Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these ‘it might have been’—John Greenleaf Whittier
without deep regret
apologetic parrot ~
squawks m
i n d racked a
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Categories:
whittier, psychological,
Form: Senryu
In my youth I was completely engrossed,
By poetry along the byways nailed to a post!
It wasn't composed by John Greenleaf Whittier;
No, the authors were much more wittier!
I speak of Burma Shave signs once all the craze,
But can only be found in museums nowadays.
I don't claim to own the wit of Nast or Nash,
But here are some I might've composed if I may be so brash!
If its a kiss from yer gal you crave
But the stubble on yer mug she hates
Better grab yerself a can of Burma Shave!
When ol' Sarge says you're grown' too much stubble
And threatens to nix yer weekend pass
Slather yer mug with Burma Shave on the double!
When you were interviewed for a host of jobs
But weren't hired because of yer stubble
Smother yer mug with Burma Shave in gobs!
When you insist on takin' her out to dine
But she says no caressin' yer 5-o'clock shadow
Mow yer mug usin' Burma Shave and all will be fine!
If it's yer handsome mug you want to save
Plain ol' Lifebuoy soap won't do the job
Use plenty of good ol' foamy Burma Shave!
Let me tell you fellers about the latest rave
If you want to impress your sweetie pie
Use smooth and creamy Burma Shave!
Categories:
whittier, humorous, nostalgia, poetry,
Form: Rhyme
Here's a salute to Poet Ogden Nash,
Who was notable for being quite brash!
He was much more wittier
Than John Greenleaf Whittier,
Concocting reams of clever balderdash!
Categories:
whittier, humorous, poets,
Form: Limerick
Mary Yelvington
1876-1910
George Towne, now there was a man;
Handsome as the devil;
Strong as a bougainvillea vine.
And married to the redoubtable Fannie Towne,
Town shill, and occasional teetotaler of the dry brew!
Ol’ Fannie was oblivious to the treasure she owned;
That incredible athlete!
That insufferable charmer!
At least after 3 o’clock, on most afternoons,
She never knew,
Or cared one iota really, where her man was!
Other than the little dramas concerning the Townes,
Life in Whittier, at the turn of the 20th Century,
Was boring, I must say.
Boring as a book with no danger!
Dangerous days never arrived for me,
Nor did I ever make the acquaintance of a dangerous man.
My life’s journey indeed found intended joy,
Ecstatic joy in singing the hymns at church;
And it found surprised sadness as well,
In not surviving pneumonia at age 34.
And now, here I am, buried deep in the dark dirt,
Of shady Mt. Olive Cemetery.
But if only I had tried.
Tried to whistle, and nestle up to the big lug;
The day I saw him at Central Park,
Sitting on a bench with his prim coat and hat,
The incredibly dangerous George Towne!
Categories:
whittier, crush,
Form: Epitaph
As we age we regret words of anger and spite
That were heard and remembered and can't be unsaid.
The remarks we thought clever or proved we were right
That resulted in losses of friendships instead.
All the heartbreaks that came from suspicion and doubt,
The betrayals and hurts we refuse to forgive,
The companions and love that our pride has cast out,
And the chances we missed that we'd like to relive.
All the pathways not taken and bridges uncrossed,
All the times had we acted, a difference made,
The potential delights that timidity lost,
And the kindness and debts that we never repaid.
All the secret dishonors we long to forget,
And the wrongs we inflicted in order to win.
For the strongest of sorrows are those of regret,
And the saddest remembrance is what might have been.
* * * * *
Or as Whittier phrased it, far finer and first:
"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
the saddest are these: It might have been"
Categories:
whittier, heartbreak, introspection, loss, sorrow,
Form: Verse
Ida Oaks
1827-1919
John gave me a good home.
Not one with plumbing and power,
But one with a solid slab, and a full well.
And while living in this Quaker homestead,
We found that life was precise and persistent.
But it pleased me to provide good food, and
Medicinal solace for my meager family.
Through those unyielding years we learned
To accept the twists and turns of fate,
And to continue the never-ending bows to prayer.
Death was a returning customer indeed, but
We learned to be silent, stoic and still,
When sovereign Lord Yeshua silently paid a call.
But we had indeed found paradise out west,
Out here in tranquil Whittier town!
Where it never snows at winter,
And the hills here burgeon with wild flowers!
But God was good to us,
And John worked hard to provide a good life for me.
But, Oh! To smell again, just one more time,
The wonderful heavenly fragrances
Of ten thousand Valencia blossoms,
All crowned with white dancers at springtime!
Categories:
whittier, life,
Form: Epitaph
Carl Koontz
1892-1915
Mister Gregg was standing atop my grounded skull,
And so was Mister White,
And the reticent county coroner.
And inexplicably,
They directed two men in blue overalls
To dig up my decomposed body that day.
I must say, the sounds of those slicing shovels,
Upending the dirt of my final destination,
Here in Mt. Olive Cemetery
Was most disheartening, to say the least.
But bigger and better digs
Were in store for me,
Up at Whittier Heights Cemetery.
“Easy fellas, easy,” I said silently,
“Easy now, as you lift me out!”
And “heave-ho” I heard the men say,
As they hoisted me up upon
The four-wheeled wagon,
With two sturdy horses up front
Looking back dubiously.
And together, with my one ton marble tombstone,
I and my lilly white sarcophagus
Travelled to the Heights,
Whittier’s new and spacious boneyard,
Festooned with wild roses.
Though it is impossible to die permanently twice,
I have discovered in death,
That it is possible to be buried a brace of times!
“Heave-Ho” I heard the men say!
Categories:
whittier, death,
Form: Epitaph
Gertrude Bangle
1895-1914
By name I was called Trudy.
When living.
Dear friends of the living,
Do you know Whittier town
Is a very haunted town?
Do you know my ghost still walks
Still silently steps by you?
Oblivious you?
Here in the stalking shade of the myrtles?
Here in the dark shadows of the walnuts?
I still seek the solace from a seeping sadness.
Still seek the light of truth
The air of freedom
In a dark smothering hole
Here in Mt. Olive Cemetery.
Come my friends, come to me now.
Come inside this old resting ground
This long deceased land of a thousand yawning holes
And find my wandering ghost.
You will find me lurking by the Bailey and the Baird graves
Here in the dark belly of death and life eternal.
Here in the stalking shade of the myrtles.
Categories:
whittier, absence, death, grave,
Form: Epitaph
Leander Skumfeldt
1864-1916
Truly my friends
Dying was my greatest fear, while alive.
My most dreaded
Most detested of future experiences.
Dying, finally, was my greatest achievement
My greatest joy!
My highest calling!
The summit of my scant human existence!
Old Whittier town,
I have missed you indeed,
Have missed the bumpy rides by wagon and horse
To Los Coyotes,
Have missed the starry nights of suave embraces
In Sycamore Canyon.
With eyes wide open
I saw the irony of my life,
There, on a long table at Pio Pico.
There, amidst the old pottery and the sombreros
A single pressed morning glory
From the Spanish Bible of The Don,
A single fragile fading flower,
A metaphor for a sad but ecstatic soul,
My somber sullen soaring soul!
Be it known: I lived my life quietly
In the fear of God, and
I died my death screaming curses to his face!
But, truly my friends, truly
I found brazen beauty
Found unimagined enticings
In the final gasping exhalation
Of my last heartbeat.
Categories:
whittier, death,
Form: Epitaph
Viola Fuller
1879 – 1909
For it is written in solemn Chinese ideography,
That two women under one roof spells trouble.
For indeed my life found trouble
And death quite early due to influenza.
I spent my leisure hours in China Town
16 miles to the west in old Los Angeles.
Spent hours in the mildewed shops and the seedy cafes.
Finding culture, romance and ruin in the moody moonlight!
Finding spontaneous spasms in the back musty rooms.
It is true Roscoe Settle found my inner source.
He probed for the truth of my deep hidden springs.
Riveting moist springs of passion and sexual majesty.
Together, as like intertwining tied ribbons,
We embraced the spectral fireworks of a multitude of shooting stars!
Embraced the soaring glissandos of life and love!
But in the end
I decided to kill him dead.
I could not bear for one more minute, the other woman,
That other thing named Lottie Gordon.
But it all backfired on me.
For instead, I killed his father,
One Marcus Settle: late of Whittier Town.
Forgive me Providence, for I have sinned.
But in my sin,
I have found eternal rest from my nagging jealousies.
Found eternal peace from the tortuous kisses
Of one Roscoe Settle!
Categories:
whittier, death, life,
Form: Epitaph
Ruth Helen Uhrig
1888 – 1908
I remember the Indian summers most of all.
The drowsy balmy days of late September and early October.
I remember the calming chorus of the trees,
Especially here in Clark Cemetery,
With the benign wind caressing the still branches,
Teasing and tickling the leaves,
Performing masterfully,
The silent music of a thousand lazy afternoons.
Listen. Can you hear it?
And I recall that afternoon in 1903
While standing under the shady pepper tree,
Here in Clark Cemetery
That moment of sweet virginal bliss.
That long-forgotten one second in time,
When that blue-eyed fox named Roscoe
Kissed me, a mere girl of 15, on the lips.
There, on the threshold to my very soul!
Oh, the true joys of life are so simple and so fleeting!
And finally,
To my friends in old Whittier town,
I discovered after my demise that,
There is a happy way to die and a sad way to die.
And it will all depend on how well you treated people while alive.
Thankfully, I died the happy way.
In my sleep.
Dreaming of the silent music,
On a long-ago afternoon in September,
Under the old shady pepper tree,
Here in Clark cemetery
Categories:
whittier, death, happy, old, happy,
Form: Epitaph