More Rhyme Than Reason

As I mentioned in my last post, some of my readers who have read a few of my poems (I usually call them rhymes), have asked that I post them here. It took me longer to decide on a title for this post than it did to write a few of my poems. I struggled with "Lehr: Modern Longfellow" or "Frost, Reborn" and a few more grandiose ones. My thinking was that I'll never get these published unless I do it myself, and as long as it's my site ---well, you get my drift. My Uncle John Lehr told me once, many years ago, "If you don't blow your own horn now and then, somebody's gonna think it's a funnel, and pour a buncha hooey down it." But, humility won out, and humility becomes me so.
I hope you enjoy these, and perhaps get a chuckle or a tear.

The first one is called, "And Then There Were Eight, Again". I wrote this in response to the Planet Pluto's being demoted to unplanetary status a while back.

And Then There Were Eight, Again

-Don Lehr

When our parents were young, there were eight.
But Clyde’s famous find made it nine.
Though named for the god of the Underworld,
Pluto has seemed quite benign.

But being a planet is tough,
It’s got to live up to it’s hype.
Though Pluto tried hard, the Club changed the rules,
And Pluto was sent down the pipe.

I don’t know how it made you feel,
But it gave me a case of the ickies.
Thank goodness we still have the other one though.
Pluto---- the dog----
Mickey’s.

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This next one is "...not stupid, merely foolish." I was getting a haircut, and suddenly the electric clippers were doing something in my ear, and then the other ear. So, "Geezers With Tweezers".

Geezers With Tweezers

-Don Lehr

As I squandered my youth,
Both unkempt and uncouth,
Growing older held no fear for me.
Just fill up my glass,
And get one for that lass
Over there. Life was all it should be.
Even after youth faded,
I never grew jaded,
Nor minded the passing of years.
But the one thing that’s wracked
Me with fear is the fact
That old men all have hair in their ears.

I know it seems trivial,
And I mean it convivial’,
Still, it does make me pause,
To ponder what purpose,
What reason, what service
This hair, this nausea cause
Fills? So wiry and coarse,
Much like fescue or gorse,
The thought nearly brings me to tears.
I know fully and well,
That a part of Man’s Hell,
Begins here, with hair in our ears!

Now dignity is tough
To maintain, as enough
Men will quite willingly testify.
We endure spreading torso’s,
With, “There’s just some more so’s
To love”, and a wink of our eye.
But the thought that just chills me,
(‘Twill be this that kills me)
Is this one, my greatest of fears,
“ Here lies an Old Geezer,
Found dead with his tweezer,
Apparently pulling hair from his ears.”

O-o-o-kay.

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"The Trail Past Santa Fe" is one of my favorites. That's probably because I dearly love the people that are involved; my Darlin' Darlene, Alene Hunt and the late Slim Hunt. Slim's real name was Don, but I called him Slim because he was slim. He was one of the finest people I've ever known, a good old Arkansas boy with a continual smile and a twinkle in his eye. I miss him.

The poem relates how we were going up to Santa Fe, but Alene wanted to show us so much other stuff that we never actually got there. By the way, Madrid is the town where most of the movie "Wild Hogs" was filmed. It's pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable, otherwise it throws off the rhythm of the poem.

The Trail Past Santa Fe

-Don Lehr

We headed out of Edgewood in the big white Cadillac,
Trail Boss Alene, up front with Dar. Slim Hunt ‘n’ me in back.
Our destination, Santa Fe, that storied Old West town.
The Boss an’ Slim said, “...just can’t wait to show you all around.”

We crossed the San Pedros mountains, stopped at Madrid on the way,
Where a bunch of burned out Hippies had decided that they’d stay.
With no apparent way to turn a dollar, they were sunk,
‘Til they got the inspiration to make “artwork” outa junk.

Old, worn out tires and beer cans are just trash to most us folks,
But those Hippies turned them into gold, with the help of self-rolled smokes.
The artsy-fartsies snap it up, but to my frame of mind,
It’s still plain junk inspired by, a few tokes over the line.

The Boss said, “Jump !” We said, “How high?” We jumped back in the car,
“Let’s head on up to Taos first. It’s really not that far.”
Through desert, right past Santa Fe, she wound that Cadillac.
“There’s lots of time, we’ve got all day. We’ll stop on our way back.”

“Chimayo’s next. To not stop there would be an awful sin.”
But sinful that I am, I caused some tension to set in.
Now I know well, Religion is a topic we should skirt,
But I made a “Baptist” comment ‘bout the Church of Holy Dirt.

Slim looked at me agrinnin’ wide, just like that Cheshire cat.
But I lucked out, I’d only caused a minor-major spat.
How Catholics can live in peace with Baptists is now clear.
Just sit the “Sprinklers” up in front, us “Dunkers” in the rear

The lunch in Taos was real fine, the Margaritas too,
We hit the shops a runnin’, there was so much left to do.
Back on the road, “Jeez, check your watch, our time is slippin’ away,
We’d like to catch the Indians sellin’ silver in Santa Fe.”

So off we motored, racin’ time. “There’s too danged much to do
In just one day.” I settled back and marveled at the view.
The Rio Grande, the desert hills, the sky so blue ‘n’ clear,
Ol’ Slim, who’d seen it all before, said,”How’d you like a beer?”

“Now beers don’t come in ones” says I, “but if there’s two, I’m sold.”
“I got two apiece, Alene can’t drink, she’s drivin’, an’ they’re still cold.”
You talk about enjoy yourself; a picture-perfect day,
The gals up front and us in back drinkin’ roadies on our way.

Alene bewailed, “I can’t believe we’re runnin’ out of time,
The Indians are gone, St. Frank’s is locked, it’s simply just a crime.
It’s such a shame that Santa Fe shuts down at 5 o’clock.”
I said, “Don’t fret. We’ll come back up. Hey, ain’t that Camel Rock?”

Then Slim piped up, “Casino time! It’s early, then we’ll go
To Pelican’s for grub, but now let’s stop and win some dough.”
Those Indians knew the Boss and Slim were gamblers to be feared,
But they’d cut their losses with the Blonde and the fat guy with the beard.

Those one-armed-bandits left me’n Dar with just an empty cup,
But the Boss ‘n’ Slim were on a roll, you’d think they’d set it up.
Yeah, Dar ‘n me were separated fast from our hard earned pay,
While the Boss ‘n’ Slim were stackin’ silver dollars in their tray.

“Well Slim,” I said, “ That tidy cache ain’t all that you just won,
You’ve won the check for dinner too, so let’s head out now, son.”
We lobstered well at Pelican’s, Martinied once or twice,
And watchin’ Slim haul out the cash, just made it twice as nice.

We left old Albuquerque in that big white Cadillac,
Slim Hunt was drivin’ up front with me, Dar ‘n’ Alene in back.
Our destination, Edgewood, the close of a perfect day,
Out in “The Land of Enchantment” on The Trail past Santa Fe.

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"Vespers at St. Ann's" is my imaginary look at an actual event that occurred in our little town. There is a local watering hole that has been here for ages, called "Stan's". To many of the locals, it's "St. Ann's", and for many of those, a visit to "St. Ann's" has been described variously as, "Services at St. Ann's" or "Vespers at St. Ann's". Some years back, a group of the old regulars sent out the word that on a selected evening, there was to be a gathering of the old "parishioners" for "Vespers"; a sort of reunion of the old crowd, some of which had back-slidden, and were no longer attending "Services" regularly.

Skip One-Eye was an actual person, since passed on, whom I had known for years. The others are all figments of my imagination. The events described are fictitious, although the Euchre and Cribbage Tournaments are legendary.

Vespers at St. Ann’s

-Don Lehr

A reunion of old Reg’lars was called for Vespers at St. Ann’s,
That venerated bar that’s known, by lesser lights, as Stan’s.

While on his way, Old Jake went on a journey through the years,
Remembering all the good times, good friends and countless beers.

He chuckled as he thought about how Mike and he, one night,
Stopped by for one or maybe two or six. They both got tight.

They headed out the front to leave, but when they looked around,
Jake’s car was gone, plain disappeared, ‘twas nowhere to be found.

They went back in, took up their spots, they had to think this through,
The barkeep said, “Short trip.” Jake said, “Just bring us each a brew”.

They called the cops. The whole danged force turned out to find Jake’s car,
The cops said, “Go home”. Jake said, “I’m in no shape to walk that far”.

They sat through two or three more beers, then up walked old Fat Jack,
He said, “Nobody stole your car. It’s sittin’ out in back”.

The only times that fights broke out involved the “fairer” sex,
Big Fred would punch you out, or worse, for dancin’ with his ex.

She’d latch on to some stranger, cause the Reg’lars wouldn’t chance
A fight with Fred just so his fat and ugly ex could dance.

There may have been a couple girls that you might say were “fair”,
But most, the best that you could say was, they were always there.

The Cribbage and the Euchre games just added to the fun,
But everybody got so tanked that no one knew who’d won.

The arguments were long and loud ‘cause no one really knew,
And every game would end the same, and then the feathers flew.

‘Til one night Stan, the owner, bravely stepped into the fray,
And said, “Just cut the deck to see who won before you play.”

That solved the problem and the games were shortened up by far,
They’d cut the deck. “You won. Let’s belly back up to the bar.”

When Jake thought of “L.B.I.”, he laughed and nearly cried.
He laughed so hard he had to pull his car off to the side.

The “Local Band of Idiots” all Regulars at Stans,
Their leader was old Skip One-Eye, proclaimed by show of hands.

They’d tried out “Chief” and “President” but he’d have none of it.
“The Grand Bewildered” pleased him though. He said it sorta fit.

Of all the Regulars at Stans, Skip was there constantly.
And everyone took note when Skip would stagger off to pee.

His legendary mishaps drew each eye toward that door,
In order not to miss some new addition to his lore.

If you were on his good side (left) then everything went great,
But if you spoke while on his right, he’d turn and face you straight.

The Reg’lars knew but strangers who would say “Hello” would chance,
To see him turn, still firin’ blind, and wettin’ down their pants.

Of all those tales, one will be linked forever to his name,
The night of old Skip’s “World Class Leak”: his quarter hour of fame.

Stan’s was packed with local folks, the frenzy at its peak,
And not a soul missed Skip One-Eye as he staggered off to leak.

He lost his balance at the trough, fell backward through the wall,
And landed flush on Helen sitting in the ladies stall.

He tripped on Helen’s panties and became airborne once more,
Wiped out the sink and towel rack then came crashing through the door.

The place had gone dead silent then, with every eye on Skip,
Who finished up his rudely interrupted “tuck and zip.”

Then from the back a snicker came soon followed by a hoot,
As Skip bent down, retrieving Helen’s panties from his boot.

The laughter roared to bedlam then still louder to a din,
And Skip poured more fuel on the fire. He staggered right back in.

The bar went silent once again in time to hear the swell
Of Helen’s screamin’ like a demon just escaped from Hell.

The volume dropped as Helen braced herself for Skip’s attack.
But Skip walked out and said, “I’sh on’y try’n’ ta give ‘em back.”

Jake parked out back and then he thought, “Geez this place looks old
And dumpy. Now it’s snowin’ and that wind is awfully cold.

There were a lot of good times interspersed with all the bad,
It may be tough to resurrect the fun and laughs we had.

I’ll have to be real funny like I always used to be,
And I’ll be dodgin’ Vera who will try to kiss on me.

And if she does, her husband Doug will have to give me grief,
They may not show and that would be a source of great relief.

Out here I hear the music, is that music or mistake?
My God, that stuff is so danged loud it makes my molars ache.

I’m sure the place is filled with smoke but now it makes me cough,
And then there’s all those idiots that throw butts into the trough.

But dang, a nice tall beer sounds good, ice cold with lots of foam,
I’ve got a six-pack in the Fridge. I think I’ll just go home”.

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"De Dog, On Cats" is my granddaughter Morgan's favorite, and I must admit, I'm purty partial to it myself.

De Dog, On Cats

-De Dog

Dem doggone cats. Dey’s jest like rats, with needles in dey jaws.
Dey slink around, don’ make no sound, and in dey paws, dey’s claws.
Dey attitude is awful rude, and when dey twitch dey tail, ya
Best watch out, ‘thout a doubt, if you don’ git, dey’ll nail ya.

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Finally, "Twin Towers" is what I feel may be the best poem I've ever written. I wrote it on the day following 9/11/2001.

Twin Towers


Sunrise, filled with promise, spread its rays,
Like the dawns had always done before.
She stood, steadfast, her seaward gaze
Searching for those yearning for her shore.

She knew her lamp must shine for them to see,
She knew that they must see her when they came,
So they could know her promise to be free,
And her welcome still burned brightly as her flame.

But this morn’, though it seemed like all the rest,
Brought a strange foreboding from somewhere.
She felt the chill of fear deep in her breast,
And the smell of evil wafted on the air.

Then a sound! Like none she’d heard before,
The hell-hot wind, for certain, Satan’s breath,
And from afar there came a second roar,
Obscured now by the hideous laugh of Death.

She’d not allow the blast’s force bend her knee!
She summoned all her strength and stood her ground.
Anguishing, she knew that she must see,
So Lady Liberty turned her head around.

She feared what would await her as she turned,
And when she saw she gasped in disbelief.
She saw her wondrous city as it burned,
And bowed her head and shed the tears of grief.

She turned again, retook her timeless pose,
Her gaze to seaward dimmed through teary mist,
And as her anger and her fury rose,
Mighty Liberty clenched her awesome fist.

The Eagle soaring westward from the sea,
Was witness to the treachery below.
He heard the mournful sobs of Liberty,
And watched as she withstood the hellish blow.

He dove straight through the fire that filled the skies.
He spat the gall that welled from deep inside.
He shook his head to clear his smoke filled eyes,
And saw the Towers fall as thousands died,

His wings took up a measured, steady beat.
He climbed then circled, looking down once more,
He viewed again the carnage in the street,
Then, comprehending, pondered thoughts of War.

He sought a place untouched by fear and dread,
And landed near a river. There, alone
The Eagle resolutely bowed his head,
Then honed his fearsome talons on a stone.

--Don Lehr, September ‘01
(All Rights Reserved)

Have yourself a wonderful day, because it's a wonderful day out there !

Later,

Don Lehr (Michguy)