Eleven fresh inches fell last night
First real snow of the year
Sunday morning, no plans
Perfect for hills, toboggans and cocoa

Suiting up, he says to me
'These boots are too small, even with thin socks'
He's only eleven
His feet are nearly as big as mine
'Here, take my spares (size eleven)
Wear thick socks, two pair'
I only wear them now when it's really cold anyway

We'd been down the hill three times
I on the toboggan, he on his saucer
On the way back up, it hit me like a bolt
He had reached the top before me
twice. He was doing it again, in my boots!

I first took him down this hill
ten years ago. Before he could walk
I carried him back to the top
all day, in those boots

Jesus. Next year he'll be twelve.
I knew everything when I was twelve
Taller than my old man when I was thirteen
He knows so much already
Will he know it all next year?

Will he know the world is full of hunger and injustice?
Will he understand despair and apathy?
Will he experience heartache and rage?
Will he learn that there are people full of hatred?
People who would happily take his life
and rejoice that they had done a holy thing?

Now he's racing down the hill
Snow crystals on his eyelashes
wearing a cocoa mustache
screaming with delight

If I don't reach the top first
I'll never hear the end of it
Eleven... Jesus!

Jack,

Truly powerful.

Perfect timing for your return, and this from the man who claims that he is no poet?

Raises glass in toast. "To our fathers!"

Just so happens that mine is here with me tonight. Our first Christmas together since I was, what? 25? It was great. One of the reasons why I moved up here was to reconnect with Herbert Fader, and that we have.

I hope that your Christmas was as pleasant as mine has been.

Cheerio,

Oh yes, I nearly forgot.

I would very much like your comments upon my poem Respite, Jack.

Once the polish is complete, I have been seriously consisdering dedicating it to you and Terry, but first I want to know if I have done you gents justice.

Sincerely,

Bruce-

Glad you enjoyed it. Now it's time for you and Dad to get to work on your sister.


Jack

There are some Christmas presents we're given
Which live forever in our memories

They cost no money, leave no shadows
Run without batteries

Chief amongst them, a poem
Dad wrote.

Stephen

Jack, Mi Amigo,
I thought all you did was enjoy!!
Wonderful thoughts. All who have raised a son understand exactly what you are saying. I talked to mine yesterday. He understands exactly what you are saying...His is twelve.
I have spent a generation collecting stuff. Property, memorys, money, used up passports, etc. I have done that for forty years. Forty years from now all that will remain of me is an old mans memory of his dad, and his childrens dim memorys of their grandfather.
Climbing that hill for eleven years running will be etched in that memory.
You said this well. And welcome back. I've needed your help on occation.

Terry

This is good Jack, maybe you can start thinking of yourself as a poet now.
The gifts from the heart are those best remembered.
JP

We got closer to 18 inches over the 25-26!
I like this. No, I love this, no.... I dunno! Something more than love this!
It is great!
Sarah

Sargirl - maybe hear this, see this, feel this ... after all, it IS a poem.

Stephen

feel this!
yes!
I do!

Terry- Thanks a lot. Let me know when these sensitive types are gangin' up on ya.

JP- No. I avoid the 'P' word like the plague. But I am so pleased you enjoyed it. I hope you get as much out of it as I got from your Christmas ditty. Keep it up.

Sarah- Say it aint so! I thought all of the kids here just skipped over stuff by us old farts (sorry fellow farts). I am genuinely happy you read it, and even happier you liked it! Thank you.

You are very welcome!
If I am here and your poem is in the "new" circulation right then, chances are I have read it, even if I don't comment for one reason or another. Us babys tend to have nothing better to do with our time!
Sarah

Phew, this is some powerful stuff here Jack. Really hit me like a sucker punch actually. I'd say more, but I'm going to have to call my dad instead - you've just reminded me how long its been since I've talked to him.


David

Now I know why you guys post so much. Positive feedback is GREAT!

Jack,

It took me a bit to figure out what you meant there, but Jill is my sister by a different father, so...

Anyway, I do believe that if it is meant to be, Jill and I will work things out. In fact, I just found my note book with some of her old email addresses in it, and was thinking about giving them a go.

With your permision, I would like to copy this one.

Bruce-

Feel free to take it (but if you tweak it, don't use my name).
As an aside, I work on the phone all day, and I always dread it when someone named Jill answers the phone. Then I am forced to reply, 'Hello Jill... this is Jack'. At which point we both snicker, then get down to business.



Oh, and about 'Top Hand', JP says that's your real (never-been-broken) nose.
Really? No hockey skirmishes or anything?


j/k


Jack

Jack,

'tis a sad but true fact that I cannot skate (well I can, but only on my ankles) so my ice hockey days ended when I was eight, and I took up floor hockey instead. Mainly mashed fingers and hacked shins, but no broken noses.

I did have a narrow miss in a stick fight that resulted in a small beside my right nostril, and tapering towards my lip. If that sword stroke had hit my nose, I am certain that it would have indeed broken. Other than the 32 miscellaneous scars upon my hands from swords, knives, and general mayhem, I have come out pretty much unscathed. (The ear drum damage from the Mini 14 going off 6" from the side of my head doesn't show, and the hot brass hitting my neck didn't leave a scar, so... yeah, it is all good).

As to the poem. I never tweak copies of someone else’s work; I take it verbatim as they intended. Now if they have accepted changes, that is different, but 'tis your poem, and will remain so. Thank you for the gift of it.

Hey! I really LIKE this one!

bump

So-how did I miss this back in December. Whoa!! I really like this too--very powerful and thanks for bumping it up...Ell

Jack, the truth in this poem brought tears to my eyes. I know you have had to have heard this a thousand times, but I am new to this site, and your work is new to me, and I want to tell you that you are an awesome poet. Are you published? If not, why not?

seac

Jack, What more is left to be said than this...what an inspired piece of poetry. The scope of your work is amazing, and no, I'm not being too kind. jhs

hey jack,


I can really relate to this one. Just last week I told my wife that when our son turns 8 (this August) thats when I'm going to feel old. Time is moving way too fast. I also realized this week that my wife is funnier than me. Boy!!! Did that hit me hard. Keep up the good work.


bt

ps : I like the way this flows, better than the rhymey stuff.

The rhymey stuff is ok with me, Jack. But this poem is so true. I love it.

Les

Thank you, Les, for giving a link to this one, or I might never have found it.
Jack: I almost feel like I've seen snow now! Wonderful poem and I know a poem I bet you'd like. Sometimes it's easy to get discouraged and fearful about what we see for our children's future. And, as you say in this poem, childhood is so fleeting! I always feel somewhat better after reading this poem. Even though it's titled, "Business" it certainly implies more...

bobo


BUSINESS

Sam Walter Foss

"HOW is business?" asks the young man of the Spirit of the Years;
"Tell me of the modern output from the factories of fate,
And what jobs are waiting for me, waiting for me and my peers.
What's the outlook? What's the prospect? Are the wages small or great?"
"Business growing, more men needed," says the Spirit of the Years,
"Jobs are waiting for right workmen,--and I hope you are the men,--
Grand hard work and ample wages, work piled up in great arrears--
'Don't see any job particular?' Listen, and I'll tell you then.

"There are commonwealths to govern, there are senates to be swayed,
There are new states still undreamed of to be founded,
New empires in far oceans to be moulded--who's afraid?--
And a couple polar oceans to be sounded.
Come on, ye jolly empire-builders, here is work for you to do,
And we don't propose to get along without it.
Here's the little job of building this old planet over new,
And it's time to do the business. Get about it.

"Get to work, ye world-repairers. Steel the age and guide the years,
Shame the antique men with bigness of your own;
Grow ye larger men than Plutarch's and the old long-whiskered seers;
Show the world a million kings without a throne.
'What's your business?' Empire-building, founding hierarchies for the soul,
Principalities and powers for the mind,
Bringing ever-narrowing chaos under cosmical control,
Building highways through its marsh-lands for mankind.

"Sow the lonely plains with cities; thread the flowerless land with streams;
Go to thinking thoughts unthought-of, following where your genius leads,
Seeing visions, hearing voices, following stars, and dreaming dreams,
And then bid your dreams and visions bloom and flower into deeds.
'What's your business?' Shaping eras, making epochs, building States,
Wakening slumbering rebellions in the soul,
Leading men and founding systems, grappling with the elder fates
Till the younger fates shall greaten and assume the old control.

"'Business rushing?' Fairly lively. There's a world to clean and sweep,
Cluttered up with wars and armies; 'tis your work to brush 'em out;
Bid the fierce clinch-fisted nations clasp their hands across the deep;
Wipe the tired world of armies; 'tis a fair day's work no doubt.
'Business rushing?' Something doing. You've a contract on your hands
To wipe out the world's distinctions,--country, color, caste, and birth,--
And to make one human family of a thousand alien lands,
Nourishing a billion brothers with no foreigner on earth.

"Have you learned yet," says the Zeitgeist, "the old secret of the soul?
Make the sleepy sphinx give answer, for her riddle's long unguessed.
Tell the riddle; clear the mystery; bid the midnight dark uproll;
Let the thought with which the ages long have travailed be expressd.
Go and find the Northwest Passage through the far seas of the mind,--
There, where man and God are mingled in the darkness, go and learn.
Sail forth on that bournless ocean, shrouded, chartless, undefined:
Pluck its mystery from that darkness; pluck its mystery and return.

"'What's your business?' Finding out things that no other man could find,--
Things concealed by jealous Nature under locks, behind the bars;
Building paved and guttered highways for the onward march of mind
Through the spaces 'twixt the planets to the secrets of the stars.
'What's your business?' Think like Plato,--he did not exhaust all thought;
Preach like Savonarola; rule like Alfred; do not shirk;
Paint like Raphael and Titian; build like Angelo--why not?
Sing like Shakespeare. 'How is business?' Rather lively. Get to work!"
Business

"HOW is business?" asks the young man of the Spirit of the Years;
"Tell me of the modern output from the factories of fate,
And what jobs are waiting for me, waiting for me and my peers.
What's the outlook? What's the prospect? Are the wages small or great?"
"Business growing, more men needed," says the Spirit of the Years,
"Jobs are waiting for right workmen,--and I hope you are the men,--
Grand hard work and ample wages, work piled up in great arrears--
'Don't see any job particular?' Listen, and I'll tell you then.

"There are commonwealths to govern, there are senates to be swayed,
There are new states still undreamed of to be founded,
New empires in far oceans to be moulded--who's afraid?--
And a couple polar oceans to be sounded.
Come on, ye jolly empire-builders, here is work for you to do,
And we don't propose to get along without it.
Here's the little job of building this old planet over new,
And it's time to do the business. Get about it.

"Get to work, ye world-repairers. Steel the age and guide the years,
Shame the antique men with bigness of your own;
Grow ye larger men than Plutarch's and the old long-whiskered seers;
Show the world a million kings without a throne.
'What's your business?' Empire-building, founding hierarchies for the soul,
Principalities and powers for the mind,
Bringing ever-narrowing chaos under cosmical control,
Building highways through its marsh-lands for mankind.

"Sow the lonely plains with cities; thread the flowerless land with streams;
Go to thinking thoughts unthought-of, following where your genius leads,
Seeing visions, hearing voices, following stars, and dreaming dreams,
And then bid your dreams and visions bloom and flower into deeds.
'What's your business?' Shaping eras, making epochs, building States,
Wakening slumbering rebellions in the soul,
Leading men and founding systems, grappling with the elder fates
Till the younger fates shall greaten and assume the old control.

"'Business rushing?' Fairly lively. There's a world to clean and sweep,
Cluttered up with wars and armies; 'tis your work to brush 'em out;
Bid the fierce clinch-fisted nations clasp their hands across the deep;
Wipe the tired world of armies; 'tis a fair day's work no doubt.
'Business rushing?' Something doing. You've a contract on your hands
To wipe out the world's distinctions,--country, color, caste, and birth,--
And to make one human family of a thousand alien lands,
Nourishing a billion brothers with no foreigner on earth.

"Have you learned yet," says the Zeitgeist, "the old secret of the soul?
Make the sleepy sphinx give answer, for her riddle's long unguessed.
Tell the riddle; clear the mystery; bid the midnight dark uproll;
Let the thought with which the ages long have travailed be expressd.
Go and find the Northwest Passage through the far seas of the mind,--
There, where man and God are mingled in the darkness, go and learn.
Sail forth on that bournless ocean, shrouded, chartless, undefined:
Pluck its mystery from that darkness; pluck its mystery and return.

"'What's your business?' Finding out things that no other man could find,--
Things concealed by jealous Nature under locks, behind the bars;
Building paved and guttered highways for the onward march of mind
Through the spaces 'twixt the planets to the secrets of the stars.
'What's your business?' Think like Plato,--he did not exhaust all thought;
Preach like Savonarola; rule like Alfred; do not shirk;
Paint like Raphael and Titian; build like Angelo--why not?
Sing like Shakespeare. 'How is business?' Rather lively. Get to work!"

Sam Walter Foss

bobo-


Thanks for the bump and the attatchment.
Is it just me, or did Foss repeat this intentionally?
It seems too long to just repeat word-for-word. The repetition is easier to pick up on in shorter stanzas. The whole thing of building, pushing, expanding, PROGRESS, rubs me the wrong way. I know there's no avoiding it, but I would rather find a quiet place and watch it march by from a distance.

Good to see you back.


Jack

Jack,
My oldest son just turned 11. 11 years in the blink of an eye.

During this past football season he had one game that stands out.
12 tackles, 2 sacks and a fumble recovery on defense and centering every snap and an extra point on offense. Hearing my name( he's a JR) echo thru
the stadium......and watching this little man tearing things up on the field. It seems like only yesterday it was me. LOL
In practice wearing my HS jersey, using my cologne to go to a dance
and fighting for time on the phone or computer. 11 years, In the blink of an eye.

Growing up a policemans son...burying an uncle murdered in the line of duty. When I wore my Dress Uniform, from the time he's 2 ,he'd say
" Daddy, did the bad man kill one of your cop friends again?"
He knows all to well the horrors of the world. You wish you can just
lock them away and protect them from the world.
Needless to say I love this poem. I am happy it was bumped up.

Anthony

Foss was a bit of a folksy writer. He's not too well known for this poem, I think, but I understand what you mean about progress. I guess you have to take into consideration that Foss was writing this around the early part of the 20th century. You know, Teddy Roosevelt kind of thing? I like to see it more as an optimism for the future of our children. It seems like everywhere you turn the opinion of choice is that there is little hope for the earth our kids will inherit. I like to think this is wrong and that if we build better children (strong enough to face adversity instead of destroying adversity, that the future will hold hope for them. This doesn't mean they shouldn't know, understand and appreciate what has come before them ("History repeats itself--that's what's wrong with history"--Clarence Darrow).

Maybe you'd like this one better:


House by the Side of the Road

Samual Walter Foss
public domain 1899


THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Anyway, Foss is a poet I read when I'm feeling depressed...

bobo

Happy father's day Jack!

Les

Same to you, Les.

And all the others out there.



Jack

Thanks for bumping this, Les. It's perfect for Father's Day. Jack, I really like the unrhymed natural style you used here.
Three cheers to all the dads out there, you have man's greatest, most important (and underappreciated) job. Hip hip hurray.....

desire

Jack probably likes the B and O boys best. But in my humble opinion, this one is his contribution to posterity.

Les

Snow is on the way!

Bump for a newbie friend.



Jack

Jack, I'm sure glad you learned how to cut and paste! Merry Christmas.

Les

Jack, being a newbie I claim to this bump. Not sure which newbie you intended, but I loved it. You brought a very wide smile (okay...a chuckle) to me as I have raised two boys (and two girls) who long ago raced me up the hill. There is nothing more precious than our children and watching them grow.

thank you for bringing your poem of last year back to share with us "newbies"

Herema

Sorry, bump for a friend.

Jack

Jack,

It's good to read this one again. A wonderful poem.

john

A good poem, Jack! I'm glad Les bumped it, I missed seeing it before. You have expressed a father's feelings for his growing son (mixed love, concern and surprise) very movingly and effectively.

I have two minor suggestions if you are still interested in polishing it.

In the second stanza I suggest you describe the spare boots as 'size twelve', to avoid repeating the word 'eleven' so soon, especially when it is referring to two different measures (age and boot size). Doesn't matter at all whether you do in fact wear size 11 or 12, if this poem is autobiographical. I'm just focusing on the poem's word needs. Having 'eleven' in the third line and 'twelve' two lines later would also subtly reflect the theme of the boy's rapid growth.

Secondly, can you find some more congenial expletive(s) than 'Jesus', used twice in the poem? Not for religious reasons; but because to me the tone of 'Jesus' doesn't seem right for a father who feels real affection for his son. This might of course be due to national differences. I believe you are writing in the USA. In Australia, where I am, 'Jesus' tends to be used to express surprise with an overtone of anger or exasperation, as when you unexpectedly have to cope with a stuff-up caused by someone else's incompetence. I'm sure that's not the tone you want to convey here. Are there other expressions used in the USA that would express what you mean, and travel better internationally?



Post Edited (01-25-04 01:56)

Enjoyed re-reading this. We wish we were able to protect our children, but the best we can do is love them.

JP

Many thanks to Herema, John, and JP.

Thanks also to Ian for his thoughtful response.
I appreciate the interest and advice. In my extended stay in Australia I learned that we don't all do things the same. In a discussion about hitchhiking I learned that if a person stands at the side of the road sticking his thumb up at passing cars someone will likely stop and thump him. It means something COMPLETELY different there.
As with my thumb, it was not my intention to tick anybody off. The 'J' word when used after accidentally smashing a finger with a hammer is different than when it is muttered to one's self in disbelief. I was going for the more casual latter variation.
As to the repetition of eleven, The snow depth, the age, and the shoe size were a happy coincidence. I thought it worked.
The Christmas I spent in Katoomba it was 41 degrees (celcius) and the countryside was ablaze.

Thank you for your well considered input. I have enjoyed your submissions, but lack the technical skill to offer a critique (ask JP).


Thanks to all.


Jack

Very powerful poem....i liked it alot.

Jack -- a fine sentiment, nicely expressed.

This made me smile:

Now he's racing down the hill
Snow crystals on his eyelashes
wearing a cocoa mustache
screaming with delight

Good job!

ncw

Bump for a friend

Wow. Very impressive.

-SS-

-SS-

How did I miss this one? I guess I'm guilty of avoiding your poetry. I would explain why I do that, but it's really confusing. I just suppose that so many other people comment on your stuff that my opinion would be neither needed, or truly wanted. Plus, having read some of your stuff I know there's no way to improve upon it. I guess it's just about what I said to John. It all has to do with respect!

Lovely sentiment by the way!

"Loving people is like farting in the wind; You don't actually accomplish anything, but you feel better."

~The Great and Powerful Angelia~

Angelia-

I just wrote a lengthy, self-deprecating response to your comment. When I hit 'POST' it went away, but it's not here. So let me just offer my thanks for your comments. I appreciate and respect your opinions.



Jack

That's simply explained! Even your computer knows when you are being too humble!

"Loving people is like farting in the wind; You don't actually accomplish anything, but you feel better."

~The Great and Powerful Angelia~

Lovely sentiment, being a kid at heart there is nothing I enjoy more than sledging and messing around in the snow with my son, alas we only get a weeks worth if we're lucky. These things are what true memories are made of.

Put me in mind of this poem, last stanza particularly poignant:

Follower

My father worked with a horse plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hobnailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow around the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

Doubt everything. Find your own light.

Jack, time for a follow-up. How about something like "Thirteen", or "Fourteen"?


Les

Wonderful and touching, Jack...I'm so glad this was bumped!

It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. (Aristotle)

Just for Les-


Okay, he's thirteen now.
Yes, we did get thirteen inches of snow today.
Yes, he does know it all now.
I guess it's not really about snow anyway.


Happy sledding.



Jack

I recall my father and I racing across the open field to see which of us would get to the barn first. Dad, who I never really thought of as fast, always seemed to beat me to the barn. One day, I guess I was about 15 I got to the barn first. I remember looking around to see where dad could be. I sat down on the wooden boxes we used as chairs and really didn't know how to act.

Les

Les-


Whenever I have raced Conor I always pace myself so he puts in a good show. Ideally, I try for a tie. Soon he won't leave me that option. I only refer to my father obliquely in this because we were not "close". He would get close enough to belt me from time to time until I was thirteen. That's when I passed him in height and pointed out that I could probably kick his ass with gusto. He never hit me again. He moved out shortly thereafter. That's when I started refering to him as 'R.L.' because that's the way his mail came to the house. I hear he died a few years ago. Don't know where or when exactly. Don't know where he's buried. Don't care.

Upbeat, huh?


Jack

The poem was wonderful. Nice job indeed. We are going to the park today,but no we have no toys. Thanks for the read.

"To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself." Anne Rice

Dear Jack---

and now he's 13!! Beautiful poem.

I love this part best:

"Now he's racing down the hill,
snow crystals on his eyelashes
wearing a cocoa mustache
screaming with delight"


(you might wish to replace "wearing" with "and"----as you have it the "eyelashes" are wearing the "cocoa")


Lisa

"eyelashes" are wearing the "cocoa"

now THAT I like !

WOOOOOooooHOOOOOOooo!!!

Experiences do get deeper! I enjoyed this again and the follow up!

[img.photobucket.com] />

THis is the WOOOOOOOoooooHOOOOOOoooo!!!



Jack

Great photo, Jack! A poem in itself. In the wintry half-light that bright snow saucer looks like an inextiguishable solar orb - symbolizing the bond between father and (?now 14 year old) son.

Ian

Damn, Jack the kid's almost as big as you, and so is the disc!


Les

Jack,

Great poem and picture. The love for your son comes through loud and clear in both. I had to chuckle because I have a jacket just like your son's. Actually bought it for one of my sons a couple years ago and he didn't like it for some reason. Besides the fact it's a guy's jacket, the zipper has been broken since last winter (a very cold one). People always tell me I should zip my coat. I tell 'em I'm warm blooded while thinking (I would if I could). Think it's high time for a new one.

Anyway, you sound like a wonderful father and to ditto what everybody else has said, he'll cherish all his memories with you. The poem will be priceless to him, his children, and so on. Be sure to keep it preserved.

Happy Holidays.

Marty

p.s. I'm sure I read this last year and would have sworn on a stack of something or other that I commented.

Wonderful pic.

Well, he'll be 19 soon. He graduated last spring, Valedictorian (apparently DOES know it all). He's off to college now. We don't go sledding much nowadays.


Bump for a friend.

Jack

Good tale. Sledding's such a great thing, especially with your kid, even if he's grown.

Thanks for bumping,

Peter

I still like this one, Jack, good bump.

Les