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LEGAL LOGIC??
As I sit me down and ponder,
I’m just now led to wonder
Why men go to war?
There’s a law against killing
Each other, but we’re willing
To generate a war!
Then we ignore legal hassle
And off we go to wrastle...
To kill and what for?
How silly it is to manufacture
Weapons to maim and fracture
People like we are.
But an idea that got me going,
That I’m writing for showing,
Is just another law.
We can’t make warring illegal,
But might be some legal beagle
Will grit his jaw.
And to whit: make it unlawful...
For soldiers when out in battle
To get wounded or die!
It’s just about as efficient as
Some laws already passed....
I wonder why?
I’m just now led to wonder
Why men go to war?
There’s a law against killing
Each other, but we’re willing
To generate a war!
Then we ignore legal hassle
And off we go to wrastle...
To kill and what for?
How silly it is to manufacture
Weapons to maim and fracture
People like we are.
But an idea that got me going,
That I’m writing for showing,
Is just another law.
We can’t make warring illegal,
But might be some legal beagle
Will grit his jaw.
And to whit: make it unlawful...
For soldiers when out in battle
To get wounded or die!
It’s just about as efficient as
Some laws already passed....
I wonder why?
The Swan
In fascination
my eyes observe the motion
of a graceful swan.
It drifts slowly by
with scarcely a rippling wave
to mark its passing.
While, clumsily, I
cannot but stumble away
with tears on my cheeks.
Stricken by beauty
unsurpassed by humankind,
though we keep trying.
my eyes observe the motion
of a graceful swan.
It drifts slowly by
with scarcely a rippling wave
to mark its passing.
While, clumsily, I
cannot but stumble away
with tears on my cheeks.
Stricken by beauty
unsurpassed by humankind,
though we keep trying.
STOOLS
Sometimes I get to thinking, wondering about those days that use to be. Then I mix the past with the present and come up with the strange and unusual. My words may be very simple, lacking the complexities of a master poet, but I do get my point across "in the end." Find my illustrative rhyme in the 1st reply...........
An Unlicensed Driver to Maine
Twas in the summer months, a day
when the plan was formed to travel
away...
from Hartford, Connecticut, to arrive
in North Penobscot, Maine in the year
1955.
A 6 or 7 hour drive at best, you see,
it would be an evening and nighttime
trip for me.
The car, prepared as I, (suspense)
the licensed driver was yet to make
an appearance.
I, an unlicensed driver, not very...
familiar with the roads that would
take me...
From Hartford to my young wife, and,
to that distant State in northern New
England.
But I was game and lonely for her;
when no driver came, I got in that
Pontiac car,
and began the trip to cross, so late,
four state lines on roads before the
“Interstate!”
Barely into Massachusetts and all
in darkness...a driving rain began
to fall.
Blinded by the downpour, and alas,
at a loss for confidence, I stopped
under an overpass.
“What have I done?” I heard me say,
feeling cold distress and unsure of
the way.
But I kept driving alone, flowing in
the northbound traffic through city
and town.
When the bridge to Maine showed,
(A Turnpike went 48 miles), the rain
slowed.
A toll road was finished to Portland ,
the roads from there often being dirt,
mud, and...
But the worst was behind, you see;
I had come to conditions familiar to
me.
Twas still cloudy; no moon or stars
lit the dark on roads between towns
for cars.
The headlights stabbed at darkened
road; Portland to Bath; from Bath to
Camden.
Towns/hamlets; street lights but one,
as I continued driving north on ME
Route 1.
From Camden to Belfast; Belfast to...
Bucksport, where I’d been born in
1932.
I knew the way to my love without
luck; I’d courted her in Dad’s GMC
logging truck.
But I still drove with caution, having
no valid license to be driving in New
England.
I delivered the ‘41 Pontiac to her Dad
late that night when I got to my wife’s
family pad.
We were reunited, after weeks astray,
in the home where I courted her a few
years at bay!
My 8 hour driving ordeal was over;
I’d driven 400 miles on roads I’d not
covered.
I haven’t heard since, nor met the man
who was supposed to drive the Pontiac
to Maine.
I’m surely glad it didn’t break down,
Or strand me for any state trouper to
have found!
© Urban R. Coombs 2009
when the plan was formed to travel
away...
from Hartford, Connecticut, to arrive
in North Penobscot, Maine in the year
1955.
A 6 or 7 hour drive at best, you see,
it would be an evening and nighttime
trip for me.
The car, prepared as I, (suspense)
the licensed driver was yet to make
an appearance.
I, an unlicensed driver, not very...
familiar with the roads that would
take me...
From Hartford to my young wife, and,
to that distant State in northern New
England.
But I was game and lonely for her;
when no driver came, I got in that
Pontiac car,
and began the trip to cross, so late,
four state lines on roads before the
“Interstate!”
Barely into Massachusetts and all
in darkness...a driving rain began
to fall.
Blinded by the downpour, and alas,
at a loss for confidence, I stopped
under an overpass.
“What have I done?” I heard me say,
feeling cold distress and unsure of
the way.
But I kept driving alone, flowing in
the northbound traffic through city
and town.
When the bridge to Maine showed,
(A Turnpike went 48 miles), the rain
slowed.
A toll road was finished to Portland ,
the roads from there often being dirt,
mud, and...
But the worst was behind, you see;
I had come to conditions familiar to
me.
Twas still cloudy; no moon or stars
lit the dark on roads between towns
for cars.
The headlights stabbed at darkened
road; Portland to Bath; from Bath to
Camden.
Towns/hamlets; street lights but one,
as I continued driving north on ME
Route 1.
From Camden to Belfast; Belfast to...
Bucksport, where I’d been born in
1932.
I knew the way to my love without
luck; I’d courted her in Dad’s GMC
logging truck.
But I still drove with caution, having
no valid license to be driving in New
England.
I delivered the ‘41 Pontiac to her Dad
late that night when I got to my wife’s
family pad.
We were reunited, after weeks astray,
in the home where I courted her a few
years at bay!
My 8 hour driving ordeal was over;
I’d driven 400 miles on roads I’d not
covered.
I haven’t heard since, nor met the man
who was supposed to drive the Pontiac
to Maine.
I’m surely glad it didn’t break down,
Or strand me for any state trouper to
have found!
© Urban R. Coombs 2009
Guidelines of Human Life
It is, indeed, a curious world
through which we
flounder.
We’re blind to worldly goals
as through life we
blunder.
Great, at first, is the training
needs left to those
responsible...
for guiding us and teaching
from experience oft
invisible.
As infants, neither we nor our
parents had more than
guesses...
to aim us toward a school door,
and educated teacher's
addresses.
Then, when High School has come,
and we’re planning to be
adults...
We’re expected to understand the
ways of life and govern
results!!
Where are the needed textbooks
on leading a satisfying
life?
Within which is a volume about
finding a perfect husband or
wife.
With more guidelines on ideal
ways to our offspring
teach?
The Guidelines for Human Life we
need to most effectively
reach...
All around the world in every
language, to every living
soul.
Perhaps a few volumes at least
may be needed for this
goal.
Wouldn’t it be remarkable to
learn from it that human
intelligence...
May be the only way to determine
what constitutes equality in
a sense?
Might it not teach that skin color
and such are not signs of
un-humanness?
That human male & female are equal
in quality but different in
purposes?
There’s no such book in any form
to help a high-schooler to
learn...
To make correct decisions from
that day, and find which way
to turn.
So we continue to plod along as
blind as our parents
were.
Making decisions the same as they
did before us, never quite
sure.
Guidelines of Human Life, written
by our most knowledgeable
authors...
Dedicated to all mankind, so "civil"
is proper in a "civilization"
without wars!
In the forseeable future it won't come.
Never in our short lives will it be
published...
Not could/would many read it if it were.
But wouldn't be handy if we had
wished!!
through which we
flounder.
We’re blind to worldly goals
as through life we
blunder.
Great, at first, is the training
needs left to those
responsible...
for guiding us and teaching
from experience oft
invisible.
As infants, neither we nor our
parents had more than
guesses...
to aim us toward a school door,
and educated teacher's
addresses.
Then, when High School has come,
and we’re planning to be
adults...
We’re expected to understand the
ways of life and govern
results!!
Where are the needed textbooks
on leading a satisfying
life?
Within which is a volume about
finding a perfect husband or
wife.
With more guidelines on ideal
ways to our offspring
teach?
The Guidelines for Human Life we
need to most effectively
reach...
All around the world in every
language, to every living
soul.
Perhaps a few volumes at least
may be needed for this
goal.
Wouldn’t it be remarkable to
learn from it that human
intelligence...
May be the only way to determine
what constitutes equality in
a sense?
Might it not teach that skin color
and such are not signs of
un-humanness?
That human male & female are equal
in quality but different in
purposes?
There’s no such book in any form
to help a high-schooler to
learn...
To make correct decisions from
that day, and find which way
to turn.
So we continue to plod along as
blind as our parents
were.
Making decisions the same as they
did before us, never quite
sure.
Guidelines of Human Life, written
by our most knowledgeable
authors...
Dedicated to all mankind, so "civil"
is proper in a "civilization"
without wars!
In the forseeable future it won't come.
Never in our short lives will it be
published...
Not could/would many read it if it were.
But wouldn't be handy if we had
wished!!
MODERN MUSIC
THRUM! THRUM! THRUM!
...The drum, drum, drum!
...It really isn't fun,
...to feel the drum
...swelling your chest,
...bursting your vest.
THRUM! THRUM! THRUM!
...Beat that blasted drum!
...But the rest is worse!
...Tis a cacaphoneous curse
...that deafens the ear,
...too loud to hear.
They use it and abuse it,
...Then they call it music.
...But music is sweet sound.
...This just reverbs around
...busting your insides
...riping your outsides.
THRUM! THRUM! THRUM!
...The base of it is a drum!
...The noise is so rough!
...I've had more than enough!
...It all sounds so wrong.
...I'm going, going, gone!
(C) Urban R. Coombs 2009
...The drum, drum, drum!
...It really isn't fun,
...to feel the drum
...swelling your chest,
...bursting your vest.
THRUM! THRUM! THRUM!
...Beat that blasted drum!
...But the rest is worse!
...Tis a cacaphoneous curse
...that deafens the ear,
...too loud to hear.
They use it and abuse it,
...Then they call it music.
...But music is sweet sound.
...This just reverbs around
...busting your insides
...riping your outsides.
THRUM! THRUM! THRUM!
...The base of it is a drum!
...The noise is so rough!
...I've had more than enough!
...It all sounds so wrong.
...I'm going, going, gone!
(C) Urban R. Coombs 2009
BROOK FISHING
Now, I’m spraying “Old Woodsman’s.”
Smells like hot tar!
Now, I light up an old “Cloverdale,”
Hand wrapped cigar!
Now, I un-sling my “Orvis Fly Rod,”
Carried from my car!
Now, I begin to fish “White’s Brook,”
Great fishing so far!
Now, I add bait to my “Eagle Claw,”
Snelled fishing hook!
Now, I dangle my new “NGC Sports,”
Fake worm in the brook!
Now, I catch a 12" “Stocked Brookie,”
Maine-grown by its look!
Now, I drop him into my “Cabela’s,”
Creel, where he shook!
Now, I blow smoke from a “Cloverdale,”
Bug scattering cigar!
Now, I spray more “Old Woodsman,”
To keep skeeters afar!
Now, I wander along “White’s Brook,”
Rather than to my car!
Now, I have too many “Stocked Fish,”
In my creel...so far!
Now, it’s hard not to fish “Down Maine,”
The way life should be!
Now, fishing in such a “Sweet Stream,”
Is just the life...I agree!
Now, who’s that? “Back in the trees,”
No fisherman, do I see!
Now, sadly, a Maine “Game Warden,”
Is taking fish from me!!!
© Urban R. Coombs 2009
Smells like hot tar!
Now, I light up an old “Cloverdale,”
Hand wrapped cigar!
Now, I un-sling my “Orvis Fly Rod,”
Carried from my car!
Now, I begin to fish “White’s Brook,”
Great fishing so far!
Now, I add bait to my “Eagle Claw,”
Snelled fishing hook!
Now, I dangle my new “NGC Sports,”
Fake worm in the brook!
Now, I catch a 12" “Stocked Brookie,”
Maine-grown by its look!
Now, I drop him into my “Cabela’s,”
Creel, where he shook!
Now, I blow smoke from a “Cloverdale,”
Bug scattering cigar!
Now, I spray more “Old Woodsman,”
To keep skeeters afar!
Now, I wander along “White’s Brook,”
Rather than to my car!
Now, I have too many “Stocked Fish,”
In my creel...so far!
Now, it’s hard not to fish “Down Maine,”
The way life should be!
Now, fishing in such a “Sweet Stream,”
Is just the life...I agree!
Now, who’s that? “Back in the trees,”
No fisherman, do I see!
Now, sadly, a Maine “Game Warden,”
Is taking fish from me!!!
© Urban R. Coombs 2009
EYES
What a glorious gift!
O’, wonderful sights perceive!
How precious they are...
When each has perfect acuity!
Such colors they reveal!
Glorifying the scenery around!
With visions that please
In all directions...
Views that astound!
Oh, the wonders they send
The mind to greet each day!
Awesomely they work!
Even getting weary this way.
How curiously they set...
Each apart from the other...
For duality,
For perception of depth...
Directions of sights...
In actuality.
Even in dreams they display
Beauties from memories
So bright!
Bringing back sweet visions
Reviewed after day...
Becomes night.
They must be protected,
They need constant care to persist.
Else they may get foggy...
Dimming surroundings that exist.
When they become flawed,
When their true functions are failing,
Then there are specialists,
To test and restore...
Their revealings!
© Urban R. Coombs
O’, wonderful sights perceive!
How precious they are...
When each has perfect acuity!
Such colors they reveal!
Glorifying the scenery around!
With visions that please
In all directions...
Views that astound!
Oh, the wonders they send
The mind to greet each day!
Awesomely they work!
Even getting weary this way.
How curiously they set...
Each apart from the other...
For duality,
For perception of depth...
Directions of sights...
In actuality.
Even in dreams they display
Beauties from memories
So bright!
Bringing back sweet visions
Reviewed after day...
Becomes night.
They must be protected,
They need constant care to persist.
Else they may get foggy...
Dimming surroundings that exist.
When they become flawed,
When their true functions are failing,
Then there are specialists,
To test and restore...
Their revealings!
© Urban R. Coombs
Love Locked
I fell in love with a
liberated lady.
Things got pretty rough
so I guess maybe..
I should have left my
decorated baby.
But...
Her body was stuck
securely to me...
Hitched by her jewelry
at hip and knee.
Where she’d been pierced
you’d never believe!
No sir...
She had tattoos and body
piercings, you see.
So when I kissed her I got
liplock, indeed.
Deep throat kissing got
tongue lock for me.
So now...
I can’t just leave her...
You must agree,
I’m hooked on her at
lip, tongue and knee.
Caught on her naval like
a dog on a flea.
Epilogue...
She’s a sweetheart, I know,
I’m love locked, unfree.
We’ll ever be one , we two,
now that we are me.
Joined by body ornaments
like leaves on a tree.
© Urban 2009
liberated lady.
Things got pretty rough
so I guess maybe..
I should have left my
decorated baby.
But...
Her body was stuck
securely to me...
Hitched by her jewelry
at hip and knee.
Where she’d been pierced
you’d never believe!
No sir...
She had tattoos and body
piercings, you see.
So when I kissed her I got
liplock, indeed.
Deep throat kissing got
tongue lock for me.
So now...
I can’t just leave her...
You must agree,
I’m hooked on her at
lip, tongue and knee.
Caught on her naval like
a dog on a flea.
Epilogue...
She’s a sweetheart, I know,
I’m love locked, unfree.
We’ll ever be one , we two,
now that we are me.
Joined by body ornaments
like leaves on a tree.
© Urban 2009
Home Made Ice Cream
Grampa’s home was “back in the wild,”
Ten miles out on a dirt road from town.
We visited regularly when I was a child.
Gram was nice, used to Gramps' frown.
Twas the early 30's (I was born in 1932),
We’d eat real well at Dad’s folks home.
My first taste of frog’s-egg puddin’, too,
As Tapioca got named; to me unknown.
I was very small one day when attacked
By a winged critter from a small shack.
Grandpa’s rooster up on the front of me,
Clawing at my face so I couldn’t see!!!
No very serious damage to me was done,
But a few days later we had a great meal;
Roast chicken with trimmings, such fun...
The old rooster paid dearly for that deal!
After dinner dear Grandma suggested...
She’d like some home-made ice cream.
So Dad got the machine as requested:
Wood bucket, pail, and space between.
Inside the pail, which Grandma filled
About half full of sweet flavored cream,
Were paddles that hid inside as chilled
By salty chipped ice in that machine.
On top were some gears and a crank
That turned the pail around in the ice.
Inside, Dad said, the paddles did yank
The sweet cream, smoothing it so nice.
We all took a turn cranking the handle,
Over and under, around, up and down,
While the pail in its salty ice spangle
Swirled fast, slowing with Dad’s frown.
“Tis getting too hard to turn,” sez he,
“That’s the way when it’s ice cream,
“So let’s unhook the pail and we’ll see
“If this is the taste of a waking dream.”
The gears came off the bucket of wood,
Crank and all laid on the counter-top
Only the pail amid swirling ice so good
With a cover that came off with a pop!
Inside the pail was mostly all filled up
With stiff ice cream so tasty to us all,
That we all ate a-plenty, mine in a cup.
Dad put chocolate on his in his bowl.
Mom added strawberries with walnuts,
Grandma gave me a clean dishtowel,
And of ice cream plain ate two cups.
Grampa ate but it stuck in his bowel.
Then, of course, came clean up time,
Which Grandma and Mom did it fine.
Dad dozed on the couch, while me?
I followed Grandpa outside, you see.
The poor old man wasn’t feeling well,
When he saw me he made some yell.
I guess he was sad, old rooster gone,
I to blame for Grandma’s kill it song.
I was about age three when this happened, though it's
always necessary to use some liberties when dredging
up memories over 70 years old........Urban
Ten miles out on a dirt road from town.
We visited regularly when I was a child.
Gram was nice, used to Gramps' frown.
Twas the early 30's (I was born in 1932),
We’d eat real well at Dad’s folks home.
My first taste of frog’s-egg puddin’, too,
As Tapioca got named; to me unknown.
I was very small one day when attacked
By a winged critter from a small shack.
Grandpa’s rooster up on the front of me,
Clawing at my face so I couldn’t see!!!
No very serious damage to me was done,
But a few days later we had a great meal;
Roast chicken with trimmings, such fun...
The old rooster paid dearly for that deal!
After dinner dear Grandma suggested...
She’d like some home-made ice cream.
So Dad got the machine as requested:
Wood bucket, pail, and space between.
Inside the pail, which Grandma filled
About half full of sweet flavored cream,
Were paddles that hid inside as chilled
By salty chipped ice in that machine.
On top were some gears and a crank
That turned the pail around in the ice.
Inside, Dad said, the paddles did yank
The sweet cream, smoothing it so nice.
We all took a turn cranking the handle,
Over and under, around, up and down,
While the pail in its salty ice spangle
Swirled fast, slowing with Dad’s frown.
“Tis getting too hard to turn,” sez he,
“That’s the way when it’s ice cream,
“So let’s unhook the pail and we’ll see
“If this is the taste of a waking dream.”
The gears came off the bucket of wood,
Crank and all laid on the counter-top
Only the pail amid swirling ice so good
With a cover that came off with a pop!
Inside the pail was mostly all filled up
With stiff ice cream so tasty to us all,
That we all ate a-plenty, mine in a cup.
Dad put chocolate on his in his bowl.
Mom added strawberries with walnuts,
Grandma gave me a clean dishtowel,
And of ice cream plain ate two cups.
Grampa ate but it stuck in his bowel.
Then, of course, came clean up time,
Which Grandma and Mom did it fine.
Dad dozed on the couch, while me?
I followed Grandpa outside, you see.
The poor old man wasn’t feeling well,
When he saw me he made some yell.
I guess he was sad, old rooster gone,
I to blame for Grandma’s kill it song.
I was about age three when this happened, though it's
always necessary to use some liberties when dredging
up memories over 70 years old........Urban
