THANKS

Thanks to my mother and father

    who raised us all to have good lives

Thanks to my siblings 

     best playmates and friends 

 Thanks to my teachers over 22 years 

     Miss Herscheid and Miss Guimond 

     Mr. Taylor, Mr. Eidt, and Mr. Biller 

     Dr. Eng, Dr. Filler, and Dr. Jerome

     Dr. Miller, Dr. Swanson, and Dr. Newcomb 

         who kept my brain buzzing 

 Thanks to Antioch College 

     which taught me I was a beatnik 

     but shaped my life direction nonetheless 

 Thanks to the University of Cincinnati 

     which gave us shelter, resources, and life tasks 

 Thanks to Justin and Kiersta 

     for special times, fun, and pride 

 Thanks to our grandkids Alex and Leo

     our hope for the future 

Thanks to our many friends over the years 

     who fill our bank with good memories 

Thanks to Dr. Cleves and Dr. Rabkin 

     who keep us kicking and plugging along 

 Thanks to all our family dogs over the years 

     for their unconditional love 

 Thanks to OLLI poetry teachers 

     who have kept me busy in retired life 

 Thanks to Katja for 

     marrying me 

     giving birth to our son 

     buying me motorcycles

     buying us dogs 

     making salisbury steak 

     taking me to the opera

The Day I Tackled Abber Murphy

In Miss Guimond’s sixth grade class 

I was one of the goodie goodie students, 

raggedy penmanship 

but number two in spelling 

and decent at arithmetic. 

At recess on the playground though, 

a different kettle of fish. 

I was the littlest sixth grader, 

the youngest, the scrawniest. 

When picking sides for football, 

I always stood there waiting till the end. 

Come November’s first big snowfall, 

the boys turned to “Tackle”. 

A simple game, just one rule: 

one boy was named the runner,

the others’ job, to tackle him. 

Two dozen scalawags, 

hooting and hollering, 

chasing the runner from here to there. 

He who tackled the runner became the new runner, 

and the game began all over again. 

Runners zigged and zagged, 

dodged and stiff-armed, 

but the playground was only so large 

and the runner always got cornered. 

The only question was how 

long he could stay on his feet. 

The runners, nearly always the same: 

Abber, Gundy, Jimmy B, 

John John, Deeny Boy. 

Abber Murphy was the champ by far, 

the fastest toughest kid in our school, 

the fullback on the football team. 

One time we surrounded Abber at the back wall 

and he turned around and 

he looked me straight in the eye 

and I thought to myself, 

“I knew it, he’s going to kill me.” 

I crouched down, stretched out my arms,

shut my eyes, held my breath. 

Abber slammed into me head-on and, 

wonder of wonders, he lost his footing 

and we both tumbled into the snow. 

All the boys started cheering 

(at least that’s how I imagine it), 

and Abber said, “Good tackle, Bud!” 

So I was the next runner 

but I only got eight feet or so 

before somebody knocked me down. 

It didn’t matter, my heart 

was bursting with joy. 

Though I never got to be runner again, 

I’ll never forget the time 

that it was me who tackled Abber Murphy.