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The following, I wrote for a St. Patrick’s Day program where Etna and I entertained, March 6, 1965. Etna sang several Irish songs and I read my poetry. As this was written especially for that program, I thought it would be nice in Short Circuit 2. At that program it was very well received, as was Etna’s singing. She just unearthed her hand-written copy, so here goes…
A Bit of Auld Ireland
by Harry Slocum Tordoff
It’s a bit of Auld Ireland you’re lookin’ at, Man,
A spot to be loved, if love a man can;
’Tis a place I’ve been longin’ for ages to see
And the mail brought these brochures just yesterday.
I doubt if I’ll ever be able to go,
But seeing these pictures makes me auld face glow.
They recall the days of me childhood, long gone,
And fill me auld heart with a good Irish song.
I can spend hours just a-lookin’ and readin’
And with each hour the years keep recedin’
’Till I find meself livin’ back in those auld days
When me Mither would tan me fer me obstinate ways.
And then, with a tear in her eye, she would say,
“I’m sorry, Tim, but yer whims I must sway;
God knows how I love ya, but to bring you up right
Is the job He gave me when He gave you life.”
And I see me auld playmates a jumpin’ with glee
As we played all the favorite games of the day.
I can see me pals of the aulden days,
But tears seem to make them appear in a haze.
I look in the past, and remember the joys
Auld Ireland afforded its girls and its boys.
Yes, ’tis a bit o’ Heaven you see there, fer shure,
On the pages of that little Irish brochure.
A place that God blessed as no other on earth;
A spot man must leave to realize its worth.
Brown Eyes
by Clay P. Bixler (new member)
They gleam and they beam
With a heavenly light;
They flash and they dash
At every sight.
They tease and they please
In a cunning way;
They prance and they dance
Wherever they stray.
They raise and they praise
Each worthy deed done.
They work… yet they lurk
Wherever there’s fun.
They smile all the while
With a lovelight shown;
They live and they give
What angels must own.
The Old Homestead
by Pat Merz (new member)
How often my mind wanders
To days of the distant past
When I was but a small child
And my future was not cast.
To the place I spent my growing years;
A bashful, timid lass…
Those lazy days of summer
Running barefoot in the grass.
Twenty years have come and gone;
So fast they passed me by…
I long to visit the old farm,
Walk in the past, but now I cry.
A tear rolls slowly down my cheek,
For where my home once stood
There’s nothing but a barren lake…
My “reminder” gone for good.
Ivory Towers
by LaVerne Stallings
(Excerpt from Echoes)
No, My Friend, it’s not lost battles
Or the scars defeating me.
It is they, upon the mountain,
Looking down indifferently!
Whether rising from the carnage
Or if valor leaves you still,
It’s unimportant to the cynic
Who views your struggle from a hill…
Far removed, but with the clamor
And a pessimistic view
By which to judge the effort
As the lances pierce me through!
But, I’d rather to have suffered;
Fought the battle, though I fall,
Than exist in Ivory Towers
And not have lived at all!
Listen to the voice of conscience
If brotherhood is your desire.
Come and share my meal of maggots
And stand beside me in the mire!
Lament of These
by Kent Clair Chamberlain
Of these, the makers of Fine
Music, all are
Dead.
Of these, the Singers of Fine
Words, all are
Perished of a Neglectful World.
Of these, the painter of Fine
Dreams,
Where are they whom we have Exiled with
Broken
Hearts?
Tall Pines
by Harry Slocum Tordoff
Out in the country near our reservoir,
We have what are called “Water Sheds”:
Tall pines grouped close along the shore
Like gossiping Co-eds!
In summertime it looks so cool
In the dark depths of their branches…
Here and there, a shining pool
Through their needles meets our glances.
All summer long their dark green beauty
Entices the populace there
To gaze on them as they stand mutely
Looking to God in prayer.
It surely is a restful scene
As one rides slowly by,
Watching nature proudly preen
Beneath a bright blue sky.
In Fall, when other trees are losing
Their leaves to Old Jack Frost,
(Who saunters by perusing
His list of Nature’s loss)
Those tall old pines stand firmly pat
And refuse with their green to part;
Making a sheltering refuge that
Will warm a wild thing’s heart.
And all through the blasts of a Winter’s cold,
Those needles of pine still cling,
So that all Winter’s fury, so cruel and bold
Cannot penetrate with its sting.
That Nature’s own, both bird and beast,
In the grip of a Love Divine,
Find all their hopes of life increased
By God’s “Sheltering Hand” of pine.
Short Circuit 2
Harry S. & Etna L. Tordoff
For U.A.P.