transformation
is not totally finished but I am better than I was.
Now I have very few friends from the past but am
making some new ones while treating people with
respect.
Being content with the way things are is a
wonderful feeling.
Fear recalled; the taste of sweat in retreat, when
one can never seem to run far enough or fast enough.
Remembering the Christian children’s chants of
devil worshiper, atheist; the taunting hell they saw
for those not blessed to be themselves.
The jeer of the crowd for those apart, the mob
mentality of the Christian heart, the damn you if
you’re not me to a girl of eight, defies any amount
of time to heal. Memories are not obliterated.
Breathless behind a hollow-core door, gasping
tears, a heart pounding to the beat of fists on panel;
fear recalled as bile rose; hate thrown, the Jew bated.
This was only an inkling of what Tanta felt.
Nineteen fifty-six, eleven years after the end of WWII,
I saw the numbers burned into my families’ skin,
the ones still alive to show them to a child of eight.
-broken glass nights, crowded trains, death camps
New England was still gripped in a Christian hell,
at eight, at twelve, at eighteen—and every Christmas
in between—don’t speak, don’t tell, don’t let them
know you’re different—different, hated, taunted,
chased, and if possible erased.
Prejudice knows no boundary of time or place, the
fear, the mob, the gang, the chanting group, alive
still in the 21st century. When you kneel, and pray,
even when you say Amen.
First Published by Synchronized Chaos Spring 2015
Two hundred and fifty-six thousand dead already, you argue.
Get the children back into the schools! The non-scientific thinkers are screaming.
But it is a pandemic.
So what? They are carriers, they will survive, the money makers yell.
We need those teachers to earn their pay.
But what if the teachers die?
They can be replaced, the ones who have never read a book argue.
And open up the restaurants and the bars.
Our economy is suffering!
But two hundred and fifty-six thousand are already dead, you say.
TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX THOUSAND are already DEAD!
You are going to get it anyway, the ones who are losing money yell.
Do what we say!
Weirdly, these screamers are often the ones who will not wear masks
However, they will be the first to shove their way to the front of a line
And grab a hospital bed out from under you if they get this faux virus.
Watch out for these bullies.
Might does not make right.
I watch the reunion stories, and this is somewhat one,
fifty- six years late,
the tear filled reunions and encounters portrayed,
sadly; they just turn my mind and heart away.
I can't change the feeling of emptiness,
lingering without any longing or need in my soul
to see again those few memories,
those years lost long ago.
Four year old, tall and built
with subtle vulnerabilities,
held a three year old sister's hand
and pushed a younger brother in a carriage.
A young disillusioned mother stood silent watching
distanced in her thoughts desiring to be set free
the bond of love and children
often falters without marriage.
Three children and another on the way was far too taxing
not enough for him or her to stay
and in her lonely inconsolable hours,
perhaps her choice was best in giving all away.
He returned briefly
and together they slipped out together in early morning,
the car they drove took the path to an orphanage
from there, they moved separate but quickly down the road
Each child was kissed
with a short hurried goodbye
and suddenly these four children
found themselves alone and cried.
The story never reached the papers,
never made the news
the children, they survived
with his name marked upon their shoes.
Paternal grandmother stepped forward
but by then, only the oldest remained,
she took her home without a question
and the truth became the secret never told.
Years passed and each child must have gone their way,
disappearing in the multitude of crowds
and until this day,
the secret had never been betrayed.
The oldest child knew it,
and over the years,
the father alone returned
but truly the family was no more.
It's not a happy story nor is it really sad
I hear each one found and has some family;
and boys grow to men and girls to women
but not all are meant to be a mom or a dad.
If you're looking for a reunited happy ending
you may find it still hidden somewhere else.
as for me and my closing story,
there lives that memory of grandmother and myself.