A Cruise From Hell: A Rondel*

A South Pacific cruise so sweet

Until an ugly brawl broke out

A girl’s flip-flop caused a lout 

To push and kick and curse and beat

This wilding family, such conceit 

They prowled the decks to scream and shout

A South Pacific cruise so sweet

Until an ugly brawl broke out 

The staff attacked in white hot heat

Heads were hammered, men knocked about

Families frightened fled the rout 

Officials made arrests discreet 

A South Pacific cruise so sweet

   *News source: ”’Brawl family’ clashed with staff,” www.news.com.au, Feb. 22, 2018

My Story. By Jack

My mom and I share a cozy homestead

But last week she told me, “No money” 

“We’ll have to sell Old Bess,” Mother said 

A great shock, that sweet cow's our honey

We left for the market, much to my distress

At the gate, a raggedy old man 

He offered to trade magic beans for Old Bess  

To me, such an intriguing plan 

Back home I showed the beans to my mom

But she screamed, “You didn’t get our money???” 

I did my best to stay peaceful and calm

But she told me that this was not funny  

I ran upstairs crying, crawled right into bed

Out the window went the beans, such a shock

I woke in the morning with a feeling of dread

But there, in our yard, a great stalk

I tossed on my trousers, my shirt, and my shoes

Up the stalk I started to climb 

Two miles high, such astonishing views 

In the distance, a castle sublime

Standing in the doorway, a tall lady giant   

With a huge yellow eye on her head 

I tried to act polite and even compliant 

One false step, I knew I’d be dead  

Suddenly loud crashes came from the yard

Her husband was coming, some eighteen feet tall

His face was all ruddy and jagged and scarred 

I hid in the closet at the end of the hall 

The giant chanted, “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum  

“I smell the blood of an Englishman

“Be he alive, or be he dead

“I'll have his bones to grind my bread!”

That creature sat down and reached into a keg 

He pulled out a sickly white hen  

In seconds that hen laid a golden egg 

Worth at least sixty shekels and ten 

I stayed in the closet till the giant fell asleep 

Then the hen and I ran down the walk 

I think that the hen must have made a loud peep

The giant came running as we climbed down the stalk 

We scampered down that stalk as fast as we could

With the giant following closely behind us

I grabbed my axe, began chopping the wood

I could hear the big brute fuss and cuss

At the very last second the stalk tumbled down 

The giant screamed out in loud fear 

Then he crashed right down upon his bald crown

So relieved, hen and I, in the clear 

Our hen now produces a golden egg every day 

The first one, I bought back Old Bess 

Mom, me, Bess, Hen — all contented I’d say 

Is this a happy ending?  Well, yes!

Mike

When we moved to the river in ’46,

we had only one neighbor, Lew Reed

who lived a half mile west on River Road

with his Irish setter, Mike.  

Mike, a handsome specimen, red hair, strong legs,

keen eyes, a noble disposition.   

Lew and Mike would walk down the shore to visit

and we kids would cavort with the dog.

Running and jumping, tossing sticks and balls, 

wading in the river, resting in the sun. 

Soon, whenever Lew let him out, 

Mike would run away and come to our house.

We too him home at the end of the day.   

Finally Lew Reed relented to  fate

and he gifted Mike to our family.

We were thrilled. 

So fantastic

so smart

mature

a loyal companion

calm, affectionate, well-behaved.

Mike camped with us at Mason Park 

Long hikes on the river shore. 

Tossing the football, foot races in the yard.  

In the summer our family took our boat to Indian Island for picnics. 

Four kids, no room in the rowboat for a dog

so Mike swam along behind the boat — 

. . . . . . . . . . . . a half mile or more.

Mike loved chasing the chipmunks on the lawn.

Squirrels too, occasionally a rabbit. 

Each year he would corner a porcupine, 

winding up with a nose full of quills.

Yikes!  Ouch!  Ooooh! 

Off to Dr. Seidl for painful extractions.

A year later he’d forgotten and

he did it all over again. 

One spring afternoon Mike fell through the river ice.

My mother forbade us to leave the house

and she crawled out on the ice on her stomach

to rescue our beloved dog.

My grandfather bought us a second Irish setter in Florida.

We named her Micki and Mike was her mentor. 

Mike trained Micki to never do her business on our lawn.

Instead, they went to the birch grove next door. 

Mike and Micki got into a vicious fight.

My mother intervened, had her forearm ripped open.

At the hospital she forgave the dogs 

and blamed herself instead.  

Mike lived to a ripe old age.

Then one summer day he collapsed outside our door

dead from a stroke.  

I dug his grave in our back pasture.

A deep grave for a large dog.

My sister added a wooden cross that she’d made.    

I remember exactly how that gravedigging felt.

It still brings tears to my eyes. 

Bombs Are On My Mind

              Hiroshima

          August 6, 1945

      the first atomic bomb

80,000 people died in place.

We learned about the A-bomb in our Weekly Reader. 

Harry Truman, Miss Zellinger said,

saved America from destruction.

She taught us about the 

peace-time wonders of atomic energy.

But what stuck in our child-minds —

the firestorms destroying all life on Earth.  

Fourth grade, we had monthly atomic bomb drills

First, we put away all pencils and erasers. 

Then we hid our heads under our desks.

No one understood just why.  

Deeny-Boy thought

maybe radiation can’t go through wood. 

The nineteen-fifties, the superpower arms race.

In my U.P. hometown many believed

we were a likely target of a Russian A-bomb.

From high in the sky, the elders said, we were easily mistaken for

the St. Lawrence Seaway.

If the Russian bombers were off by only a smidgeon…

So long, Menominee County!

My father and Uncle Lars came to a decision.

Our family needed  an @&%*#! atomic bomb shelter.

So, in the basement of my grandfather’s drugstore

they outfitted our room.    

Canned foods, bottled water, graham crackers,

plates and silverware, dish towels, Brillo pads,

flashlights, matches and candles,

extra underwear and socks,

pillows, towels, blankets,

empty paper bags,

comic books, crossword puzzles,

and lastly a portable toilet.

Uncle Lars argued strongly that we needed rifles

in case the townspeople

tried to force their way into our space.  

My father was ambivalent about

killing our neighbors.

So they never did bring in the rifles.

Skip ahead a few years.

My wife and I, students in Ann Arbor.

October 22^nd, 1962, the Cuban Missile crisis.

Nuclear war in the offing.

We were dangerously close to Detroit, a prime target.

Fear, cold sweats.

We thought about driving to the U.P.

to our family bomb shelter.

But then I remembered 

the St. Lawrence Seaway

so we hunkered down with our dog.

Many decades passed

and I almost forgot about atomic bombs.

But now we have a president

who threatens nuclear war with North Korea.

From the air Cincinnati could easily be mistaken for Detroit.

Or Pittsburgh.

Or Cleveland.

   

And we don’t have a family bomb shelter any more.

But at least I learned how to

hide my head under

my desk.