Late Steppy Smith

He liked his hot rod vehicle.

He liked his twin-pipe mufflers.

He liked his foot pressed down

Upon the accelerator pedal.

He raced his hot rod vehicle

With the bright twin-pipe mufflers,

With his foot pressed hard down

Upon the accelerator pedal.

He crashed his hot rod vehicle

Down a hill covered with burrs,

Leaving a path of junk around

Before the car began to settle.

He died in his hot rod vehicle

On a hill covered with burrs

Among the junk spread all around

Underneath where the car did settle.

They buried him in a great big hole,

Filled to the brim with dirt

With flowers spread on top

And a marker placed at the head.

He left his hot rod vehicle.

He left behind a tattered shirt.

He left his twin-pipe mufflers.

The young Steppy Smith was dead

Billy

Bill was the fastest hot rodder I ever knew.

He never dreamed a car was designed to go slow.

Cars were made for speed and speed was made for Bill.

If it hadn’t been for speed, we’d have Billy still.

He’d be walking down the street, instead of lying on the hill.

But instead there walks his ghost asking, “Who killed Bill?”

Bill had the finest hot rod I have ever saw.

Count up the cars, his was the fastest of all.

Yes, it was made for speed and speed was made for Bill.

If it hadn’t been for speed he’d be with us still.

He’d be walking down the street, instead of lying on the hill.

But instead there walks his ghost asking, “Who killed Bill?”

Bill was the fellow who has done poor Billy in.

He never dreamed a car driven fast could kill him.

A car was made for speed and speed was made for Bill.

But cars are made for transport and speed can kill.

He’d be walking down the street, instead of lying on the hill.

But instead there walks his ghost asking, “Who killed Bill?”

Leader's Sonnet

Took a car antenna cut down to height,

A stock of wood to hold the band to pipe.

I made a gun to zap the foe we fight.

I keep my gang the real together type.

And with six inch switch blade to run you through,

I crow aloud the cry that makes me king.

I took you in and made a gang of you

To rule my kingdom with hard fists that sting.

I make the rules to guide our fists in fight.

I will become a big made man some day

And own the city’s cafe rooms of night.

I’ll own the streets, and do it my own way.

I won’t show fear of law nor cops who come.

I won’t admit I’m stuck inside my slum.

Gatherings

Storm clouds thicken,

Darkening fastly.

Nothing to do

Till they have passed me.

Hear that wind sighing?

Dinosaur shapes cluttering the skies,

Great black bruisers with lightening eyes.

Note the earth quake. Now the

Pieces fit. There are legends that

Hint about it. Hear the rain crying?

Moon light casting

A wispy shadow, a lot

Like my soul down here

Below. There is no sound.

My heart has turned deaf.

Yea, though I walk the valley

Of death!  Hear that? I’m dying.

Forsake all hope you who follow on.

This is a storm from which God is gone.

Pestimist

Down, down root.

The darkness and mist of death forms about thy head.

The pity and mercy from thy heart has been bled.

You were wrong to trust your feelings to that of man.

They have stolen your soul from the burial van.

Down, down soul.

You see there is no light for one already damned.

The light you wait for has been left burning unmanned.

Forever the salt will scratch at your small pleasures.

Discover that death is the last earthly treasure.

Optimyth

Child, hide now.   Young and dumb.

Smog dims star shine.   Bitter skies to come.

Mighty oaks bend.   The days grow warm.

Does the darkness of

Hell frighten?

Who answers?

Cannot cope?

Smoke.

Grope.

Grim.

End.

Why must we have such a word as “hope”?

To J. S. Once of Langhorne and Wildwood

Gusty strokes of wind

Bring thoughts to mind,

Things that might have been.

            Whom do I mean?

            Her name was Jean.

Sunshine through the storm

Takes me from one dream

To find I dream of

Another sea scene.

Thinking you loved me.

Your Roman face and

Dimpled eyes I see

            On the beach we met.

            Your name was Jeannette.

No ghost or shadow

Will make this less true;

Yes, she was the first

Back when I was new.

            Whom do I mean?

            Her name was Jean.

Lost in Love

In eyes of brown, the tearful stare,

Rolling down blush-reddened hillsides.

Gathers the warmth of summer there?

In the black of the brown, a lair

Wherein the spark and flint abides.

In eyes of brown, the tearful stare.

A sigh escapes from lips to air

From lungs where pungent passion hides.

Gathers the warmth of summer there?

In gloom, wonders one if he dare

Answer the question he sees glides

In eyes of brown, the tearful stare.

What, if without caution and care,

He sips deeply and thus imbibes?

Gathers the warmth of summer there?

It’s a music too strong to bear.

To its beat, his very soul rides.

In eyes of brown, the tearful stare,

Gathers the warmth of summer there.

Lonely Months

The autumn days come crisp and cool,

With early dusk and clear night sky.

Hoarfrost on the turning leaves.

September. Summertime must die.

Soon it will be cold gray winter,

But for now strange fall plays its game.

I sit outside at its approach

And I wonder who was to blame.

Trees have grown bare and silence drops.

There’s more change now than in the springs.

A shift of mood, a change of hue.

I sit here and remember things.

Perceived sighs penetrate the air.

With a grieving at summer’s end,

I search through a shadow unseen

That changes every day, and then

Autumn spirits blow breaths of ice.

The sky puts on its grayer shawl.

The wind designs a face unknown,

It whistles names I can’t recall.

It is October when the full fall comes

And time just past is in the present spent.

The pumpkins blossom full of hollowness.

Tell me.  Where can the hollow heart be sent?

All the passing days are intensely short.

The startling stars form shining pointed shields

Reflecting memory of summertime.

I see odd forms dancing through glowing fields,

As Halloween howls and Halloween spooks

Fade away before the November snow.

All through this warning time I watch the sky

And feel the gusty northwest windward blow.

No sporting games can occupy my days.

Nothing comes to erase the ghost of…Who?

When that certain chilling captures the air,

I know those times last summer were too few.

Then Thanksgiving Day is a fortnight near,

I can feel the Christmas season calling,

And recall those things I meant to give her.

Wondering why all this summer stalling?

Yet still, the hope she will call.

She’ll restore joy. A touch of lust

Will defrost the air to warming;

This then will clean the chilling dust.

Each hour, I pause outside to wait

For that one dream worth dreaming of

In ebbing streams of consciousness

Broken on banks of broken love.

Now these lonely days roll along,

As all these lonely months go pass.

I hold in hand a hope I lost,

But I know the loss will not last.

I can sing a little at times,

Take a deep breath or laugh again.

Somehow I’m sure when I believe

That soon I’ll forget what has been.

The face is dim in New Year’s mist.

Those eyes are fading from my heart.

The cloudy hands have come to clasp,

And after the cold, spring will start.

Town

It was a Friday night

I came to the town.

It was a little town,

Only one traffic light.

There were few factories

In that small ancient town.

Just a little town.

Around the little town

Were tree-darkened hills.

Oh, not very high hills

Where the woodland looked down.

The late sky was darkly blue

High over the town and hills,

Above those not high hills,

Which the valley bound.

Ah, but I went through fast

The streets of that town.

I left the little town.

I saw it fleeting past.

It came upon me later

Of the peace I never found

When I left that town.

Night of the Donkey

Trod, trod, trod, my

Hooves have grown sore.

My back is bent.

My load heavy.

My bit is tight.

My meal is poor.

Whoa! Git up! Git! My

Ears grow cold at dark.;

My eyes old and dim.

And I have walked far,

Not knowing what for.

Many miles I mark.

“No,” they all say, “no room,

Not in the boarding home.”

On I tread on hard stone.

My back has grown too stiff.

My heartbeats are too fast.

My bray turns to a groan.

But at last, I stop.

Woken by soft cries,

So I cannot rest.

I stand and listen.

Some food comes my way.

It’s a pleasant prize.

Trod, trod, trod, trod.

I trod again.

Blessed donkey,

I brought her here.

Mother of God,

Blessed I’ve been.

Hail and Hail, My Friend

Hallelujah

Christ stands near.

Besides you, before you,

His arms raised in blessing.

Hallelujah

Born one year

So humble and so great.

Time’s time is lessening.

Hallelujah

Shepherds fear.

After a star, men came.

Their faith put to testing.

Hallelujah

Do you hear?

Model Him.  Follow Him

                                                                     And you’ll feel His resting






Illustration: Christ Blessing by Andrea Previtali, 1512-15

At the Last Passover

                  Why yes, now that you mention it, when

I came to Jerusalem that year

I stayed just over there with a friend,

But I ate all my meals over here

In this very inn. It is so near by.

I was eating and I heard a loud cry,

Then a clatter, shouts and yells, and fear

Coming from the street and through the sky.

I did not bother with my breakfast,

For I could tell it had reached the stair.

The streets are hilly and steps went past

The inn. They would have to pass by there.

I knew they were on steps by a thump,

A steadily rising bump-bump-bump,

As if something dragging hard to bear.

And a man moving, bent in a slump.

I went outside and stood with the mob

Also watching the procession.

Expecting to hear the bearer sob

From the thick wood’s weighty oppression,

I was surprised he could take a stride

(With his all beaten and bloody hide)

And yet by some inner obsession

He did. It’s very hard to describe.

On the man’s head was a crown of thorn,

Which made his hair and beard red with blood.

Yet in his eyes, so sad and forlorn,

Where you would expect hate, I saw love,

Though they abused him, and left him torn,

Though they mocked him and spat in scorn,

Though caked he was in sweat and with mud,

A man of sorrow. A man to mourn.

I followed after them up a mount

Called Golgotha. I think the name means

Place of the skull and you cannot count

The crucifixions held at that scene.

Now I know the fate of this poor soul,

To be nailed hand and foot to the pole,

Along with two bandits. What a team.

What was his transgression of the law?

They slipped the cross into its socket,

After hammering nails through his bones.

They pounded in a wedge to lock it

In place, then sat resting on the stones.

They hung a signboard above his head.

“This is the King of the Jews”, it read.

The air echoed with jeers, tears and moans.

“It is finished,” cried he and was dead.

“It’s this strange darkness -- he cried in fear,”

Said one. “Is he dead?” asked another.

A soldier pierced his side with a spear,

There was a sad gasp from his mother,

As blood and water washed o’re the man.

This was the Son of God, as I stand!

Rain poured. The earth began to shutter.

At that moment a change was at hand.

This was all that I had seen of it.

They took the body to a garden

And sealed it in a burial pit,

Guarded by a group of soldier men.

And I thought that would be the last time that

I heard of him. I returned and sat

And slept, and after three days again

Was startled by an overheard chat.

It seems these two women had gone down

To the tomb to anoint him alone.

The soldiers were scattered all around.

The stone was far removed, as if thrown.

And when they peered into the fission,

An Angel told them he had risen.

This is what I have known.

To believe it is your decision.








Illustration from Stories of the Passion (Maestà, verso) - by DUCCIO di Buoninsegna

Death

All roads lead to                                                                        the grave,

No bypass around it.

Why do you run so, gentlemen?

Isn’t it fast enough                                                              to it?

Dreams of     e            t            e            r            n            i            t            y,

Are they ever worthwhile?

While looking on,                         keep Death                         pressed back..

When it’s spoken,                         laugh,                         and then smile.

Death, the dark monster                                                             waits,

You cannot play coy with it.

Letusjustsaythatlifeisshort,

Speedisnottohavejoywithit.

Lloyd's Place

Lloyd was the name of a young man living in an old city.

His dream was a place to escape the drear for the pretty.

There is his quiet tiny valley

Surrounded by silent green hills.

There is his swiftly flowing stream

And flowers with wilting petals.

There his stone weathered gray.

His place at the end of dreams.

On Main Street

ON MAIN STREET

 

I picked her up on Main Street,

Because I had run over her feet.

Paul Anka

PAUL ANKA

 

 

All we teenagers wanna thanka

You, songwriter Paul Anka,

For writing songs that sound dumb

With stupid tunes that we can hum.

And you make the young girls all sigh

When you warble: “Yi yi yi”.

 

Sure all the adults blanch and gag

Every time you start to brag

You got a girl you really love,

Who comes from Heaven up above.

 

As for me, I think you would be great

Outside these United States.

Maybe Canada is a little sick,

If that’s where you learned music.

I don’t want to hear you holler

About a leg on your shoulder.

Pennsylvania

PENNSYLVANIA

 

I’d like to go back to the home I adore in Pennsylvania.

I’d like to go back and to roam no more from Pennsylvania.

 

I just would like to see once more

The rolling hills covered with snow

In mid-December when the winter winds

Begin to blow in Pennsylvania,

And bright little streams and creeks

Where ice forms over the waterfall.

I hear the water’s rush and the wind’s hush

Give out a winter call in Pennsylvania.

 

In Pennsylvania, where the fog rolls in,

Where the sales taxes grow.

Fall may see the leaves drop.

Winter sees the falling snow,

Then spring follows springing

And summer sneaks in knowin’

That the sales tax keeps growin’

In Pennsylvania.

            My home!

Walking, Talking Sack Dress

WALKING, TALKING SACK DRESS

To Peggy

 

I was walking one night a year ago,

Walking down a shady lane

            Through the snow.

When I heard something in the brush ahead.

The rustling it made almost scared me dead.

I went closer to it,

Trying to see.

When something jumped out

And headed for me.

 

It was the worse sight and you know the rest.

It was a walking, talking sack dress!

 

            Oh, is it a monster?

            Or is it a disease?

            It was a walking,

            Talking chemise!

Random Ideas Concerning Certain Pages in my Grammar

RANDOM IDEAS CONCERNING CERTAIN PAGES IN MY GRAMMAR

 

 

 

He dived as quick as a flash

            And made a big splash

            And went to the bottom.

 

We threw a warning glance

            For he did not advance

            To the top from the bottom.