A collection of previously published poetry like a radio station's broadcast day. |
The sins of all, And the granite warrior watching over the valley. Sign On “There are two sides to every coin and two sides to every man.” advertisement for “Have Gun, Will Travel: The Video Collection” So it is with all of us. Each one of us has a side of our personalities that we really don’t bring out all that often; one which is radically different from the one usually on public display. That’s what this collection of 40 poems, most of which I’ve had published in various anthologies, is all about. The other side of one person: a wacky sportswriter, former “wild man of the airwaves” disc jockey, and an overall clown. I’m known around Posey County, Indiana (where I currently live and work) mainly for writing five pages of copy each week about the games people play: mainly the games played by teenagers and younger. I’m also known for imitating Fred Flintstone, a few obnoxious sports figures and fracturing the old soft shoe. All my life I’ve been this sort of wild man; an overly emotional history geek who doesn’t always follow the crowd. At least that’s the side of my personality that gets out all the time. Then you have “the flip side”. The wacky sportswriter is also a struggling Christian trying to stumble his way toward Heaven. The wild man of the airwaves is also a history geek who tries to understand the lessons of the past and apply them to the present, while appreciating some of the trappings of days gone by and lamenting the passing of some of the more pleasant aspects of Americana. The class (or Church) clown is a sad, lonely bachelor still haunted by a youthful romance that died before it really had a chance to live. You probably won’t find much in the way of profound thought here, but you might come away saying something else like “that’s the way I feel at times.” You might get a few nerves touched, or have your memories of a special place or person rekindled. You might shed a tear or two thinking of a person very special to you who has either passed out of your life, or has passed away altogether. That’s how other people have felt in reading my work. My first college journalism teacher looked at some of my earlier work and said they showed a sensitive side of my personality that I conceal too well. I was a disc jockey for nine years. Deejays used to refer to the non-play side of a popular record as “the flip side,” the side that wasn’t a big hit. That didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t a good song, however. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was the flip side of a Gene Autry holiday single, for instance. This is that side of my personality. This is the flip side. Steve Joos All is well, except for two things: In memory of Ginnie Mulkey 1921-2000 In memory of Jim Kohlmeyer 1944-2007 A public service announcement from WJCE Albert Einstein, Woodrow Wilson, Vince Lombardi, Bobby Knight, Joyce Carol Oates, Stephen King, Patti Pratt. What do these people have in common? They were all teachers. When you become a teacher, you have the power to shape young minds and maybe help make the world a better place. WJCE encourages you to reach for the power. Teach. And to Mrs. Pratt, my personal favorite, thanks. The following is for you. WJCE-FM Radio Sign on Morning devotional The backwoods southern church……………………..9 The cross in winter…………………………………..10 For Nancy……………………………………………11 News, weather, sports and farm report To innocent children who have died too soon……….12 Melissa’s resting place……………………………….13 A portrait of winter…………………………………..14 An autumn afternoon…………………………………15 Baseball belongs………………………………………17 The proud green Deere……………………………….18 Morning drive the kids to school show The bog……………………………………………….19 The road pointing somewhere………………………...20 The old toy gas station………………………………..21 The little girl on the bike………………………………22 On this day in history Into the past…………………………………………...23 The granite warrior……………………………………24 Two Illinoisans………………………………………...25 A Gold Star home……………………………………..26 Questions for The Wall………………………………..27 The unknown soldier…………………………………..28 In the tomb of giants…………………………………...30 Night trains……………………………………………..32 Taking your calls from… Think of Galena………………………………………...33 Petersburg………………………………………………34 Havana………………………………………………….35 Sad old town……………………………………………36 Love lines Friday night at the piano bar……………………………37 The request……………………………………………..38 Little lovebirds………………………………………….39 To a pretty girl………………………………………….40 For Terry………………………………………………..41 To a beautiful blonde……………………………………42 Memories and questions………………………………...43 Did you like Patty Beck?………………………………..44 I still see her……………………………………………..45 Evening devotional and sign off Three lights……………………………………………...46 Through a dirty window…………………………………47 For Holly………………………………………………...48 The lonely janitor………………………………………...49 Morning devotional The backwoods southern church A white building on a dusty country road, A group of voices singing without shame or reservation. A Sunday morning, a breeze penetrates the quiet. It’s not elaborate, the building has a basement that’s almost natural. But the Lord is there, and Christian Love is there, so the church is suitable, the building is fine. A lilac blooms through a barbed-wire fence. The cross in winter It looked familiar from a distance; the bright, silver light, A beacon across the cold Illinois ground. What is this? A light? It is a light, a beacon, a Cross among the lights of Christmas, a light left by someone who’s forgotten his seasons. A Cross, a symbol of Easter, of the time when Christ was slain to save a sin-sick world. But now? When we celebrate the Lord’s birth? Now, when we celebrate Christmas? Why not? For while we celebrate Christmas as God’s gift of Love, Easter is the gift of hope, The Cross in winter outshone Lights of the season. For Nancy She is slow, she is halting, and in a physical way she is handicapped. She can’t do what you and I do: drive a car, ride a bike, run a mile, sew a stitch, have a job. But she holds no grudges, knows no hate, hugs those who are kind, loves those who are near and we call her… retarded. News, weather, sports and farm report (sponsored by your local John Deere dealer) To innocent children who have died too soon My heart breaks to know that your world ended too soon, That one of us grownups was sick enough to take you away. That we don’t care, that the world is a dangerous place And people don’t want to make you safer Or even let you live. Your fingerprints should only be made by a toy detective set, While playing cops and robbers, And make-believe bad men falling to Your white plastic pistols Should be the only gunplay at school. I cry because it’s not that way, I boil with rage at the selfishness Of we adults. We won’t let you be born and then We who want you born turn a deaf ear To your cries for help. It wasn’t that way when I was your age. Melissa’s resting place (In memory of Melissa Rickard 1974-1992) She eternally sleeps, forever 17, In the ground beneath Poseyville. Just a face in the crowd who vanished too soon, Just another girl at the game, Just someone else. Watching the boys on Friday night or the girls on Thursday Gone now, so sad So young, so unfair. A snowman arose by her stone, then a heart, Flowers, a cross, A soft drink, a cardboard cake. A rose, a warning, Buckle up, be safe Wherever she is does she know How much we still love her? A portrait of winter The mill stands quietly in the midst of a snow-covered field Softening just enough to show a day above freezing. It’s still here on this bleak and mournful day, with white-caked snow on the spokes of the wheel and a stream frozen, but starting to thaw. A coal-black sky forms the backdrop as a flock of birds escape the coming freeze. Naked trees shiver in the winds and close in around the solitary cobblestone mill. Once this was a busy place, its stream a staff of life for the pioneer farmers who lived nearby; its wheels grinding grain, cracking corn and providing food. Now it waits for spring and old men who were boys then turn the wheels for those who never knew it. The mill sits silent for winter, the sky darkens in early afternoon and bone-chilling water is the only sign of life. An autumn afternoon As I drive through the countryside, The fall colors give off a muted glow, A golden backdrop as the ground quietly retires for another year The sun seems sharper now, as the silhouettes of trees provide no cover for it. The shadows are deeper now as my car juts meteor-like down a winding road. Briefly I glance over the rolling hills, As I scurry about my various tasks draw me away from the wonder around my view. The sun settling in, dodging in and out of view. On rainy days, the leaves become matted and form a golden carpet which sticks to the soles of your shoes. When they dry, the leaves crunch and crackle. So many times the leaves dance in the wind before falling, or skip across the ground in a bright yellow whirlwind. It’s a glorious time, when God dresses the creation in its Sunday best before putting it to sleep for another year. A time to be reborn, or look at faded dreams. A time to be surrounded by beauty for one last comfortable time The cloudless skies are sharper and the weather is cooler, but brisk. The rainy days seem to have more sadness to them, more gloom, however. Baseball belongs Baseball belongs to another place, another time another season, another rhyme to radios and black and white, Dizzy, Peewee and the like. Of lazy days which just drift by And ballparks where the sun must shine, as the Babe hits them high, far and gone. To hot dogs, pop and beer peanuts only found here, Ballantine blasts for the Mick The Man, Gibby and Falstaff. Grainy pictures and memories for 40-year-old, 60-year-old little boys and Bleacher Bums watching Pete and Mr. Cub. The National pastime’s past its time and as we cry for what was sublime For baseball belongs to another time. 17 The proud green Deere She’s just a tractor, two tons of metal and a sound which pierced the air around many a country home. Oh, but she seems like more, she seems like a queen, a giant, a legend hulking across the land. Every bit the pride of the farm. Her ancestors opened the prairie. A yellow and green jewel, an emerald, the pride and joy of many a farm boy. The solid servant standing like armor in many a country shed. And when the farm boys went to war, she stayed to help plant and bring the grain that fed them on their vital chore. Mr. Deere, when you shined you mother’s needles, did you ever think that you’d make just a tractor that did all this? Morning drive the kids to school show The bog An hour’s drive and a million miles from the maddening crowd, it sits in stillness. A lush green woods where foliage grows and closes in on a dwindling country pond. The bulrushes rustle, while the milkweeds bob silently on this late summer day. The winds whisper at the ferns and leaves as a monster dragonfly shoots across the water. So near, yet so far from the city this place sits. In country heat where you can hear the corn grow. A peaceful bog, an hour’s drive and a million miles away. 19 |