Poetry
The Ballad of Jake Brakes
Nowadays you are likely to see signs on highways saying that 'use of exhaust breaks is not allowed.' The exhaust brakes used to be called 'Jake Brakes,' after the Jacobs Manufacturing Company. That company has spent several years getting towns to remove the 'No Jake Brakes' and 'Jake Brakes Prohibited' signs. My wife and I, noting the 'No Jake Brakes' signs, asked one another, "What did he do to be so unpopular?" My ballad explains why.
Jake's infamy spread, some wished him dead.
"We should banish that rotten bum.
Let's make it clear he's not welcome here.
Send him back to where he came from."
Then towns posted signs along the lines
Warning him to stay away.
You can see them yet if you ever get
Out on the two-lane highway.
The signs say in a very direct way
“Jake Brakes Prohibited.”
To the king of the fakes, “No Jake Brakes.”
In many towns they were distributed.
But you can bet Jake's out there yet,
Wandering the blacktop two-lane,
Avoiding the towns he left with frowns,
An outcast somewhat like Cain.
Jake might come back in a Cadillac
Or a rusted old sedan.
He may come your way like a lamb astray,
But he'll take you for what he can.
So should a stranger call and offer all
A deal too good to be true.
You can treat him nice but you better think twice
Or the sheep he shears could be you.
The confidence man who works his plan
Is regarded like a nest of snakes.
People scorn them all but the greatest gall
Was possessed by old Jake Brakes.
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October 2009
The blacktop trails and the iron rails
Bring good and bad to the towns.
And some are dismayed to find they've paid
To be swindled and left with frowns.
The confidence man who works his plan
Is regarded like a nest of snakes.
People scorn them all but the greatest gall
Was possessed by old Jake Brakes
Jake first worked as a mime who spent his time
Performing at children's parties.
But he learned too late that children hate
Those silent white-faced smarties.
So Jake washed from his face the only trace
Of his unpopular but honest trade.
He tried Bible sales and rode the rails,
But his hopes and morals did fade.
"To hell with the mime, it's a life of crime
That'll bring me that quick buck!
I'll find a way to make crime pay.
All it takes is nerve and some luck."
So Jake hatched some schemes to deliver dreams
Of easy fame and wealth.
Jake traded on trust and money lust,
Took the cash, then fled in stealth.
Jake sold stocks and faulty locks,
Stole oil from Jiffy Lubes.
He salted mines, purveyed bogus wines,
And laughed at the hapless rubes.
Oh, Jake plucked them clean as a goose's spleen.
He took advantage of greed and pride.
Jake worked his pranks on churches and banks.
Was never caught, though many tried.
Lost in a Dream
or Merely Wandering
I had this dream many years ago, but have remembered it
because it seems that my subconscious was playing a joke.
The assignment was to write a poem that incorporated a
famous line from a poem, which in this case is the first line.
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Not all those who wander are lost but one may be bewildered.
In a dream I wandered in a woods of endless shade.
I was amazed but not afraid.
My feet trod softly on the ground.
I heard no sound.
I came upon a tree on which hung a box marked MAP.
I raised the flap.
The sheet was filled with trees.
I spread the map across my knees.
In the center of the map in the center of the trees a square
Was fixed, and drawn therein an X, where
Below it a caption read,
“You are here.”
I felt better then, knowing where I was.
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April 2016
A Small Town in America
on Veteran's Day
I was inspired to write A Small Town in America after a friend and fellow Vietnam vet who was badly wounded in the war told me about his visit to a small town one Veterans day.
Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light
A lone figure
Climbing bleacher steps of a small town stadium?
He moves slowly, leg brace clanking, his crutch
Making soft thumps on the steps.
He finds a spot on the topmost bleacher
In the center and sits alone and waits.
The sun rises and people come.
Young, old, women and men,
Veterans and widows and their children
File in and the stadium fills.
He hears the proclamations, the expressed thanks,
Sees the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, old men,
and a few women, marching
Some crippled, but proud, still.
The Color Guard enters and the high school band plays
The Star Spangled Banner.
He stands with difficulty and pain,
Yet stands, hand over heart.
Everyone sits and more words are said.
A final song, America the Beautiful, fills the stadium.
The people file out, the lone man last.
Reminded that he and the others,
Though nameless,
Are not forgotten on this day.
And he thinks about days past
And days to come.
The lines of veterans
In rows of beds in VA hospitals,
The lines of crosses in cemeteries
Across this country
And wonders.
Will it ever end?
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July 2018
The Way to Reznicek's Farm
The Rolling Prairie Farmers' Alliance asked me to write an article about organic grain and I decided to make my article more fun to read.
The truck was a Toyota '79 that carried a half ton load.
The trailer was a chopped down pickup bed, converted to be towed.
"Almost two tons," Willie Joe said, "A cinch, if we have some luck."
He thumped with his fist the epoxied bed of his weathered pickup truck.
Canned foam called "Great Stuff" filled holes in the Toyota's doors.
A plywood piece was judged good enough for gaps in the front seat floors.
The passenger seat was a wooden chair screwed tight to the dubious frame.
Two cracked windows leaked some air and four tires did the same.
The blacktop we took was one rough ride, and Kansas 9 I'm told,
Is called by some "The Devil's Pride," but worse, is Reznicek's road.
Call it a road? Don't make me laugh! It’s rough as a dry stream bed.
Rusted wrecks line the path, and vultures wheel overhead.
But no matter what, we had to go and make the pickup strain.
Cause we wanted our baby chicks to grow and Reznicek had organic grain.
The pickup assaulted potholes and ruts. Was my chair screwed tight enough?
Joe said, “Once we get over this easy part the going might get tough.”
Joe spoke these words with nonchalance. He had made the trip before.
Our bodies would heal from this beating, but could the pickup take much more?
A long way to go for corn and beans, you say, over bad roads and weather.
But in eight weeks seven pounds they’ll weigh, those little fluffs of feather.
Two tons of grain will multiply, coming out in feathers and flesh,
On 200 chickens ready to fry, slaughtered and frozen fresh.
We came upon a flooded stretch we had to try and ford.
I just yelled, “Talley Ho!” and gripped the charred dashboard.
Joe yelled, “Right on! We’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Except ourselves,” I said to myself, as the water flowed over my shoes.
The Toyota plowed ahead just like a mountain goat.
At last I was able to swallow the lump that was in my throat.
The clouds finally parted, our race was almost done.
And there was Reznicek’s farm illuminated by the sun.
Reznicek sat there waiting, slowly shaking his head.
"My hopes for you were fading,” he said. “I thought that you were dead."
Yes, we got to Reznicek's all intact. He helped us with our load.
We brought ourselves back with two tons of grain, safe from Reznicek's road.
That's how it is until again we send ourselves over roads for hours.
Reznicek waiting on his end, and the chickens waiting on ours.
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March 2010