“A pretty toy, but I’m a boy,
And pretty stuff’s for girls,”
Or so he thinks until she winks
And shakes her tiny curls.
The pretty thing extends a wing,
Then leaps into the sky,
Takes birds for pets, and races jets
Wherever they may fly.
She drops her snares upon the stairs
And captures half the force
Of army guys whose target lies
Upon her chosen course.
His rubber duck is out of luck.
It’s circling round the drain.
The angel hurls it from the whirls
And now it’s safe again.
“My pretty miss, give me a kiss”,
Demands the evil giant.
She knocks him flat for asking that.
She’s strong and self-reliant.
The passing years bring laughs and tears,
But never quite the joy
That once was seen to pass between
This dolly and her boy.
Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
2011-08-29
A Boy and His Doll
Highway Fog
Sandburg was wrong: There's no kitten in sight,
No silent observer with mild intent,
But an angry invader with teeth in its bite,
Its tiger claws ripping, its fevered mind bent
Upon wanton destruction.
I've Been Here Before
That no one can ever clean up. I guess
It's normal that everything seems to be less
Than it could be and things don't get done
By the folks with the job, and that virtually none
Who put systems in place for the rest to endure
Take pride in their work or take time to ensure
That things will work right. Yeah, I've been here before.
That some people cheat or that every man lies
About whatever makes him seem small in his eyes.
I wonder why some people don't seem to know
That doing the right thing's the best way to go,
That the best of all worlds is what happens whenever
Each one of us tries to do right and just never
Gives in to temptation. But I've been here before.
It won't last forever – this wait will end fine.
But I just have to wonder what genius design
Has been mangled so badly that nothing quite works,
What failure of foresight makes good people jerks.
Yet... somehow it happens that some of us strive
To pick up some pieces and somehow contrive
To make some things better. See, I've been here before.
Wrestled these demons, survived all the stings,
All the bruises and bangs, all the cuts and the dings.
And so there is hope that the best of the best
May yet be in reach, that what's broken and messed
Up can yet be repaired. You know, if we all could stay
Truly committed to fix one thing each day,
A lot could be done. Well, I've never been there before.
Fortune Cookie Reflections*
#1 - New and rewarding opportunities will soon develop for you.
Nothing's exactly like anything else,
So whatever happens is new.
With all that occurs, opportunity wells
Up with interesting projects to do.
Whenever you're challenged or upset or tired,
When everything piles on your head,
Remember to look up. Most chances are wired
To what we most commonly dread.
#2 - A visit to a strange place will bring you renewed perspective.
There are places we see, there are places we feel.
Some places are only prospective.
Some places are bad and some others ideal,
And some of each kind are elective.
But when places are strange and defy all we know,
Where circumstance doesn't obey,
There we have chances to learn and to grow.
There, for a time, we should stay.
#3 - Be yourself and you will always be in fashion.
When others want naught but to critically boo
And to load you with grief in full ration,
You've got only one self to be, and that's You!
So treat your one self with compassion.
Ignore the false chatter of those less benign,
Regardless how mean or how vile.
Rely on your self, stick to your own design.
Tenacity's always in style.
#4 - One learns most from teaching others.
You don't understand it. You can't comprehend.
The prospect of learning it smothers.
You're left with vain hope it will come to an end.
You'd give up if you had your druthers.
In this situation of fear and of fright,
The way to be done with the thing
Is to teach it to someone, till you've gained insight.
Do this and it loses its sting.
#5 - Keep true to the dreams of your youth.
Some dreams are impossible, others are vain,
And some are, quite frankly, uncouth.
Some dreams are quite fancy and others are plain,
But some pursue ultimate Truth.
Remember the dreams that you had at sixteen,
How the whole world would be your own workplace?
Hold fast to the fire and keep it routine.
Let the wonder be seen on your face.
*From dinner with family and friends at P.F. Chang, Austin, TX, July 1, 2011
Copyright ©2011, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
A Cautionary Christmas Tale, Texas Style*
'Twas the morn before Christmas and all through the West,
Every young human critter felt happy and blessed
'Cause Santa was comin'. He'd be there right quick,
With toys and enough candy to make 'em all sick.
But they didn't know that a problem was near.
Santa'd traded his sleigh for a new one, that year,
With heater and radio and navsat location,
All the newfangled gizmos for sound aviation.
He'd taken delivery just one day before,
And the styling and speed led Mr. Claus to ignore
The advice of his missus to wait just a few days.
The old one went straight to a lot for used sleighs.
Not willin' to wait, Santa just scoffed.
He hitched up his team and took 'em aloft.
He had to move fast, not a moment to lose
For takin' the sleigh on its shakedown cruise.
Santa soared through the Arctic and crossed Hudson's Bay,
And everything seemed to be goin' okay.
The ride was real smooth, with no shimmies nor shakes,
So he went supersonic above the Great Lakes.
The new sleigh had passed all but one final test,
So at Memphis, he pulled fifteen gees and turned west.
What a rush! This new craft was so fleet and so snappy!
Kris Kringle relaxed in his seat, smugly happy.
Down in the heart of each redblooded man
Lives a deep-seated need to go fast as he can.
Even magical elves feel this tug to be free.
On the outskirts of Shreveport, Santa kicked in Mach three.
But somewhere near Longview somethin' came undid.
A rattle took up in the fore starboard skid.
In less than a minute, it grew so acute,
Old Santa had no choice but to open his 'chute.
Now, yer not s'posed to jump at high speed nor great height,
But when your motion has totally ceased to be flight,
Sometimes there's no choice, so you just trust to luck.
Santa tumbled and turned and blacked out 'fore he struck.
A mere mortal man would've died from that blow.
Santa recovered by daybreak, although
'Twas the morn before Christmas and nothin' was right.
Santa'd woke up in Waco, not a reindeer in sight.
Well, you might be thinkin' that's the end of my tale,
But even in Waco you can send out email.
Mrs. Claus picked him up in her reindeer-drawn surrey,
And that night she drove -- the kids needn't worry.
There's a moral right here you can hold to for life.
If you are a husband who's got him a wife,
When she says it's not time yet to trade in yer sleigh,
Just give in to fate. Let her have her way.
Copyright ©2003, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
*The idea for this poem comes from my brother-in-law, Steve Upham. Years ago, he had a coworker who showed classic signs of alcoholism, often phoning with creative excuses for not coming to work. One day when Steve answered the phone, it was this coworker saying, "I don't know what happened, but I woke up in Waco". When I heard the story, it seemed to me that "I Woke Up In Waco" cried out to be the topic of a C&W song or a Baxter Black poem. A Google search found nothing, so I decided to use it in a poem for friends at a Christmas dinner party at the Upham home.
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