13. Amateur Night, or Our Church Puts On a Play

It seemed a good idea just about six weeks ago,
For us to stage a play or two and make a little dough.
We chose a bunch of guys and gals to play the different parts,
We practiced and we practiced till we knew the thing by heart.

Then came the night, the grand premiere was just about to start,
The actors paced the dressing room, each one reviewed his part.
The lights went up, the curtain rose, a hush came o'er the place,
The Heroine tripped on the stage, and fell flat on her face.

The Hero hastened to her side, so quickly did he fly,
He slipped upon the well-waxed floor and gaily sailed right by.
We settled down to business then to do the play just right,
But nearly all the actresses were suffering from fright.

We missed our cues, forgot our lines, and stumbled on the stage,
Our quiet voiced director had by now worked up a rage.
One incident that brought a roar of laughter from the crowd:
The prompter stepped out on the stage and read the play aloud.

The Hero and the Villain fought to prove who was the boss.
The overanxious Villain threw the Hero for a loss.
The Father with a shotgun chased the Hero off the farm.
The Heroine with loving eyes swooned in the Villain's arms.

When the play was over, we came out to take a bow.
Someone in the back row shouted, "Let 'em have it now."
The air was thick with rotten fruit and age-old eggs to boot.
An overripe tomato caught the Hero on the snoot.

Though we made a lot of blunders and we muffed our lines a bit,
The play was quite a big success, it really was a hit.
We cared not for our victory or merits we had won.
To us the play had merely been a lot of good clean fun.

12. Be Strong and Work

When others falter by the way Beneath the heavy load,
Or take "time out" to stop and play
Along the dismal road,
Then square your shoulders with a grin
And lift the banner high,
It's up - and on - and on to win,
Our spirit must not die.

Let weaklings shirk the task at hand
And lay aside their oar,
For like a house upon the sand,
They're rotten at the core.
Give us the men with hearts of steel,
The ones who never fail
To put their shoulder to the wheel,
For them God shall prevail.

Comments: This early-World War II poem reflects Dad's upbringing during the Great Depression. By this time, he was likely training soldiers at Camp Petawawa, Ontario.

The photo is from iStockphoto, and shows Depression-era Cincinnati, OH.

11. Valentines

I often wonder why it is, when we are very young,
We buy a batch of valentines that we will send among
Our little friends both boys and girls with no discerning eye.
But we a little older grow, and larger ones we buy,
To give to some one special girl our heart has set upon,
Be she a dainty damsel fair or hearty Amazon.
But as our love grows warmer and courting really starts,
We buy her chocolates once a year in boxes shaped like hearts.
And when the nuptial knot is tied, unless we've been misled,
We bring her posies every year, quite likely roses red.
And as the evercircling years roll on upon their way,
There's one thing that will never change, though youth has passed away.
We'll love her at the twilight of life, as at the noon,
Though fifty years of married life have passed since honeymoon.
And when we've reached that grand old age when we are ninety-nine,
We'll not forget to take her home - a lovely valentine.

Comments:  My Dad wrote this poem when he was about twenty.  He had already met my Mother and decided that she was "the girl for me."  They had been married for sixty-three years when he died - not at ninety-nine, but at eighty-nine.  And, every year, he gave Mother a beautiful valentine.

10. Commercial Three B

C  is for "cal" we get every week,
O  for obedience, for which teachers shriek,
M  for mistakes we make all the time,
M  for the methods we think are a crime,
E  for the errors we make when we type,
R  is our rate, which is never quite right,
C  for the callous we get from the seat,
I  for ideas not very discreet,
A  to abolish our shorthand distress,
L  for the lessons we get in excess.

T  for the trouble we have every day,
H  for our hair which is going so gray,
R  for the rules by which we abide,
E  for exams we take in our stride,
E  for excuses of which I have none,

B  for the best poem that I have done.

Comments:  Just before World War II, my future father met my future mother in the one-year course, Commercial Three B.  And, his hair was already going gray - at the ripe old age of 18.

9. The Student's Complaint

Why must you set exams so long
That even the most speedy one
Is still unfinished when the gong
Announces that the time is gone?

We try and try to satisfy,
And labour at our work until
You think we're surely going to die,
But still we never beat that bell.

So take a little pity on
The ones who do the writing, then
It will be no phenomenon
To see a few more smiles again.

Comments:  This was another piece penned for the student newspaper.

8. The Horrible Deed

He gazed down at the water, so cold and deadly still,
He knew he was a coward, but his mind was very ill.
He swallowed down the swelling lump that rose into his throat,
He faltered not, but started to remove his overcoat.
Garment after garment, he removed with feverish haste,
And shortly he was stripped till he was naked to the waist.
Again he gazed below him where the water beckoned him
To hasten preparations to fulfil his mission grim.
He paused but for a moment, to his fears no doubt dismiss,
Then started on his headlong plunge into that black abyss.
Water flew in all directions, such was his dizzy pace,
And ere a minute had elapsed—he washed his hands and face.

Comments:  As you can see, my Dad had a puckish sense of humour!

7. An Open Letter to the Editor

You loaf around in school all day
Pretending you're at work,
Whenever you get half a chance,
Your duties try to shirk.

You ask me nearly every day,
"Have you written something new?"
You shout and rave and rant and roar
Till your face starts turning blue.

So I sat down one quiet night
And wrote this little piece,
In hope that in the end perhaps
Your noise will finally cease.

I hope that you are satisfied,
So now I will retreat,
And sign myself, as usual,
Your poet pal called
                    "Pete."

P.S.
Forgive me for what I have penned,
It's really meant in fun,
But if you won't believe me, then
I'd better start to run.

Comments: Although clearly target to a school newspaper editor, this poem resonates with anyone who has had to write to deadline.

My father's nickname was "Pete" - I never learned why.