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Mark Stellinga Poem
Hopefully these two young boys stayed out of trouble after getting a wonderful break like this.
While barreling through the subway on a smelly Friday night, I sat and watched the endless lights go flick’ring by, so fast.
A deep, hypnotic trance would always numb my tired mind, until I’d feel the churn subside and reach my stop at last.
Like many late December nights, the air was damp and cold. The winter wind was bitter, and the snow was hard and deep.
The passengers sat quietly, they almost always did, and some would softly visit, while a few of them would sleep.
Just a couple minutes had gone by when, through the door, a pair of really hard-up-looking boys would make their way.
Most were prob’ly hoping they were merely passing through, but near the middle of the car, the tallest stopped to say,
“Listen everybody, this is how it’s gonna be.” And as he pulled a knife, he growled, “You make a move, you’re dead!
I’m not gonna ask you twice, so don’t be holdin’ back. All we want’s your wallets… and your jewelry.” Then he said,
“If you give us what we want…no one will get hurt. And don’t do nothin’ stupid. If you do…you’ll pay the price!
We can do this easy…or we can do this rough. It’s up to you. Now, dig, y’all…
we’re tryin’ to be nice!”
As I watched them make their way from soul to shivering soul, brandishing a switchblade knife, my mind would fill with hate.
I contemplated what to do, and when to make my move. My heart was racing fast as I would calmly stand and wait.
“Give it up,” the kid would scream at one old feeble man. “I’ll cut ya’ good if - when I count to three - you’re holdin’ back!”
He grabbed his wallet - peeled his watch - then shoved him to the floor. I felt my soul ignite as we went roaring down the track.
Only one was left before they’d get to where I stood. My heart was beating wildly. I would be the final one.
The boy who held the knife assumed…as I reached ‘round my back…that I was reaching for my wallet…not a hidden gun!
A New York cop - off duty - I was headed home from work. These boys had picked the worst of times to mug a helpless crowd.
I drew my pistol, aimed it toward the two of them, and said, “It’s your turn, boys, to… ‘give it up.’” My words were strong and loud.
“Now…drop the knife…and put the things you’ve taken on the seat. Your stealing days are over. Put your hands around that bar.”
I nodded toward the pole that people hold to fight the sway, then twirled the chain around the pipe, and cuffed them to the car.
The folks who’d lost their money and their jewelry to the punks retrieved their things, collectively...their faces filled with joy.
But when the man they’d been a little rough with found the nerve, he walked up rather cautiously, and asked the shorter boy,
“Why don’t you just get a job, son? You don’t have to steal. If you’ll come and see me…I can help you. Here’s my card.
I will give you both a job. It shouldn’t be like this.” And then he turned to me and said, “Sir…you may find this hard…
“But can you somehow find it in your heart to let them go? These boys are very young, and I believe, inside…they’re good.
So, if you take their names…and they will give their word to come…I will give them both a job tomorrow, if you would.”
The subway car was somehow feeling motionless and still. The crowd would stand there silent, as they watched my puzzled face.
He was seeing young, misguided boys - who would reform…I was seeing thieves…that I would one day have to chase!
I quickly searched my mind as I surveyed the silent crowd, most their faces prompting me to grant the man’s request!
Should I take the cuffs off and release them, as he’d asked…or do what my experiences were telling me was best?
“Give them one more chance,” he begged, “they’re barely in their teens. Try to think of how it was when you were just a kid.
All of us have done things, as a child, that we regret. I’ll bet you got in trouble once or twice for what you did
“Back when you were just a boy, like these two have tonight.” My heart began to soften as I listened to his plea.
I more or less agreed with him, and put my gun away. “I hope you’re right,” was all I said, as I produced the key.
The two young boys would stand there, quite amazed by what he’d said, then sweep their victims’ faces, and address them…one by one.
They swore that they were sorry…and were glad that they had failed…and begged for their forgiveness for the foolish thing they’d done.
The taller one, now crying - as they hung their heads in shame - claimed they’d never tried to steal a thing before that night.
And as they left the subway car, when we had reached our stop - my heart tried reassuring me that what I’d done was right.
Perhaps, next day, they actually went to work for that old man. And maybe they still work for him. I’d like to think they do. And he was right…I’d done my share of bad things in the past…but on that night I got the chance - to give a chance - to two!
PS: I've now got 4 new Audio-CDs - @ 4 1/2 hours each = (62 diversely varied pieces). They’re listed on EBAY - under - “Mark Stellinga Poetry” - or available by simply contacting me at -- mark@writerofbooks.com -- should those of you who enjoy listening to poems as well as reading them - and particularly those of you that travel - care to be so entertained. (We use safe and simple - PayPal)
Cheers,
Mark
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
Sixty some odd years ago, when I was just a kid, our home was on the very edge of town.
The man that lived next door to us - a Mr. - O. M. Crabb - for years would wear the – “mean an' ornery” crown.
If anyone in Pinkerton had cause to really hate him, and felt - at first - the guy was hard to like -
It was me, ‘cause…havin’ left it sitting in his driveway…backin’ out one day - he crushed my trike!
Well…quite a crowd showed up today to tell the man goodbye. Most of them were older folks, like me
Who understood that those who felt that Orville was a miser, without a doubt were as wrong as they could be.
So…later, at the diner - when some youngster made this comment:
“Bet ya’ half the town is glad he’s dead!”
I commenced to settin’ him - an’ all his buddies - straight…
an’ this here’s pretty close to what I said:
“All you young’ns figure that the crown was his to wear because you’ve never seen him laugh or smile,
But each of you’ve, unwittingly, condemned him in your minds without so much as giving him a trial.
“Each of you’ve convicted him on nothing more than hearsay, and joined the fools that called him, ‘Old Man Crabb’.
But I have known the truth about the man since I was ten - when I observed him picking up a tab
“For Henrietta Pendleton - to buy her children clothes…she’d lost her husband, Clete, in ‘42.
Orville Crabb was always helpin’ folks to make ends meet…..which ain’t the sort o’ thing that misers do.
“Fact is, most the older folks in town are sad as hell. They know some things you younger folks don’t know.
Like…way back in the 20s - as the men returned from war - he’d look for those that had no row to hoe
“And offer them positions at the fact’ry, or the cannery…..businesses he started - just for them!
Today those peoples’ grandkids…unaware their want for nothing is due almost exclusively to him...
“Tear the guy to pieces with their jokes and nasty comments, painting him a cold and selfish man.
But if you’d care to listen to me prove it isn’t true…with much of what I know…
I’m sure I can.
“An only child, he helped his father work their tiny farm, which came to him the day his father died.
He worked the place alone at first then - not far down the road - met the gal that soon became his bride.
“Anna Mae and Orville cleared another twenty acres, and when his neighbors - north and south - retired,
Orville wisely bought their farms…and why so many loved him stems from just a few of those he hired!
“Some o’ these are tidbits that I overheard at Snippy’s., an’, when it comes to Pinkerton, I swear,
Pret’ near every big event gets tossed around a while whenever them old farts ‘re cuttin’ hair!
“Snippy’s been around since quite a while ‘for I was born, an’ now and then, while waitin’ for a chair,
Somethin’ Orville did - when we were kids - ‘ll get discussed. Happens almost every time I’m there.
“Like, Billy Burke - who’d planned to one day run his daddy’s place, but lost an arm while fightin’ overseas.
Orville paid to put him through some auto schools - in Dayton…bought the lot just south o’ Norma Lee’s…
“Built a brand new fillin’ station, named it, “Burke’s Garage”, and after redesigning half the tools
Billy’d need to do the work he’d always wanted to and well prepared by what he’d learned in schools…
“When his dad retired the place was handed down to Bill…and Burke’s Garage is still the best in town
At everything from fixin’ tires to overhaulin’ engines…and you’ll never find a Burke who’ll run him down!
“A bunch o’ kids in Pinkerton - most of them my age - were left with only mothers - from the war.
Those mothers were the very ones the child-care place on Brady, built - young man - by ‘Orville Crabb’ - was for!
“Eddy Joe Devine returned with half his groin destroyed…a wound that very nearly took his life.
A nurse he’d met in England - while recovering - took his ring…and - ’til he passed, she nursed him, as his wife!
“But, wanting children desperately but now no longer able to, and knowing of his brush with death in France,
Orville figured - caring for a bunch of kids would help….and let them run the orphanage for the chance.
“I forgave him years ago for boogerin’ up my trike. (I can’t believe I actually left it there!)
Besides….he made it up to me. Ya’ see - ‘bout ten years back…Orville went an’ bought me this here chair!
“I’d been lookin’ around for one ‘cause both my knees are shot…but couldn’t afford to buy one on my own,
When Orville came an’ got me - wrote a check to make it mine - and told me, “Truman… this is not a loan!”
“She’ll go darn close to 15 miles before she needs a charge! It ain’t the finest one I’ve ever seen…
But it was FREE…no strings attached…so you boys watch your mouths, an’ don’t be tellin’ people he was mean.
“Back when he was younger he was everybody’s buddy, workin’ side by side with Anna Mae.
Always helpin’ needy townfolk, right up ‘til the end, when Anna had a stroke and passed away.
“That was when he changed a bit - but that’s to be expected - and, if he rarely smiled, the reason why
Is…just like anybody else…his heart was broke in two…the way a heart ‘ll do when loved ones die.
“No sir….you’d be quite surprised to learn how many fam’lies say he was the finest friend they had.
Oh…I can see how folks your age aren’t sad to see him go…but truth is - he was simply terribly sad.
“Mean? No way! That man did more than anyone I know to minimize the pain in peoples’ lives.
But - just like me - he got depressed…the way that most men do when a battle lost to illness takes their wives.
“Best you learn the facts about a man before you judge ‘im…
you’re far too ‘unaware’ to be a fan…
But, take my word…there ain’t no mean or nasty words that fit him….
and I have never known a finer man.
PS: I've now got 4 new Audio-CDs @ 4 1/2 hours each , listed on EBAY (“Mark Stellinga Poetry”) - or available by simply contacting me. mark@writerofbooks.com (We use safe and simple - PayPal)
Cheers,
Mark
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
Abandoned as a child believed to be no more than five, the matron of the orphans home, was...other than my mom...
The first to have to face the task of tending to my welfare, and started out by posting me on - “HomelessKids.com!
A site set up for placing mostly young, abandoned children, but not so much for kids whose folks had died or were in jail.
Relatively quickly - on a day I’ll not forget - a couple that was looking for a young caucasian male,
Came around to carefully check the kids they had - “in stock” - perusing every facet of the ones they felt could work,
Then proved what many minority kids had whined about is true...in far too many instances --- being white’s a perk!
Unaware of what their two prerequisites had been...at five years old, all I knew was - someone wanted me,
And far too young to comprehend the prejudice unveiled...being placed, to me...was like - a prisoner going free!
As I grew, this couple - who‘d provided me the chance to meld into their loving world - provided all I’d need
To slowly mend my broken heart...which had, of course, been crushed by two uncaring people who’d conspired to plant the seed.
To me - it didn’t matter why they’d chosen not to keep me...but so ashamed of what they’d done, the answers I’d devise
Were laced with so much bitterness that, when my friends would ask, every explanation that I gave was rife with lies.
The day that they’d abandoned me, I knew my given name, but didn’t know my surname - so was listed as just - Tom.
My mem’ries of my father were both few and very vague, but I could clearly picture who I thought had been - my mom.
And as it is with kids too young to know their day of birth...and left without the needed information to be sure,
Once they’d failed - with pictured ads - to find someone who’d know...the home would simply ask the children which day they’d prefer
To celebrate their birthday on. They’d leave it up to them. And I had chosen May fifteenth - the day my world had changed,
And every May 15th that followed marked another a year for those who’d - walked away from me, and being - still estranged.
Entering me as - “5 yrs. old” - the day my file began - just seven months from when they’d placed me - I’d be turning six,
And being told they’d - “make the rounds” - to visit now and then, to verify that every child that every couple picks
Gets the sort of treatment they’d assured them they would get...I was deeply grateful that the pair who’d chosen me
Had met their obligation to fulfill my every need...and tried their best to be the finest parents they could be.
The surname I’d acquired was well respected...influential...and opened doors among the sort you’d brag about to know.
But now a man of forty-five, the forty now behind me have me understanding that, the same as years ago,
Back there in that orphan’s home...the color of one’s skin...plays an unforgivable discriminating part
In making key decisions, like, for instance...“being placed”, which I am here to testify can break a youngster’s heart!
Far too often - non-caucasians...just as qualified - wind up hearing, “Sorry…that position has been filled!”
And four long decades wiser - I completely understand...given what - within my mind - seeing it has instilled...
Just how painful being a person of color often is. And when I stop to think about the chances most have missed
Because of their ethnicity, I feel so damn ashamed...and...take my word - without a doubt - “white privilege” does exist!
PS: I've now got 4 new Audio-CDs - @ 4 1/2 hours each = (62 diversely varied pieces). They’re listed on EBAY - under - “Mark Stellinga Poetry” - or available by simply contacting me at -- mark@writerofbooks.com -- should those of you who enjoy listening to poems as well as reading them - and particularly those of you that travel - care to be so entertained. (We use safe and simple - PayPal)
Cheers,
Mark
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
Dad an’ I were tryin’ hard to land a pan o’ Redeye just outside o’ Huntsville
off a dock on Mouzon Lake,
When I got all but hypnotized trackin’ outside ripples emanating outward
from the breaches they would make.
“Wake up, boy,” my father quipped, “your bobber just went down. Redeye Bass ‘ll pick ya’ clean before ya’ know they’re there.
Takes at least a dozen, son, to make it worth our while, and I’ll be fishin’ all alone if you just...sit an’ stare!”
Dad was right. But what he didn’t know was, when I’d cast, very much preoccupied, I’d failed to bait the hook.
The day before I’d had a conversation with my mother telling me, quite earnestly, no matter what it took,
She’d be doin’ absolutely everything she could to stop me from enlisting in
the Army after school.
Trouble was...Dad and Grandpa both had proudly served, and plans ignoring their decisions didn’t feel too cool.
Pointing at the photographs of my and my Dad’s father, all decked out in uniform, I argued with her, “Mom...
Lots of other guys I know are joining up this summer, an’ I’d feel like a coward tellin’ Dad and Grandpa Tom...
“Given all the conflicts overseas...that I’m not going! Plus - having missed the scholarship we all were sure I’d get -
College ’ll wait...and seein’ as Dad has yet to find a job...I don’t wanna add another dime of fam’ly debt.”
“Get in the car,” Mother barked...“it’s best you see - up close - the facet of -
a conflict -that may help you to decide.
We’re going to tour Walter Reed, and...by the time we leave...I’m sure you’ll feel the lucky ones are actually - those who died!”
To cut the story short...the trip through Reed was tough as hell. And - having never seen first hand such suffering - caused by war -
Making up my mind to join, thus far, had been a trial...but - afterward - I felt the need to contemplate no more.
What my mother’d done had only strengthened my resolve to honor my commitment to protect the land I love,
And had my father realized - as I was lost in wonder - leaving him to fish alone...what I was thinking of,
He’d have been delighted and, I’m certain, very proud...so I reeled in and baited up to give what help I could,
Knowing he and Grandpa both - and Mom...despite her fear...in the end would all agree that - signing up was good!
PS: I've now got 4 new Audio-CDs - @ 4 1/2 hours each = (62 diversely varied pieces). They’re listed on EBAY - under - “Mark Stellinga Poetry” - or available by simply contacting me at -- mark@writerofbooks.com -- should those of you who enjoy listening to poems as well as reading them - and particularly those of you that travel - care to be so entertained. (We use safe and simple - PayPal)
Cheers,
Mark
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
I didn’t even know about the trip we were to make.
That very first adventure that old Gramps and I would take,
I’ll not forget the way it felt when I first saw the lake.
The sunrise made the water seem a blinding sheet of brass,
As Grampa told me, “Stephen…let’s try catchin’ us some bass,”
As we headed for the boat with two old rods…some bait…and gas.
He yanked the old boat’s motor, then threw off the weathered rope.
I asked, “Hey Gramps, want me to drive?” He smiled and chuckled, “Nope.
Well…maybe once we’re out a ways.” My heart went wild with hope.
Whenever Gramps said, “maybe” I would usually get my wish,
And as we felt the gentle morning breeze…so clean…so fresh,
I said a secret prayer that we would catch a ton of fish.
A good way out, at last, he asked me, “Son, you wanna steer?”
I climbed up on his lap, and he could sense a trace of fear.
He hugged me close to comfort me, his love was very clear.
“There’s nothin’ to it, little man…just take ‘er nice and slow.
You see that old dead tree right there? That’s where we wanna go,
‘Cause that there little weedy spot’s one o’ the best I know.
He helped me cast a line in, then he said, “Be very still. Remember…there’s no hurry, boy. We’ve got all day to kill. We’re lookin’ to catch some big ones, an’ I promise you…we will.”
I was like a statue, when he whispered soft to me,
“I know you’re gonna catch a monster…you just wait an’ see,”
And I just sat there grinning, as excited as could be.
That tiny bobber, in no time at all, began to dance.
At first it sort of hypnotized me. I was in a trance
When Gramps would holler, “Yank ‘er son!” I knew it was my chance.
And when the bobber disappeared my heart was pounding fast.
The fight was on as I was praying somehow I could last,
And Gramps slid near to help and said, “You sure know where to cast.
“Now careful, son, if he’s too big the boat just might upset.”
Then all but hollered, “He’s a big one…better use the net.
Holy cow…now that might be the best we ever get.”
My mind was turning somersaults…the fish seemed really big.
“If you can land a fish like this,” he said, “I’d better dig
My very finest lure out of the box…my ‘lucky jig.’”
Now Grandpa’s lucky jig was one I’d never seen him loan.
He’d always say, “Now this here jig’s the very best I own.”
And I am still the only one that I have ever known
Who got to use his lucky jig. That was a special day.
And now it’s mine -- and it gets used -- and in the same old way,
‘Cause I remember Grandpa’s words…“This jig ain’t for display.
“It’s meant for catchin’ monster fish. It’s meant for havin’ fun. And if it’s still around when your old Grampa’s fishin’’s done, It will go to you, my boy…because I love you, son.”
We sat beneath that tree for hours. It was his favorite nook,
And that was where he taught me how to tie and bait a hook.
It never mattered what we caught, or how much time it took.
I always throw a line in there. It’s still my favorite place.
I pray all folks with little ones can slip out of - "the race"
And get the chance to see the look that Gramps saw on my face.
Today - what seemed a lake - is but a pond…so very small.
And I suspect that “monster fish” was not so big at all,
But that first fish - with Gramps - is still my favorite to recall.
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
Despite the fact I’ve been a darn good driver all my life, the truth be told…I once destroyed a car!
And I am actually proud to say, “I totaled it that night.” It happened just outside a local bar.
Seven months before that night, the man who owned that car had run a stop sign on the edge of town.
Crossing the street - when he did - was a little girl of nine! The man who owned that car had run her down.
No one saw the “hit-an’-run”…she lay there all alone for nearly forty minutes, ‘til, at last,
She was fin’ly spotted…still alive, but only just…thankfully, by someone walking past.
By the time the ambulance arrived, her fate was sealed. She struggled hard for every tiny breath.
And when my wife and I arrived, to see our little girl, the only words she said before her death
Were, “Daddy, am I going to die? Can you and Mommy stay? Please don’t leave me here all by myself.”
Now the always-tearful conversations that we have are only with her pictures…on a shelf!
Over time the rumors flew about that hit-an’-run. It happened somewhere close to eight fifteen.
The ones who had the best idea of who it had to be --- that killed our little girl, then fled the scene ---
Whispered just enough about “the incident” that night to drive the information back to me,
And I’ll admit there’s actually not a single shred of proof, but most are still convinced…and so are we.
Everybody knows this man was drunk and on the road at eight fifteen the night our child was killed.
We all believe he ran her down, and doesn’t give a damn about the little girl whose blood he spilled.
The night I totaled out his car, the music from the bar was loud enough to keep him unaware
That - just outside - a tortured man had lost his self control, and just because he did - and didn’t - care…
He would fuel a rumor of his own that went around that, someone…with a can of gasoline…
Had doused his car from end to end, then set the thing on fire, and then…the same as he…had fled the scene!
Everyone who watched it burn would only stand and stare, and no one tried to help. No tears were shed. The tiny crowd that witnessed my revenge was well aware - this was the car that left our baby dead!
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
The biggest funeral I've ever attended...
Thelma was a waitress at the diner on the corner of 4th and Oak, across from Ron’s DX, in Abilene.
They had an old brass register that rang when it was opened, which I believed to be the coolest thing I’d ever seen.
She wore without a doubt the brightest lipstick ever made. Her hair was just about as red…and always tightly curled.
Mom and Dad would take me there on really big occasions…they had the greatest root beer floats and french-fries in the world.
Once…when I was eight years old…the three of us were eating, when everybody turned - the way they do - to check the door.
A young girl, with a baby and her husband, quietly entered. They glanced around to find a seat…then moved across the floor.
Sitting down not far from us, I heard the young man say, “We’ve only got enough to buy one meal. We’ll have to share.”
I was just a bit confused to see how they were smiling, when Mom leaned down and whispered, “Dear...it’s not polite to stare.”
Even though I looked the other way, I still could hear them, “We need to get some milk to feed the baby, right away.”
I kept peeking back at them. It made me kind of sad to know they’d have to share a meal because they couldn’t pay.
That’s when good old Thelma waddled up to take their order. Perhaps a tad bit heavy, but she had a lovely smile.
People always said that, “Nothing ever gets past Thelma,” so it was no surprise that she’d been listening all the while.
“Do you need a minute, folks…or would you like to order?” she asked them, as she stood there, with her pencil and her pad.
“We’ll just share some scrambled eggs and ham,” the young boy said. “And can we get a little glass of milk?” the girl would add.
“You sure can. I’ll be right back,” she said, and then departed. The frail, young girl reached out and took her husband’s waiting hand.
Both of them - still smiling - as I watched her hold it gently…caressing, very tenderly…his shiny wedding band.
By the way he gazed at her, why…anyone could tell that he’d have done most anything to prove how much he cared. Even as an eight-year old…I knew this struggling couple couldn’t have loved each other more had they been millionaires.
Then, at last, the call rang out from somewhere in the kitchen. The old, familiar voice said, “Thelma Lou, your order’s up.” She was chatting softly with some lady at the counter…both of them were chuckling, as she filled her coffee cup.
All the other people that were sitting in her section now had finished eating or
had paid their bill and gone…
Which meant, of course, the order that was “up” was headed for -- the only table left to serve that she was waiting on.
Right away she hurried off to fetch the single meal. She always did her best to make sure everything was hot.
But as I watched her lay the plates of food out on their table, I was just amazed at how much food that couple got!
Me and Dad and Mom together couldn’t have polished off all those scrambled eggs and ham. I couldn’t believe my eyes!
The glass of milk was twice the size of all their largest drinks, and every time I talk about that day…my mother cries.
Three or four years later - I believe when I was twelve - a friend of mine, a girl from school, got very, very sick.
The doctor said they’d have to find a special type of kidney to save her life, and nothing short of that would do the trick.
The paper ran a story telling what her chances were, and how the kidney had to be a very special kind.
My parents broke the news to me, as gently as they could, that what my friend was needing would be very hard to find.
Then, a few days later, they would print another story:
“KIDNEY FOUND! A MIRACLE!” - is how the headline read.
It told of how the “tricky operation” was successful…but as for who the donor was…the paper never said!
Three months later, that girl’s folks would have another baby - a little girl with golden hair, and eyes of azure blue.
And I recall my mother’s tears when she informed my father that they had named their newborn baby…“Thelma Lou!”
And, just a couple years ago…when Frank and Addie Campbell missed the curve at Turkey Creek…and Franklin lost his life,
Addie wound up destined for a nursing home…alone…something Frank had always vowed to somehow spare his wife.
Well into her nineties…with no relatives at all…no property - or savings - or insurance to her name,
Addie understood that there was no place left to go…but when the time to take her to the rest-home finally came,
To the town’s amazement…‘til old Addie passed away, to spend her days in heaven with her Franklin once again,
And with no compensation ever given, or expected…that chubby, red-haired waitress, from the diner…took her in.
Those are just a few things that I know that Thelma did to help…through troubled times…some folks she didn’t even know.
Mom, throughout her life, believed that Thelma was a saint. And now I know the reason why, whenever we would go
Down to that old restaurant, if Thelma was our waitress, instead of leaving just a dollar…Dad would leave her two!
Today it’s clear as heck to me the diner’s finest asset wasn’t floats or french-fries…it was actually…Thelma Lou.
Now…at sixty-five years old…I’m sitting here this morning, listening to the reverend…as I dab my tears away…
Really not surprised at all to see so many people gathered here inside this church to say goodbye today.
Thelma touched so many lives, and I agree with Mother - she had to be a saint to do the wondrous things she did. I know first hand about her giving ways because…for me…it started at the diner, back when I was just a kid.
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
‘Til all - from whom the call to fight
for truth and freedom come -
and all who risk for what is right,
are slain…or rendered dumb...
‘Til all - by whom the words of war
are loud and clearly said -
are bound by chains to speak no more,
or lie, with brethren, dead…
Though fettered tight to walls of stone,
entombed by cold and damp,
with comrades held, or, chained alone,
in dark and dreary camp,
We must endure - and cling to hope,
though “chance” is wearing thin,
and print what ires with whom we cope -
with ink and feathered pen.
Despite the blood the rapier spills
from soldiers, pure of thought -
the toll we take - with patriots’ quills -
defies the - “all for naught,”
And, standing strong, when faced with fear -
alone or side by side -
yeah - though we write with blood or tear - we must…until we’ve died!
PS: I've now got 4 new Audio-CDs to offer my poetry fans- @ 4 1/2 hours each = (62 diversely varied pieces). They’re listed on EBAY - under - “Mark Stellinga Poetry” -
or available by simply contacting me at -- mark@writerofbooks.com -- should those of you who enjoy listening to poems as well as reading them - and particularly those of you who travel - care to be so entertained. (We use safe and simple - PayPal)
Cheers,
Mark
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2020
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Mark Stellinga Poem
another 1970s piece --
An old, inebriated man came stumbling from the bar.
I watched as he collapsed beside the front door of his car.
He used the handle on the door to struggle to his feet,
Then turned and grossly spewed a pile of vomit on the street.
He opened up the door to climb inside and banged his head.
I knew that if he drove that car he’d likely wind up dead.
Should I help him? Should I try to save this loser’s life?
I saw the desperation in the kind eyes of my wife.
“Honey, we should help him,” were her very words that night.
And so I jumped out of our car, to do what we felt right.
I walked up to his door and firmly tapped upon the glass.
By now the car was running, and his foot was on the gas.
I opened up the door before he put the car in gear,
Shoved him to the other side, and climbed inside to steer.
“Tell me where you live, old man. You’re way too drunk to drive.
I’ll take you home. There is no way you’d make it there alive.”
He slobbered out, “I live at four-sixteen Sierra Trail.”
I told him, “You’d have killed yourself…or ended up in jail.”
“Maybe so,” the fool complained, “but I don’t give a crap.”
I fired back, “I’m driving, sir…so you just take a nap.
“My wife is going to follow us. We saw how drunk you are.
There’s just no way a fool like you should even own a car.”
“Mind your own damn business, punk. You’re no friend of mine.
Maybe I’m a little drunk…but I can drive just fine.”
“Go to sleep,” I told the fool. “I’ll wake you when we’re there.
Once we get you safely home, then…I don’t really care.
“You can sleep it off inside this car, or on the lawn,
But if you think you’re gonna drive this car yourself…you’re wrong.
“Actually, I don’t give a damn, but you can thank my wife.
She’s the one who made me see that you could lose your life
“If someone didn’t stop you…so we made the choice to try.
I guess tonight is not the night that you were meant to die!”
The guy passed out while I was driving him to where he lives.
I’d always heard a person earns rewards for what he gives.
We’d given him the help he’d need to make it home that night.
It wasn’t in our plans, but still, we knew that it was right.
Two weeks later, while I listened to the evening news,
Live reports were coming in from all the local crews.
“Carlton Nelson, 59, who…just released on bail…
Has been convicted many times, and often been in jail
“For driving while intoxicated, somehow did survive,
But no one else escaped the crash. Though he is still alive…
“Tonight he crossed this intersection while the light was red.
The driver of the bus…and twenty-seven kids…are dead.
“Mr. Nelson lives at four-sixteen Sierra Trail.
His friends at Kelley’s bar had raised the funds to pay his bail.
“Deputies are telling us they knew he was a threat,
But…once he’d done his time…they couldn’t hold the man, and yet…
“Many knew the time would come when Nelson’s little vice
Would take its toll. Now twenty-eight have died to pay that price.”
Let this be a lesson. Let this show you…one and all.
Thousands lose their lives each year because of…alcohol.
If you think it’s classy…or it somehow makes you “cool,”
Have a chat with Carlton Nelson…former “drinking fool.”
Carlton never drank again, but, oh…how Carlton wept.
And many more are crying still…and seldom have they slept!
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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Mark Stellinga Poem
Inspired by what I've never been able to forget -
We simultaneously recognized the man was very frail.
His weary eyes were tired, though clear. His skin was thin and pale.
Our interrupted business soon was made aware of “why”…
This weak and feeble gentleman had come to say goodbye.
I sensed a strong relationship that went back many years,
And felt their “understanding” as their eyes welled up with tears.
This man had stopped to celebrate a friendship long and true,
And bid his very last farewell to someone that he knew.
The soft and trembling words he spoke would make me understand -
This would be the last time this old man would shake his hand.
“So, how the heck ya’ been, my friend?” was all I’d heard him say
As I excused myself explaining, “I’ll be on my way.”
I knew they needed time alone…a chance to reminisce…
And headed out the door to grant the two a chance for this.
I tried to guess what sort of things the two of them might say
On what they knew would very likely be - his final day.
It struck me hard to see the way their friendship had to end,
But ne’er will I forget the way he truly loved his friend.
PS: I've now got 4 new Audio-CDs - @ 4 1/2 hours each = (62 diversely varied pieces). They’re listed on EBAY - under - “Mark Stellinga Poetry” - or available by simply contacting me at -- mark@writerofbooks.com -- should those of you who enjoy listening to poems as well as reading them - and particularly those of you that travel - care to be so entertained. (We use safe and simple - PayPal)
Cheers,
Mark
Copyright © Mark Stellinga | Year Posted 2021
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