Mrs. Easterday wasn’t my favorite teacher,

wasn’t even my teacher,

but all of us patrolboys had to pass

her inspection, in front of her class,

when we came off duty mornings from

protecting kids as they walked to school.

She made it a point to pick on me,

point out to her snickering class that

my hair needed cutting, a good cleaning, too.

Back in those days, I got a haircut

every seven or eight weeks, so by week five

or six I probably looked a pretty fair nightmare.

She made fun of my soles, too, because they’d

flap whenever I walked or ran, so I’d have

to cut them off, walk nearly barefoot.

One particular cold morning, I must have looked

awfully shaggy, so Mrs. Easterda made a big

production in front of her kids,

handing me thirty-five cents to get a haircut,

“And I want to see it cut by tomorrow,”

she admonished, gloating as I pocketed the coins.

I entered her room shivering the next day,

bald as a veritable cueball, horrifying her and

humoring her class of perfectly coiffed kids.

She left me alone after that.  I never spilled

the beans that my barber shaved me for only

a quarter, leaving the dime to be spent recklessly.

Note:  Mrs. Easterday was a sixth-grade teacher at H. D. Hyde Elementary School in D.C., a real terror.  But, oh boy, did I put one over on her, getting head shaved and keeping that precious dime for whatever I damn well pleased.  That I almost contracted pneumonia I try to forget but can’t.  This vignette hopefully shows two things:  how so many teachers “back then” were bullies (maybe in this case for the right reason), and also how a kid, me, could cut off his hair to spite his nose.  It was another life lesson in growing up.  This poem was read at the memorial service for Bob Riddle on March 17, 2001.  Bob and I had chatted in his hospital room shortly before his death about the crazy things we did as kids.  As I recall, his stories topped mine.

My kid brother rarely started our fights,

I admit; he just happened to be withing range

when I chose to land the first punch.

I should give the little bugger credit:

he persisted in hanging around unwanted,

kept his oft-bloodied nose up near my face

even when I made it painfully plain

that he should get lost, grow up, go get his

own friends, other little buggers like him.

One day, I’m almost too ashamed to admit,

he’d grown to such an extent, I guess while

I wasn’t looking, that he figured out

it was smarter to get in the first punch,

gave me a bloody nose without reason,

went off, get lost, and found himself

some friends, thereafter making it

quite painfully plain to me that even

little brothers can be human, at times.

Note:  This is a tip of the hat to my brother Jim who not only grew up but went past me with the speed of light into the world, became quite successful and a wonderful family man.  I’m almost too ashamed to admit:  he’s very human and quite a wonderful person.

A day is long sometimes.

When winter lasts too long.

When silence invades, occupies.

When birds fear to return.

A day is long when work wearies.

When morning comes too early.

When fatigue sets in midday.

When on the lone ride home.

A day is long as children grow.

When all homework is done.

When they leave for school.

When they find their mates.

A day is long as life lumbers on.

When sickness strikes, stays.

When drugs are prescribed.

When fate hangs in the balance.

A day is long when word comes.

When advised of better days.

When the future is foreseen.

When you know what’s in store.

A day is long when you are gone.

When you take your leave.

When you say good-bye.

When day is finally over.

Note:  This poem is written in remembrance of Jim Peterson, whose memorial service Irene and I attended just yesterday.  A very fine man, very brave man, fighting against prostate cancer for thirteen years.  Not ones to let the stubborn foe intercede, Jim and Margaret Peterson traveled far and wide during those years, determined to get the most out of life with what was left to them.  They had great success.  Together they represent the true meaning to me of Valentine’s Day.

my sister gave me her large record collection

after Jimmy, one of her younger boys, was killed.

Jimmy had been waiting for a red light to change,

a bunch of Harley beneath him, waiting to surge,

when the drunk in too much of a hurry hit him

doing almost ninety in his Olds 88.

The coroner said he’d never before seen a

person with every bone broken until Jimmy.

Jimmy with long hair and long pauses between thoughts,

killed by a well-known man in the community,

nary a blemish on his record and still not

to have one after this nuisance of a hippie

kid without a job and little hope had gotten

in his busy path on the way home late to his

precious wife and their three darling kids who needed

their daddy more than the world needed another

unkempt kid on a Harley – no job, no promise.

The records were warped and didn’t play worth a damn

but I took them off my sister’s hands, already

moving too anxiously, in need of things to do,

to get busy again with her life, having lost

a son to a system that no longer enjoys

old records that should be broken to pieces.

(Published in The Raintown Review, January 2000 issue)

Note:  Sadly, a too true story, Jimmy one of sister Patsy’s twin boys.  They visited us in Boulder shortly before Jimmy was killed by this “solid citizen,” showed up with a pal in their love wagon, a temperamental VW bus.  Neighbors were aghast.  I was delighted – nothing I like more than surprising the neighbors.  We had a ball with the kids, though didn’t partake in any pot smoking.  Funny thing, Irene and I missed the drug generation.  Not nearly as much as I miss my nephew Jimmy.  Terrible loss.

late in the first year

of the promising

new century that

she was born there in

arid Miami -

Oklahoma, not

humid Florida.

She grew fast, married

too quickly and then

had her first brood too

quickly too, at least

too quick to give them

enough attention

or try to save them

instead of the damned

farm, which blew away

to some far off state

that needed it worse.

Two she brought with her

when she headed east,

the other three were

left to grow up more

quickly than she had

and make their way in

the not very promising

world they were all of

a sudden facing.

It was in the post

office in D.C.

that she met Dad, who

had swum ashore to

safety when the big

Depression wave hit.

Nine months and two days

later I showed up

for what appeared to

be an even less

promising future,

although in that year,

1936,

Franklin Delano

Roosevelt again

was elected, “I’ve

Got You Under My

Skin” was a big hit,

and Jesse Owens

won four gold medals

at Hitler’s Berlin

Olympic Games.  So

it really wasn’t

an entirely bad

year, I mean, what with

me being born, and

FDR, “Under

My Skin,” and Jesse

Owens being there

to help me along.

(Published in 1997 in the now-defunct George & Mertie’s Place, under the pseudonym, Bartlett Boswell)

Note:  Total conjecture on my part about being born nine months and two days after they met, my father more than magnetically attracted to my attractive mother.  That they were married hastily on a Sunday afternoon by a rabbi is another anomaly in my life – not Jewish, just in such a big hurry perhaps not to have their first-born a bastard (a name I’m still, however, often called).  What was childhood like after 1936?  Tough, but I wouldn’t trade mine with anybody, so full of adventure it was.  Helped to have a rich imagination, which often took the place of money.

The enemy had humiliated me

and I needed to retaliate.

My thought process wasn’t working too well

but I settled on a hand grenade.

I pulled the pin -

actually a broken shoelace -

and tossed the grenade -

one of my worn-out tennis shoes -

into the nest of unsuspecting Japs -

the enemy in 1945 -

masquerading as my new, third-grade

classmates who’d laughed at something

I said when introduced to them

the previous day.

No harm was done.

The teacher deposited the smelly sneaker

in her trash can

and marked me down as tardy.

Kids still see other kids as the enemy -

as I had done -

but sometimes react differently.

It’s not make-believe any longer.

They go after their schoolmates

with real guns,

live ammunition,

intending to inflict real damage.

Years back we relied on our imagination.

We’ve come a long way since 1945.

(Published in George & Mertie’s Place, Vol. 4, Issue 9, October 1998 – magazine now defunct)

Note:  This poem was written after several shootings occurred in the South, schoolkids killing other schoolkids, making we wonder what it was about the South that caused such carnage.  I’d done some contract work in South Carolina and knew how fond the populace in general was of guns – a gun culture, I thought.  Shortsightedly I also thought, surely something so awful couldn’t happen in Colorado.  The poem was published before the massacre at Columbine High School, not fifteen miles from where I live.

for you demand undivided attention.

It’s spring and things fly up

from new moist grass,

flitting erratically, causing you

to leap, bound, squirt in different

directions, ignoring the leash,

pulling like a sixty-pound sled dog

instead of the standard dozen-pounder.

A lady runner this morning

suddenly stopped to caress you,

laughing when I told her you were

half longhaired dachshund,

most likely half black alligator.

You’re four and a half and

should have outgrown your childish

ways by now, but no matter.

I’m going on seventy and

together we’re the childish, mis-

chievous, unpredictable gang of two.

(Published in the Vol. 22, No. One issue of Bellowing Ark, January/February 2006)

Note:  We never thought Marco (the Barko) would grow up.  He’s eight now, still pulls erratically at the leash, and obviously hasn’t grown up.  He’ll always be a child, for whatever reason.  We’ve tried everything, so please, no advice.  He’s our first boy dog….and he’s my boy.  It’s hard for us to separate.  I’m not sure which of us is the bigger child.

inside her panties

as we watched Bambi

on the too-close screen

from the second row.

My neck hurt after the movie

and my little sister

couldn’t stop crying.

It’s when I learned

there are predators in the world

who if chance offers

take advantage of little sisters.

Now that I’m old

they seem to be all over

making every loner

and balding senior suspect.

I might never see Bambi again

unless I rent the CD,

watch it from my couch.

(Published in the March 2006 issus of , Red Owl Magazine, now defunct)

Note:  Education comes in many forms, some of them unpleasant, but that’s life.  Maybe I was too skinny, too ugly to attract the weirdos when I was a kid.  Besides, I could outrun them anyway.  D.C.’s streets were full of the halt, lame, untidy and unsightly back in the Forties.  I recall asking my Dad once why a man we’d just passed was wearing a leather patch across the spot where his nose should have been.  He said simply, “Syphilis,” as if I knew what he meant.  Saw more than a few such patches in those days, some covering blinded eyes, others missing noses.

something like, “Would you care to do it?

Go upstairs and start a family?”

No, it couldn’t have been that way.

There was no upstairs to their two-

room apartment in pre-war D.C.

Probably more on the order of

“Hey, good looking.  Let’s make a baby!”

Naw, my father didn’t talk like that.

He was kind of shy, probably

came at Mom from an angle:  “After

dinner, I thought we might, you know…”

Nope, it didn’t happen like that either.

Probably after cooking dinner and

washing dishes, my mother confronted

him and stated, quite to the point:  “Say,

handsome, I’m in the mood.  How’s

about putting down that stupid book.”

(Published in the Fall 2001 issue of Concrete Wolf, Vol. 1, No. 3)

Note:  Starting off the New Year/2010 with a piece of humor, but maybe a factual report on my humble beginning.  1935, when I was conceived, wasn’t any better than 1936 when I arrived on a cold day in February.  As I’ve been told, I really didn’t want to come out, preferred remaining in warm, cramped quarters.  Now here it is, 2010, all of seventy-three years later and, voila, it’s sort of like 1936 again, though survivors of The Depression have said “This ain’t nothin’.”  Well, it’s surely something, but slowly, surely, and with a generous topping of hope, we’ll come out of this stronger than ever.  No, maybe not stronger, but hopefully wiser. If you’re into praying, pray that our leaders learn from past mistakes, one being, it’s easier to start a war than finish it. Been some damned dumb mistakes made in this last decade, mainly by people who should have known better.  End of sermon:  Happy Year 2010, to one and all.

Tobacco was the crop.

As I recall, hazily,

They also had

Farm animals,

All much larger

Than I’d imagined.

A horse kicked

My brother in the head.

He was never

Right again.

Or did the horse

Kick me instead?

I can’t be sure.

It’s the reason

I never liked vegetables.

They grow on farms.

It’s also the reason

I don’t ride horses.

They grow on farms, too.

Note:  Goes to show what I know about farms and its inhabitants.  Fortunately, over the years, some of my work colleagues and close friends grew up on farms and were kind enough to suffer my questions.  Their answers provided a liberal education such that I’m glad I didn’t grow up on a farm as they did – too damned much work involved.  When asked if they’d ever consider going back, say, after retirement, not a single taker.  That was then, this is now.  The poem, though broadly drawn, is essentially a true retelling.