Old Man Brxb

A place for my poems

Archive for the category “Poems”

My Nose Job

by J. Carl Brooksby
(Based on facts, with some variations here and there)

I had a couple o’ little spots appear on the side o’ my nose.
Y’ve heard about skin cancers? Well, these spots wuz some o’ those.
Doc sez, “These need to git cut out; go see a cancer surgeon.”
The “C”word didn’t scare me none, but I didn’t need no urgin’

This new doc sez, “I’ll cut some out, then we’ll see if we got it all.
Wait around here fer a hour or so. If I need ta cut more, I’ll call.”
Well, he called me back, but not jest once. It wuz seven times, I’d guess.
By the time that feller put down his knife, my face wuz a bloody mess.

He’d cut away down off my nose, and out onto my cheek.
Each round, the lab sez, “Cut some more”, an’ I’m turnin’ into a freak..
An’ each time he’s slicin’ off my skin, jest what do you suppose?
He repeats that same ol’ tired joke, “This ain’t no skin off o’ my nose”.

Wipin’ his brow, he said, “I’m done, but ya’ can’t walk around like that.
Yer face will heal all scarred an’ raw; you’ll scare little kids an’ cats.
Yer face must be patched up, repaired or you will look a fright.
Go see the plastic surgeon; upstairs, third door to the right.”

This here doc sez, “The wound’s so big, I’ll have ta graft some skin.
Jest give me a second to sharpen my knife, an’ then I’ll dive right in.
The purest and the softest skin grows where the sun don’t shine.
So I’ll take a patch frum yer a.. a.. armpit; that should do jest fine.”

Well, today, he took the bandage off, an’ to my disgust and horror,
I saw long hairs growin’ off my nose, when I looked in the mirror.
An’ dryin’ off frum a nice hot shower, a unique thought arose.
I had the strangest, sudden urge to rub deodorant on my nose!

I’ve always known, ya smell with yer nose, and with yer feet, ya run.
Well, would ya believe, the side of my nose now sweats like a son of a gun.
I shaved those long hairs offa my nose; those surgeons meant no harm.
But I’m all mixed up; what do I do now? Put shave lotion under my arm?


Buying a Tie

By J. Carl Brooksby

I think that I shall never spy
A thing as useless as a tie.
A tie that lies upon your chest,
Outside your shirt, beneath your vest.

A tie, though it be bow or string,
Is such a silly, useless thing.
A tie – a narrow piece of cloth,
The cost of which will make you wroth.

A tie whose knot is pulled too tight,
Impedes your breath, impairs your sight.
I think that you should never try
To buy another man a tie.

A tie that would look good to me
May be repugnant unto thee.
I like this one that’s nice and pink.
But unto you, the tie might stink.

Or, how about this one that’s blue?
How is it going to look to you?
Or in your closet, on the rack,
All of your ties are blue or black.

So, you just go and buy your own,
And I will stick to writing poems.
Poems are made by fools like I,
But only you should buy your tie.

If I Get to Heaven

If I Get to Heaven
by J. Carl Brooksby

If I get to heaven,
There will most likely be
Many folks whose presence there
Will be a shock to me.

But I surely must be quiet;
I must not even stare.
Doubtless there’ll be many folks
Surprised to see me there.

My Summer of Leisure

My Summer of Leisure
VerDon Brooksby (as told to her husband, Carl)

In April, I lost my ambition
My get up and go was all spent.
I needed rest and relaxation,
So, I must tell you just where I went.

My husband called for a white limo,
Equipped with red lights and a bed.
We drove to a spa out in Scottsdale
Of which I am sure you have read.

They took all my clothes and destroyed them,
And gave me a new evening gown.
Of the kind that are fashioned in Paris;
The back opened all the way down.

Through a hole in my throat, they breathed for me,
Pumping oxygen straight to my lungs.
To avoid all need for exertion,
They bypassed my tonsils and tongue.

I was fed through a tube in my stomach.
There was no need to swallow or chew.
I just had to lie there in comfort.
In short, I had nothing to do.

There were servants to fill all my wishes.
They all were so careful and kind.
At the touch of a button, I could call them
To change me and wipe my behind.

But, they noticed one thing I was doing,
At times, my eyes were still blinking.
So they shot a strong sedative in me.
Soon, into deep sleep I was sinking.

But one day I awoke from my slumber
Refreshed, but so terribly weak.
They taught me to breathe and to swallow,
And also to walk and to speak.

Time flies when your life is enjoyable.
And I cannot dispute that at all.
For today I caught a glimpse of the calendar,
Summer’s gone, and It’s already fall!

The Shearing Pen Chef

The Shearing Pen Chef

by J. Carl Brooksby – 2012

We wuz workin’ at the shearin’ pens
Back in the days of yore.
I was about eighteen years old,
And ol’ Cliff was around twenty four.
We was bunkin’ together in the sheep wagon,
An’ Cliff , bein’ the older man,
Took on the task of cookin’ our meals-
While I washed the pots an’ the pans.

Now you may think this an easy job,
But it takes on a different hue
When ya think of how a tired a man may be
When he still has the cookin’ to do.
Well, the first mornin’ we was up at four,
An’ Cliff fried up a dozen eggs.
“Six fer me an’ six fer you.
These ‘ll put strength in yer legs”.

That mornin’ was long an’ the work was hard.
At noon, Cliff headed fer the wagon.
To scramble us up a dozen eggs
Although his fanny wuz a draggin’
It wuz near sundown when we quit fer the day,
An’ ol’ Cliff didn’t shirk on his task.
He boiled us up a dozen eggs.
What better supper could ya ask?

Next mornin’, again the eggs wuz fried,
But I’d better not complain,
The code of the camp sez if ya do,
The cookin’ becomes yer domain.
Well, the shearin’ went on fer eight days more
An’ eggs, about twenty-four dozen.
Wuz eaten by me an’ ol’ Cliff,
(He wuz married to my cousin.)

Now you might think eatin’ jest eggs like that
Would shorten our fragile lives,
But I have now passed eighty nine,
And ol’ Cliff is ninety five.
The other ten men of the crew didn’t eat jest eggs,
And it is my sad duty to say,
You’ll never meet one of them guys on the street,
Becuz they have all passed away.

Being Eighty Eight

Being Eighty Eight
by J. Carl Brooksby-2012

You might think that it’s easy,
Being eighty eight
But I am here to tell you
It isn’t all that great

“Don’t ever climb a ladder, dear”,
My wife says, with a frown.
“You might think you’re safe up there,
But surely you’ll fall down

“Don’t try to pick that grandchild up.
Don’t try to climb those stairs.
Don’t ever use your chainsaw
And never stand on chairs.

“Don’t do any yard work.
Don’t get close to the pool.
You’ll surely lose your balance
And fall in and get too cool.

“Don’t go walking by yourself,
You’ll fall and break your arm.
Don’t try to push that lawn mower.
It will surely cause you harm.

Don’t ever try to do this,
Don’t consider doing that.
But don’t sit there doing nothing
Or your mind will go plumb flat!”

My kids say, “Come and see us,
But you must come when it’s light.
You cannot see things well enough
To drive when it is night.”

I think my driving’s excellent,
I drive with cautious care.
One thing you can rely on,
I always get us there

But some day when they’re viewing me,
In my casket cold,
Some friend will ask my children,
“What was his age, how old?”

My kids will wipe the tears away,
And answer, “Ninety-five”
“Ninety-five? Man Alive!
Why did you let him drive?

Just Do It

Just Do It
by J. Carl Brooksby

If there’s a job that you must do,
Just do it!
It doesn’t help to sit and stew,
Hop to it!
You should never hesitate;
Or you’re apt to finish late
Then unto yourself you’ll state,
I blew it!

If you have a truth to say,
Just say it!
If you have a prayer to pray,
Then Pray it!
You should always learn what’s right,
You then should seek for heaven’s light.
Then speak it out both day and night
Don’t delay it!

If there’s a sermon you should preach,
Then preach it!
If there’s a lesson you should teach.
Just teach it.
Stand up tall and face the crowd.
Speak up boldly, clear and loud,
If there’s a goal you’d like to reach,
Then reach it!.

Because you have one life to live,
Be happy!
When there’s some service you can give,
Be snappy!
Serving others is God’s way;
With His help, it seems like play.
Serve other folks, then you will say,
I’m happy!

VerDon’s Life – Her Version

VerDon’s Life – Her Version

         By J. Carl Brooksby

She was born in a corner of heaven
Where the country is really quite hilly,
Where the weather is ever so pleasant –
Never too hot nor too chilly.
In autumn, the trees turn all colors;
In winter, some light snow and ice.
In springtime all nature is budding;
The summers are always quite nice.

She grew to a lovely young lady
In that town where it’s ever so pleasant.
But those were the days of long long ago,
And now we must move towards the present.
She knew if she stayed there in heaven,
She’d wind up a cowboy’s wife.
And although she worshiped her cowboy dad,
She didn’t want that kind of life.

She fell for a man with ambition
With a college degree to his name.
He wanted to live in the city
And hopefully gain wealth and fame..
They married and moved south to Mesa,
Where the first Christmas felt just like summer.
Early springtime was really quite fine,
But the summer was really a bummer.

They often fought scorpions and spiders;
They suffered from sunstroke and thirst.
They found they had moved to the devil’s playground;
Hell’s own heat could not have been worse.
Each day the sun would shine hotter,
And hotter, and hotter yet;
They felt like they lived in an oven;
Even Satan was breaking a sweat.

She thought they would soon rise above it
And move to a pleasanter place,
But weeks turned to months and months went to years,
And they never did leave the rat race.
Now they’ve lived sixty years in this oven,
And she always has been the good wife.
She knows that she’ll end up in heaven:
For she’s lived in hell her whole married life.

Musings of an Old House

Musings of an Old House
By J. Carl Brooksby
June 2009 (After painting “for the last time”)

My owners have bought me a new coat.
It’s yellow with trimmings of white.
Though the color’s the same as my old one,
To me, that is really all right.

I’m “The Yellow House on the Corner”
Of that name , I’ve always been proud.
After using this name for forty eight years,
No name change should now be allowed.

They say it’s the last coat they’ll give me,
For they are both wrinkled and gray.
They always have treated me kindly,
And I’d hate to see them move away.

I remember when times were much different.
When laughter and song filled each room.
They always made each other happy:
There was no room for trouble or gloom.

Their three kids were young when they built me.
And my owners were happy and gay.
But soon they brought in a boy baby.
That started those folks turning gray.

My basement was a place for those children,
To let their imaginations run free.
I always took pride that they loved me.
I was where they all wanted to be.

I was always the place for their parties;
Teen-agers were here by the score.
No one was ever excluded.
There always was room for one more.

They’ve kept my surroundings quite lovely,
With green lawns and trees around me.
A place for their children to frolic,
Where they could be happy and free.

Now, those children have grown up and left me.
They have lovely homes of their own.
But I ever will cherish the mem’ries
Of them before they were grown.

Now they oft bring their children and grandkids
To parties that my owners still give.
For it brings back fond thoughts of their childhood.
I’m the place where their memories live.

For always I’ve given them shelter
From the hard knocks that life often brought.
And they builded their lives on the virtues
And lessons their parents have taught.

Yes, they say they have bought me my last coat,
And e’er long they’ll be laid to their rest.
But their family will never forget me,
For my shelter will always be best.

Advice for the Newlyweds

As a tottering old codger,
Grandpa is the name,
I’m here to share my wisdom;
Now aren’t you glad I came?

Never sweat the little things;
There’s nothing you can gain.
Remember that you pledged your love.
Don’t cause your partner pain.

She has found the perfect man.
What more could she desire?
He’s her knight in shining armor,
Who sets her heart on fire.

And he has found the perfect gal
To help him through this life.
She’s everything he’s waited for;
She’ll be the perfect wife.

But wait; he’s found a tiny flaw
That bothers him a little.
“The toothpaste tube is out of shape;
You squoze it in the middle!”

“Oh, don’t you know there’s no such word?
You really should say ‘squeezed’
And I suppose you’d say I snoze
Instead of that I sneezed”

He didn’t hang his trousers up
But left them in a heap.
“I must chastise him properly
Before I go to sleep.”

“Oh, must we talk about this now?
Can’t it wait ’til morning?
You know I need to get my sleep;
You must have heard me snoring.”

Those little things you’ll notice
About each other later,
Don’t grab them up, but drop them
Just like a hot potater.

He can be a perfect husband;
She can be a perfect wife;
But not a perfect person,
And that’s a fact of life.

Just love each other as you are;
Ignore the flaws you see.
Don’t try to change the one you love,
But let the defects be.

No, never sweat the little things;
Speak sweetly to each other.
If you thought you needed more advice,
You’d not have left your mother.

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