Old Man Brxb

A place for my poems

Archive for the category “Poems”

The Man Who Went Into the Office Dry and Came out Wet

The Man Who Went Into the Office Dry and Came out Wet

(Or “The Day The Roof Fell In On Don”)
by J. Carl Brooksby for my son, Don, the victim

At CLH Computers,
Don, the manager, sits alone
And thinks of all the good times
And how the company has grown.

It is the rainy season,
Though rain is scarce to see
At the building where this good man works
In the city of Tempe

Last night they’d had a good storm.
It had rained an inch or so,
But the building seemed to take it well,
Though hard the wind did blow.

But unbeknownst to one and all,
The roof drain was plugged up.
And all the rain that had come down
Was held, like in a cup.

‘Twas a bright and sunny morning.
In the cubicle he did stand.
He’d gone to see his helper, Ben.
Who was his right hand man.

He heard a noise above him,
And upward he did stare.
He saw the ceiling bulging down.
It gave him quite a scare!

He quickly turned to leave in haste,
But alas, he heard a roar.
The roof came down and smote him;
Knocked that big man to the floor.

Down gushed the water with its might
As he lay stunned below.
With thundering force he was swept out.
Through the hallway he did go.

He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t move.
Was at the mercy of the waters.
His life flashed quickly through his mind,
And he thought of his son and daughters.

As luck would be, there was a wall;
He hit it with his head.
Then, slowly he began to rise
When he found he wasn’t dead.

And, dripping water head to toe,
To the lobby he did run,
And in his strongest voice did yell,
“Call 911! Call 911!”

Did anyone call 911?
I answer loudly, “No”.
Curiosity took hold of them.
Toward his office they did go.

Back to that wretched mess he went,
Mid the rubble and debris.
Unplugging eight computers,
Stood in water to his knees.

When finally the place calmed down,
He sat down to relax.
But soon his head and shoulder felt
Like he’d been smitten with an axe.

He called upon his dear sweet wife
To tell her of his woe.
She listened, then let out a gasp,
And to his rescue she did go.

And thus was the day when the roof came down;
The manager’s head still aches.
Heaven save us all from a fate like that
In the building at CLH.

(Author’s note: The above actually happened, on August 29, 2008)


To VerDon on Mothers Day 2006

“I’ll Never Get Enough of You”
By J. Carl Brooksby
(Written for VerDon)

You know I like my Pepsi,
Not Coke or Mountain Dew.
A glass or two will do me,
But I can’t get enough of you.

I’ve always liked your cooking,
Especially your stew.
I can only eat a bowl or two,
But I can’t get enough of you.

How I love chocolate candy,
Nuts and caramels I can chew.
Two or three’s enough for me,
But I cant get enough of you.

How I love to go fishing,
And catch a trout or two.
A day or two will tire me out,
But I never get tired of you

We knelt across the altar,
Sealed for eternity.
Eternity, with me and thee,
Is not a bit too long for me.

Gatherin’ Desert Shrimp

Gatherin’ Desert Shrimp
by J. Carl Brooksby 

Oft’ times my mind will wander,
Though I am old and gimp,
Back to those days back yonder,
And gatherin’ desert shrimp.

Now, kids ‘n ladies, turn around
An’ quickly walk away. 
There’s sex an’ violence herein;
So, what more need I say?

You’ve heard of mountain oysters
And the source from whence they come;
Well, the shrimp have a similar background,
But they’re smaller than your thumb.

Each spring, the little lambies
Are taken from their ma’s
And to make the scene more tragic,
They don’t even know their pa’s.

A kid will catch them one by one,
To the lambs, it don’t make sense,
When he grabs aholt of all four legs
An’ sits ’em on the fence.

If they only knew, that man they face,
With a sharpened knife,
Holds their future in his hands:
The keys to death an’ life.

First thing he does is notch their ears
An’ then he bobs their tail
That ends it if the lamb’s a she:
God help him if he’s male.

The “he” lamb has a hairy bag
That’s cut off at the tip.
Exposin’ two small objects;
From yer fingers they would slip.

The one sure way to git ’em, is
Ta put yer nose down in their wool,
Then grasp ’em firmly ‘twixt yer teeth
An’ give a gentle pull.

Then the kid’ll drop the little lamb,
An’ he takes off with a limp.
He’s become an organ donor 
Of two fine desert shrimp.

Meanwhile, ya have the slippery things
A dangling from yer lips.
It’s crucial not ta swaller now,
Or down yer throat they’ll slip.

Ya slowly turn yer head around
An’ spit ’em in the pan;
Y’ can hardly wait fer supper,
If you are half a man.

Y’ fry ’em well in bacon grease
An’ add terbasko sauce.
Ta think of somethin’ tastier,
I’m completely at a loss.

Don’t seek ’em in a butcher shop,
Or at the grocery store.
Y’ll have to go an’ gather ’em
As in the days of yore.

The Brooksby’s Lament

The Brooksby's Lament

Written in 1984
By J. Carl Brooksby

When people mention Paris,
I’m afraid we just stare blankly,
We’d really like to go there,
But we can’t afford it, franc-ly.

When our friends mention England
We just sit and look around,
We’d like to go there with them,
But we just don’t have the #.

We’d like to go to Mexico
But it takes five million Pesos
So, if you’d like to go without us.
Just go ahead and say so.

We like the Blue Ridge Mountains
With all its hills and hollers.
We’d really like to go there,
But we just don’t have the $.

We’d like to visit Europe;
We’d like to go with you.
So why don’t we book passage
For 1992?

We'd like to visit Italy
And hob-nob with the Pope.
But in order to finance the trip,
We'll have to peddle dope.

Our son has gone to college,
Where all good scholars go,
Yes, our son goes to college;
That's where our $s also go.

We could put a mortgage on our house
We could travel far and often.
But when the good times all are past,
Who'll pay for our coffin?

2006 and we just found this valuable poem in a file.

The Old Barn

The Old Barn
By J. Carl Brooksby

When I see an old barn, my thoughts return home
To the place where I lived ere I started to roam.
I think ever fondly of our barn full of hay,
Where, as youthful children, we would frolic and play.

We’d tie ropes to the rafters; we could climb there with ease,
And pretend we were men on the flying trapeze.
We would fly high and low; we’d swing and we’d sway,
Then, when we got tired, we would fall on the hay.

In the sweet-smelling hay, we would lie on our backs
And look at the sunbeams in the sun through the cracks.
We’d play “cops and robbers” and fall “dead” on the hay;
There were so many games that we children could play.

We could play “hide and seek”, there were places to hide.
There were kittens to play with and horses to ride.
We could drive in the milk cows from the field down below;
Never get them excited, but drive them in slow.

Now, the barn is not there: there are houses instead,
But those ever sweet memories are still in my head.
I can never forget the contentment and charm
Of those sweet summer days that we spent in the barn.


By J. Carl Brooksby

I have shot some mighty rapids and I’ve skied the mountain slopes;
I have ridden bucking broncos and caught cattle with my rope.
I’ve water skied Lake Powell and I’ve fished the mountain lakes;
I’ve even been surrounded by a den of rattlesnakes.

I’ve sailed the blue Pacific where the flyin’ fishes play,
Rode out a raging typhoon in Okinawa’s Buckner Bay,
Been in the heat of battle, seen the billowing smoke so gray,
But I ne’er knew real excitement ‘til I became a CPA

Oh, what sheer exhilaration!  Oft’ my heart would pound with fright,
To find a credit on the left, or a debit on the right..
And adding rows of numbers brought me joy beyond compare.
Searching for someone’s errors when there’s seldom any there.

At parties, I was sought out for my brilliant conversation,
Discoursing on the subject of bank reconciliation.
And everyone would huddle ‘round to hear me tell what’s new
About the regulations of  Internal Revenue.

I sit in fond remembrance of late nights in my abode,
Snuggled in my easy chair, with the Internal Revenue Code.
And oft’ I’d wait with bated breath to read the new pronouncements
From the U. S. Institute of Certified Accountants.

Assets and Liabilities are such fun to comprehend;
The incomes and expenses give me pleasure without end.
But that is all behind me now, and I am proud to say,
I have lived life to the fullest; I have been a CPA.  


By J. Carl Brooksby

I’ve lost my equilibrium:
I stagger when I walk.
You’d think I’d took up drinking,
To hear the neighbors talk.

I know it isn’t in my head
Though I have lost my hair.
The doctor took a brain scan
And discovered nothing there.

And then he took some X-rays
Of my ankles, hips and knees
And gave me his assurance
That it was really none of these.

He checked my heart and kidneys,
My liver and my lungs,
And found that they are just as good
As they were when I was young.

Then he gave his diagnosis;
Here’s what he said to me,
”I’m afraid that you are terminal.
You’ve got a case of O L D.”

My Mustache

   My Mustache

You’ve heard about the bad man
With a big iron on his hip.
Well, I’ve become the mean guy
With a mustache on my lip.

This patch of hair beneath my nose
Has made me mean and tough.
Tread lightly when you see me
“Cause I don’t take no guff.

As I go walkin’ down the street
The sheriff steps aside.
When the women see me comin’
They pull their kids inside.

I sleep on beds of cactus thorns,
Chew rawhide for my lunch.
If Butch Cassidy was still around,
I’d whip his wild bunch.

So if you feel inclined to fight,
I will on one condition.
First, I’ll have to hurry home
And get my wife’s permission.


Lookin’ Young

Lookin’ Young By
J. Carl Brooksby

“Old man, you’re really lookin’ young”, my friends say when we meet,
But I’ll tell you a secret that you must not repeat.
I know I’m lookin’ healthy, and I never have no ills,
If I remember daily, to take my seven pills.

Each mornin’, there’s a green pill that always must be taken.
It goes straight to my fingers to stop them from a shakin’.
To regulate my pressure and keep the strokes away,
I send a little blue pill to my aorta twice a day.

I take a small brown capsule; in my stomach it must stop,
To make certain that my food goes down and doesn’t come back up.
A triangular-shaped blue pill to my prostate is directed,
To guarantee my water works will always be protected.

I take a yellow pill to stop the tremor in my tongue.
It never used to do that when I was somewhat young.
I must take a big white pill at each lunch time, that is certain:
It goes directly to my legs, to keep my knees from hurtin’.

At suppertime I just repeat three of the aforementioned.
At bedtime, there’s a pink pill to relieve me of my tension.
There’s one more pill that I should take as you must surely know.
A traffic regulator to tell each pill where to go!

If I forget to take my pills, my hands begin to tremble,
I get a wet spot on my pants, and my stomach starts to rumble.
My jaw and tongue start waggin’, when I’m not even talkin’
And I have to take along a cane to help me when I’m walkin’

Well, now you know my secret, and I’ll never lose my youth
For I keep it stored in bottles, if you want to know the truth.
So if you think you’re seeing me, it’s really not myself.
You’re lookin’ at those seven pills that I keep on the shelf.


By J. Carl Brooksby

Now featured on cowboypoetry.com.

Do ya remember jest how blue ya felt
The first time ya left yer mom,
An’ went away ta Boy Scout camp
A hundred miles from home?

Or went away ta college
Residin in a dorm,
An’ ya missed yer mom an’ daddy
An’ yer little sweetheart’s charm?

An’ ya felt so blue an’ lonesome
That ya cried yerself ta sleep.
Well, you don’t know what lonesome is
If you aint herded sheep.

Campin’ out all by yerself
No human bein’ in thirty miles
With a thousand onery woolies;
That sure don’t make ya smile.

Jest you, yer dog an’ them woolies
Out in the desert dry,
An ya think of yer friends a dancin’
Beneath the starlit sky.

An’ yer little gal’s a dancing close
Ta that dude from out a town,
An’ ya haven’t bathed fer nigh two weeks;
She wouldn’t want you around.

Ya see the tumble weeds roll by
A blowin’ in the dust;
You’d like a drink of water,
But yer canteen’s full o’ rust

Or ya hear the wild coyote cry
When yer tryin’ to go ta sleep.
No, you don’t know what lonesome is,
Cause you ain’t herded sheep.

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