Old Man Brxb

A place for my poems

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.

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.


Post Navigation