Last week, I posted a partial list of things I hate. Today?
I am writing about things that I like, things that bring me joy.
My dad, in his book Credo, wrote a poem about things that were pleasing to him. It was titled, Personal Choices and one of the verses went like this…
I like
the serenity of old battlefields
short sermons,
and chores well done.
©1981 Jack Mahoney
I decided to list some of the things that I like, using the same poetic form that Dad used in that very poem…
I like,
Fernleaf Buckthorns, brash, red geraniums,
white Dogwoods anchored in black mulch,
and the delicate, pink blooms on Scottish Heather.
I like,
the pre-dawn aria of the mourning dove,
the clickity-clack of an archaic timepiece,
and the seductive sadness in the voice of Chrissie Hynde.
I like,
footlong chili dogs, cheeseburgers rare,
lima beans and scalloped corn,
and BLTs heavy on the bacon.
I like,
the warmth and closeness of my son’s embrace,
a cool breeze in August, the January thaw,
and goosebumps germinated by the heat and moisture of a loved one’s kiss.
I like,
the smell of a backyard cookout, 
the scent of fresh cut Christmas trees,
and the aroma of basil on pizza fresh from the oven.
I like,
poems by Tennyson, Donne, and Dylan Thomas,
the honest comedy of Chris Rock,
and drinking Wild Irish Rose from a knowing, old, beer glass.
©2010 Matt-Man
Yeah, I like that, and I hope you liked it too.
Happy Hump Day, all.
Cheers!!
A poem that my dad wrote some years ago in honor of our nation's Bicentennial in 1976...
The gates are open
somber, still;
the blade-grass quivers
on the hill.
A single robin
claims the crest;
the flowers in summer hues
are dressed.
The weathered columns
all look down
on marble slabs
that kiss the ground.
The names and dates
are graven deep,
two hundred summers
lie asleep.
The crowd is silent
standing there;
a priest intones
a solemn prayer.
The speaker dwells
on death and life,
and speaks of distant
drum and fife.
The chapel bell
in memory rings;
the choir, stirring
anthem sings.
The benediction's
slowly read;
the crowd departs,
the amen's said.
The hallowed ground
seeks love and rest,
for those it seals
within its breast;
July's green hills
their echoes keep;
two hundred summers lie asleep.
Jack Mahoney (C)1981I'm workin' all day today because, well...someone has to drunk up the denizens of Bagwine, Ohio so they can beat their wives and lose a finger to a firecracker.
Cheers!!
Those in my family take pride in their love of poetry and we all take pride in our ability to be wordsmiths.
But yesterday, I posted a poem titled, “Colors” that I had written back in 1983 and I became a bit alarmed. I could see that from my dad, to me, and now onto my son, Ryan, our poetic ability has actually devolved.
Let me show you…
Here’s a poem that my dad wrote for his second book, Credo.
The Silent Earth
From this silent earth,
I take a handful of dust…
Whose sacred ashes do I hold?
Whose wind-kissed lips are in this mold?
Does Helen’s beauty slumber here,
Beneath the dust of Sappho’s bier?
Are David’s lyric sonnets pressed,
Against Bathsheba’s fertile breast?
My lovely one, we have the key;
the fields of earth are you and me.
A century hence, this dust will bear,
your bright-eyed laughter in the air.
And someone else will lift the sand,
and toast your beauty in his hand.
Embrace this dust, the wind, the sea,
they hold the heartbeats of eternity.
Jack Mahoney ©1981
Ahhhhh, very nicely done, Dad. Let’s see the poetic genes that you passed on to me, shall we?
When I was at Bowling Green State University the campus newspaper did a story on me because I put up all of the poetry I was writing up on my dorm room door. Here’s a couple of examples:
The Sun
The Sun is hot.
Hot, Hot, Hot.
The Sun is yellow.
Yellow, Yellow, Yellow.
Well, not exactly yellow.
The Final Spring Break
The car went down the mountain road
Down the road it sped.
The car went off the mountain pass
Everyone was dead.
Unreelquited Love
The tuna swam for miles
In search of his one true sole mate
He trudged and plodded all the while
For a chance to boink and procreate
He met her at the sandbar
Her eyes and his did lock
But she swished her tail, and turned around
And said, “Sorry Charlie, I have a haddock.”
Matt-Man ©1983
I recently came across a book of poetry that my son Ryno wrote in school when he was 10 years old. Let’s look at his work.
Couplets
I went to a kid and said, “Do you rhyme?”
He said, “Not all the time.”
The kid is a kid named, Dude.
He’s pretty crude.
Practicing Kung Fu---
It makes me have to poo.
Triplets
Indians had a house
They called it a wigwam.
They did not have pom poms.
Haiku
A frog hung on
To a stick in the harbor
As the sun comes up.
Do ya see what I mean? Our poetic gene pool may be wide but it ain’t deep. Oh dear God, what hath been wrought?
You know the saddest thing about all of this is? Both my dad and my son have had books published, and me?
I appeared in the November 8, 1983 issue of the BG News. Life ain’t fair.
Cheers!!
To all of you...
My computer and household are finally running as they should.
Schmoop and I wish you a very safe and very Happy 4th of July.
While I have to work tonight...
Schmoop and I are going to be spending Saturday at Marte's house enjoying a two kegger.
I hope you all have as much fun as we plan on having, and I leave you with this...
My dad wrote the following poem as part of his second book and a play (Two Hundred Summers) that he wrote.
It's titled, Bicentennial, July 4th, 1976...
The gates are open
somber, still;
the blade-grass quivers
on the hill.
A single robin
claims the crest;
the flowers in summer hues
are dressed.
The weathered columns
all look down
on marble slabs
that kiss the ground.
The names and dates
are graven deep,
two hundred summers
lie asleep.
The crowd is silent
standing there;
a priest intones
a solemn prayer.
The speaker dwells
on death and life,
and speaks of distant
drum and fife.
The chapel bell
in memory rings;
the choir, stirring
anthem sings.
The benediction's
slowly read;
the crowd departs,
the amen's said.
The hallowed ground
seeks love and rest,
for those it seals
within its breast;
July's green hills
their echoes keep;
two hundred summers lie asleep.Jack Mahoney (C)1981Have a great 4th everyone...And by the way...The rug burns left on Schmoop's knees from the new carpet are so Salvador Dali-like.Cheers!!
Here’s to Memorial Day…
I say, “Here’s to” Memorial Day because I just don’t think the word, “Happy” is quite the description that fits this Holiday.
Unless of course, you are all giddy about picking up a “black BCBG dress – beautiful detailing, light-weight silk for summer, and marked down from $158 to $79...” at the incredibly solemn, Macy’s Memorial Day Sale!!
If that’s the case…be as happy as you want on this day.
Anyhoo, to wit, and heretofore…(I dig saying that.)
I offer to you, a simple Memorial Day post today, along with the hopes that you enjoy the day and enjoy it safely.
My dad served in the U.S. Navy from 1942-1945. He served aboard a munitions ship in the Pacific. He served with honor and distinction…as did so many others during World War II.
In spite of all of the death and destruction that occurred during the Big One, my dad had a somewhat funny tie to the war.
While on a short leave, he married my mom. The date? August 6, 1945. Uh-Huh…The day that we dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.
His leave was made permanent, and their marriage lasted through nine kids, and 53 years until his death in 1998.
Here’s a picture of Jack and Mary Anne from that era…
My dad saw many things during the war that stuck with him and which he ultimately wrote about in his poetry.
One of the bloodiest battles he was engaged in, was the Battle of Tarawa. He wrote the following poem, Tarawa, and it appeared in his second book, “Credo”.
Tarawa
misbegotten
pin-point in history;
what angry god
was mid-wife to your birth;
what ancient sun
saw you rise
from the ocean floor?
Decades ago,
on a blood red sea,
I watched
as you were ravished
and stripped naked
and in return,
you became a parched grave
for five thousand men.
Never for them
the solace of the rich earth.
nor the kiss of Spring;
only the sharp coral, and the eternal sun.
Do you hate them still?
--JJM ©1981
Here’s to your safe enjoyment of Memorial Day, and to Vinny and Jay, I hope you both find sexy dresses that scream, “Look at me guys!!” when you go to Macy’s today.Cheers!!
On this day of Thanksgiving…
Delight in the aroma of the roasting turkey intermingling with the smell of the simmering gravy.
Raise your glass of wine; revel in the excitement of the game; relax within the comforting arms of your friends and family.
Enjoy your abundance to the fullest, but don’t lose sight of the richness and bounty that lies within humility and simplicity.
Some have more than others…some less. But, if we all look inward and to ourselves speak the truth, we will see that there is at least one thing, or something, for which we have to be thankful.
And if today, you may be having trouble with finding that one thing, let my dad’s words of nearly thirty years ago afford you some help.
DEO GRATIAS
O Lord, I’m forever grateful
for the warmth and grace
of a sun-kissed day;
The flowers, rain drenched,
after a sudden storm,
and the champagne laughter
of children at play.
But I’m thankful too,
for the pregnant hush
of a Summer’s night;
the horned moon, star gathering,
and the dove and the owl’s
deep black symphony
of sound and sight.
©1981 JJM
Among the many things that I am thankful for, I am to this day thankful for my Dad, passing onto me, his love of and for the English language.
From me, Schmoop, Corky, Kelly, and the entire Bagwine family…We wish you all, a warm, happy, and safe Thanksgiving.
Cheers!!
It’s a hot, hazy Sunday in Bagwine, Ohio today.
But…I am actually rested up from my “week off” and ready to get back to being myself.
I have to work all day today, but before I go, I have an actual sermon for all of us…Specifically, for all of us “Christians” in the audience.
Something hit me last night at about 9:15 P.M., in between my 14th beer and my second pint of Wild Irish Rose…
Christians, suck.
Now hold on Nellie, not true Christians, but those who profess to be Christians.
I laugh at some of these charlatans such as Rod Parsley, Paul Crouch, Joyce Meyer, and Benny Hinn, but far more dangerous is the hypocrisy that lies within our family, our neighbors, ourselves.
Far too often of late, I have been called a “fucking asshole”, a “jerk”, and a whatever body part one might like up his or her ass…
Typically, I don’t mind these aspersions…in fact, I usually find them funny. But these are words coming from self-professed “Christians”.
I do not proclaim to be anything other than an imperfect being. I make fun of myself on a regular basis…sometimes to a fault.
Why in this day is there a proliferation of people that claim to be Jeebus personified and whine that they are being persecuted?
People who claim to want to help others and yet complain about how their money is wasted on the less fortunate.
People who want eternal salvation for all, but demand a price from others here on Earth.
People who judge others while refusing to look in the mirror…
I have often taken shots at the Little Baby Jeebus, but religion aside, his message is something that everyone should agree upon.
The Golden Rule, The Sermon on the Mount, the sending back of the veal cutlet because it was under done and over priced…
I also like Lao-Tzu, the founder of Taoism. Both LT and JC were wise. No matter your religious bent or not, both ideologies are sound…They were not radicals.
Unless of course, being nice to people is a radical idea.
Amen, and Amen…
And now, our Sunday Serenade...a poem from the late, great, Dad of Matt-Man. From 30 years ago, an illustration of the height of Christian hypocrisy…
Reflections On Northern Ireland
What Christians, we,
on Sunday morn,
who to Christ
lip service give.
In song, in prayer,
we hear His words,
and touch the Book
that holds His Rule.
With wine and bread
we are all fed;
we hail the Cross
to be the Grail.
But darkness comes,
and in His name,
each side is led.
And Christ again
is crucified,
beside the wounded
and the dead.
©1981 JJMCheers!!Catch Turnbaby's BlogTalk Radio Show tonight at 8 EDT. For details, click HERE.
Yesterday…Two people grew up.
My 13 year old son…and me.
I went over to his house to spend some time with him for Father’s Day because today he leaves for Basketball Camp.
He was so bright eyed and excited when I got there.He had had his Mom buy three pairs of shorts for me that matched three pair that he had.
My son has had some problems of late. Among a few other things, his grades really fell off the last quarter.
He had already gotten a butt chewing over this, but he got it again yesterday…Why?
Because his Mom can’t let things go. She has to harp on things…Instill guilt…Justify her existence. Trust me, I know.
Well, words ensued, because of course, she ended up making the grade issue all about her, as she has with so many other things in the past.
But, for once, in our twenty year history, when she yelled at me for being an uncaring father and a lousy man, I stood up to her.
This guy, who has been guilt ridden for years for walking away, told her everything she needed, and of course, didn’t want to hear.
I have NEVER uttered a bad word about Ryno’s mom in front of him, but yesterday, she pushed the limits in attacking me, and I responded.
While I am sorry, and I apologized to Ryno for yelling, I am not sorry for a damn thing that I said to her. And everything said, was heard by this sweet, little boy.
Am I sorry he heard what was said? Yes, but only because of the manner in which he heard it. I am glad that he heard what was said, and by whom.
Because, let me tell ya folks, she let her own words paint her self-portrait. Wow, move over Dorian Gray!!
I am very confident that his bright little mind digested the differences between his mom and I, in manner, tone, and context.
At one point, he told Mom, to quit reliving everything , because it does nobody any good. I cried, because, it was like listening to myself. The boy is wise.
I have many faults…I mean, just ask Schmoop…but Schmoop will also tell you that I admit them, freely. Ryno’s mom has no faults. Just ask her.
She will also, say that our failure in marriage was entirely MY fault.
More times than not, if a person ever tells you that their marriage failed all because of the other person in the relationship…
They are either bat-shit crazy, or delusional…
While he still loves his Mom with all of his heart (as it should be), I think yesterday, my son found that out.
It has been a painful and tearful Father’s Day weekend for me, but in some aspects, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.Amen, and Amen...
I am working 11-7 today, serving beer to all of those fathers who are hiding from their wives.
So, I’ll see ya all tomorrow, and to my Dad who has long since passed on, Ryno and I love ya, buddy.
And now, to lighten the mood….Our Sunday Serenade.
Once again, from his second book, “Credo”, a light hearted look at love by my dad…
CONTRAST
In his Brooks Bros. suit and Florsheim shoes,
He speaks of love so ardently.
But she flaunts her jeans and her gingham smile,
And speaks of love so casually.
He thinks of martinis and filet mignon,
And speaks of love so seriously.
But she serves him pizza and Diet-Rite Cola,
And speaks of love so casually.Cheers!!
