Blog

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Welcome to the blog.

I write sappy poems that sometimes rhyme. I like history, old Fords, dirt bikes, the High Desert and trolling politicians on Twitter..

I will post my latest poems and musings here.

For earlier posts, see the Contents on the home page.

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Sample Poems:

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The Man Who Killed Santa

Mesa Arizona, in the year of Thirty-Two.

Damn old Depression’s got everybody blue.

Prospects for a their Christmas lookin’ kinda’ bad.

Empty stores aboundin’, merchants feelin’ sad.

At the local paper, the Editor expounds,

If only Santa’s early on his joyful rounds.

But Santa drives a sleigh, on snow he must land,

And all that Mesa offers is shiftin’, driftin’ sand.

What if Santa ditched the sleigh, if only for a day?

Maybe in an areophane he could make his merry way.

The city fathers are quick to go along,

Planes are pretty safe, nuthin’ can go wrong.

They find a parachutist lookin’ for a thrill,

With all his courage, he will surely fill the bill.

The Sixteenth of December will mark the happy date,

When Santa floats to Earth and wouldn’t that be great?

McPhee has planned it all, he puts it in the paper,

For all the world to see, it’s Santa’s greatest caper.

When the day arrives, as kids do scan the skies,

McPhee he goes a’ lookin’ for his Santa, fat and wise.

He finds him in the tavern drunker than a louse,

Not the sort of Santa for your chimney or your house.

The Editor he panics, he’ll have to improvise,

If Santa doesn’t show, he’ll face a lot of whys.

He begs for a mannequin from the clothing store,

Nuthin’ makes a Santa except the clothes he wore.

He dresses up the dummy in the Santa suit,

And all the kids will see him with his parachute.

The happy, smilin’ kids are linin’ up the street,

Waitin’ for old Santa to perform his daring feat.

They jump and cheer as the areoplane draws near,

Perfect day for Santa, the weather’s very clear.

The plane, it banks and turns as watchin’ it in awe,

They’re lookin’ at the door that merry face they saw.

Santa has appeared, he’ll soon be on the ground,

Then he’ll pass some candy to everyone around.

Santa flies on to a hayfield just beyond the town,

And Santa gets a shove ‘cause Santa must come down.

But one detail is missin’ from this careful plan,

Nobody pulls the ripcord, thinkin’ Santa can.

All the kids are lookin’ up as Santa makes his jump,

All their hearts are cheery, they even start to thump.

They watch him as he falls, somethin’ seems amiss,

Maybe somethin’s wrong, someone’s been remiss.

Mothers grabbin’ kids to shield them from the fright,

Of Santa’s mortal plunge, and his awful plight.

The kids they cannot see him landin’ in the dirt,

But they gotta’ know that Santa’s gonna hurt.

McPhee he will dress up in Santa’s battered suit,

Even though it’s missin’ its hat and a boot.

The kids they aren’t convinced, they saw Santa fall,

And for the town of Mesa there is a mournful pall.

McPhee has killed Santa, he’ll never live it down,

The sorrow never ends, he’s driven from the town.

LDT Dec ‘20

Link to the story: The Man Who Killed Santa Claus | Mental Floss

Hot Rod Ford

Hot Rod Ford

Drove here down from Phoenix, the radiator leaked,

This car was kinda’ slow as ‘neath the hood I peaked.

Pretty nice Ranchero, but it hasn’t got the go,

It’ll haul the bikes, but I don’t like the slow.

Lookin’ at my Fairlane, sittin’ there forlorn,

Had a lot of changes since it left Dearborn.

Engine from a Galaxie, tranny from a ‘Stang,

Four-Eleven gears, takes off with a bang.

But that deer I hit sort of bunged the hood,

Once it caught on fire, inside don’t look good.

Then my face is lit up with an evil grin,

I’ll never take that Fairlane for another spin.

I can fix that ‘Chero, it really ain’t that hard,

All the stuff I need is waitin’ at Murphy’s Yard.

Seven trips to Tucson, a rental hoist to pull,

Then that engine bay is lookin’ mighty full.

Fire it up and take a ride, better than I thought,

Little ford Ranchero is really kinda’ hot.

Now in this town there was another ‘Chero fast,

Pullin’ up beside him, his reign it cannot last.

He’s got a Two-Sixty, four speed on the floor,

But I go more cubes, I’ll surely slam his door.

As our engines rev we’re waitin’ for the light,

I’m gonna’ pull a hole shot on this fateful night.

At first we’re pretty even, engines they unwind,

Soon my taller first gear leaves his truck behind.

For one night on the street, Ranchero is the King,

If only I could get her back, I’d give most anything.

Blowout

             Blowout

At the lake and bored as hell,

Head for town, might as well.

Fifty-One Olds, an Eighty-Eight,

Got an overhead mill to motivate.

Buddy Tom mashes the gas,

Ain’t no car he can’t pass.

Winds her up, a Hundred Ten,

All a blur where we have been.

“Pretty fast,” I tell him so,

“But I got a car that’ll really go.”

It’s my Chrysler, New York Deluxe,

Bought it for a Hundred Bucks.

Hemi power under the hood,

At makin’ tracks it’s mighty good.

We take it out on Eighty-Seven,

Hope this trip don’t lead to heaven.

That Hemi was a ton of fun,

As the engine I did gun.

I call the speed as it winds up,

Let them horses out to gallop.

‘fore too long we hit a Hunert,

Watch the needle, stay alert.

I’m about to call One O Five,

Man this car has got the drive!

Somethin’ pops, there’s a bang,

 At the wheel, I just hang.

Leaves the road, hits the ditch,

Hang on tight, I don’t twitch.

Pass between the power poles,

Missed ‘em all, car just rolls.

Pasture fence on the right,

Open field could solve my plight.

Aim it for the harvest wheat,

Still my heart it will beat.

No combine cuts a cleaner swath,

Than a Chrysler’s ragin’ wroth.

Sixty miles an hour, I tap the brake,

Maybe now my fear will slake,

Rear end tries to swap around,

Makes my heart start to pound.

Just let it roll ‘till it stops,

Hope no one calls the cops.

White as snow, I look at Tom,

He’s sittin’ there a’ lookin’ calm.

“Pretty good, but mine is faster,

Yours’s is more like a disaster.”

Well that’s the story and it’s true.

Car’s too fast for me and you.

Lucky it didn’t make me dead,

Traded it in for a MoPed.

LDT Nov ‘20

Silver Hair

       William B. Bogardus

                   Silver Hair

Silver hair, like mountain snow,

Glistening on the vale below.

Eyes that said, “I understand”,

Always lent a helping hand.

Simple man, no airs had he,

Wanted all their best to be.

Lived a life filled with Grace,

Had no fear, his Lord to face.

Always tread the righteous path,

Not given to murk or wrath.

Silver hair, we miss him so,

Love you Dad, this we know.

LDT     7 Dec ‘20