The Poet's Corner

Another of my interests is poetry - oh, not the flowery, stilted, falsetto-voiced stuff that talks about the birdies in the spring and things like that. I am an admirer of Robert Service, the creator of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and other gems.  If I could, I would write at his level. The sad truth is that I can't, and have to be satisfied with what I can do. You will find here some examples of my "stuff," which is old fashioned; i.e.,  it has rhythm and rhyme and, hopefully, some humor that you might find amusing.  I hope you enjoy these 'pomes.' Just click on the title you'd like to explore and, through the magic of modern technology, that work will be presented for your viewing. They are all copyrighted, and all rights are reserved.  You may view them or print copies (if you have the software to do so) for yourself and your friends, but please do not attempt to use them for commercial purposes. Next

Lavon's Lament
About a friend's hospital experience. Where's the  hired help when ya need 'em?
Clancy's Bar and Grill
An exciting payday night in this 'cultural center' for the diplomatically challenged
The Haunted House
       The kids get more than they bargained for when they explore a sad, abandoned house.
A Buccaneer's Tale
       A young boy with wild dreams gets the straight scoop from Uncle Fred in an unexpected way.
The Saga of Benjamin Pratt
Some instructive encouragement for those who should diet...  - like me.
Hero Pilot
Based on an actual event, this poem outlines the errors leading to a non-standard landing.
Time Warp
      Historical figures are given parts in this flight of fancy.
A Platform Called Ship Shoal One-Ninety-Nine "E"
The most frustrating week of my life was spent on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico.
It's Christmas Again
My wife likes to have this read to the family as we settle down to Christmas dinner.
Let's Talk About the Good Old Days
You best appreciate your most familiar
treasures after they're gone.


Lavon's Lament

When there's darkness out the window
And all's quiet down the hall,
And visitors have all gone home,
And no one's there at all -

And the nurses, too, have gone somewhere
- To some unlisted floor? -
And my room-mate shows full unconcern
With unabated snore,

And I'm not allowed to move an inch; -
I heard the surgeon's speech -     
And I cannot reach the buzzer
'Cause the dang thing's out of reach,

There's a little sense of urgency
Starts gnawing at my core,
And it grows in leaps and surges 
Like the surf that sweeps the shore.

It soon is all-encompassing;
It overwhelms my brain.
I wonder if, at dawning,
They'll find I've gone insane.

When I've reached the point of breaking
And it just could not be worse,
I hear footsteps down the hallway.
Oh, praise Heaven, it's my nurse!

She's a real professional
And quickly sets things right
Soon she's gone and quiet reigns.
Sweet comfort fills the night.

But you can't know just what it means
To wake at half past three,
Immobilized and all alone,
And know you've got to pee.

(C) 1979 George McClellan


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Clancy's Bar and Grill

Oh, I stopped in down to Fifth Street,
Down to Clancy's Bar and Grill.
Ye surely know the place,
It's at the foot of Coleman's Hill.
I normally don't go in there, 
For it lacks that certain class,
But I'd a chill and 'twas for me health
I stopped for just one glass.

Outside an arctic storm was ragin'
Up and down the coast
And while lackin' other merits
Clancy's Bar was warm as toast.
Cassidy presided o'er
The massive oaken bar,
Dispensin' booze an' wisdom
At this nightly seminar.

The ceiling lights reflected off
His pink and shinin' pate
An' he offered hospitality
With, "Ahh, there, what's yours, mate?"      
Although aware excessive drink
Will surely lead to trouble,
I was so solid froze inside
I said, "I'll have a double."

A lot of folks had gathered there
- To escape the cold, no doubt,
An' Cassidy was rushed to answer
Ev'ry thirsty shout.
Still the crowd kept growin'
At an ever faster pace
An' the smoke an' din grew thicker
'Til they seemed to fill the place.

I fell to talkin' politics
With a gent they call Muldoon,
An' when I rose to leave, he said,
"Ye cannot leave so soon."
He bought a round and on we talked,
An' then I bought another,
While four-part harmony took wing
In praise of Machree's Mother.

Then in come Tim O'Casey.
On his lips an evil grin.
His eyes was full o' Hellfire
An' his brain was full o' gin.
He stopped with arms akimbo
An' his feet was planted wide.
With flint-hard looks he scanned the crowd,
An' he hollered, "Where's McBride!"

The entire place fell silent
But for a scurryin' in the rear
As Mac headed for the alley door,
His lunch pail full o' beer.
Mac's fast, but Tim is faster,
An' he'd a' had 'im dead to rights
If it hadn't been for Cassidy,
Who quickly doused the lights.

It's humanly impossible
To say what happened then.
I only heard the grunts and thuds
O' fifty fightin' men.
It's a shame that men should brawl so!
'Tis a trait we should abhore!
Why, we should foster brotherhood
An' peace forevermore!

But I stood there in the darkness,
On me lips an Irish tune,
An' I took a few defensive swings -
An' ye know?  I decked Muldoon!
When the lights was turned back on again
He was layin' at me feet.
He was very softly snorin'
An' smilin' sort o' sweet.

Would ye care to guess the reason for
The everlastin' strife
'Tween Mac and Tim O'Casey?
Well, Mac's sis is Timmie's wife!
When Liz an' Tim are at it
An' she won't get off his back,
He has to whip somebody,
So he looks for poor ol' Mac.

It happens ev'ry payday
Down to Clancy's Bar an' Grill
'Bout half way down on Fifth Street
At the foot o' Coleman's Hill.
O'Casey comes for poor McBride
An' there's an awful fight.
'Tis a terrible occurence.
What say we go tonight?

(C) 1981 by George McClellan

This is not intended as a swipe at the Irish. I'm a little bit Irish m'self. I guess if there's a point to this poem it's aimed at the foibles of the human race - all of it.

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The Haunted House

Away down the lane that skirts 'round the hill,
Crossing the fields where the hot sun stood still
In the heavens, and into the dark, gnat-filled wood,
Past the cool-flowing stream where the old stone bridge stood;
Up through the hollow to the edge of the thicket,
To peer through the vines at the home of the  wicked -
.....what?  We didn't know, but they lived, so we vaunted,
In that sad, ruined house that we kids knew was haunted.

Ahh, the cold chills that wrinkled  our spines
In spite of the sun's heat.  Ahead through the vines
Lay a desolate scene of unpainted boards
And empty-eyed windows.  And inside were hordes
Of terrible witches and spirits and THINGS
With mis-shapened faces and leathery wings,
And cold, clammy fingers and hooves like a horse!
You ask, "Did you see them?" and I say, "Of course!"

In dozens of visits we'd never gone through
The old split-rail fence, but the house slowly drew,
And so once, only once, did we venture near....
Enveloped in sweet, stark, eye-watering fear.
Jim started first, then Harold, I think;
Then Sissy and Edward and me, and then Dink.
With ears and eyes tuned to the horrors ahead,
We shakingly followed; Jim shakingly led.

Here was a porch step, a loose, wooden plank.
Then onto the porch.  Sudden smells, dark and dank
And suggestive of dungeons, played 'round our noses.
We wavered and paused in off-balanced poses.      
Then slowly we moved, fear conquered by wonder
While tip-toeing sneakers made noise loud as thunder.
At last to a window to peer through the grime
To look into the most-haunted-house-of-all-time!

At first it was dark inside; too dark to see.
We cleared off some glass and Edward said, "Gee!"
"There's nothin' much to it but dirt and old plaster!"
Then a sound from inside drove our pulses much faster!
At first a slow tapping from some unseen hall.
We glanced at each other.  Dink started to bawl.
The room we peered into then faded from sight
Replaced by cloud swirls and weird, sweeping light!

The taps turned to banging, the banging to booms,
Then wild, screeching laughter, like witches on brooms,
The whistling and rustling of millions of wings,
And up through the clouds came those terrible THINGS!
Their faces were twisted in horrible shapes
And cold, clammy hands groped out from their capes!
Our hair was on end as we turned to retreat,
And the last thing was saw was, they had horse hooves for feet!!

Imagine the panic, the tumult, the haste,
The dread of the certainty we would be chased!
Out past the thicket and on down the hollow,
And Dink, with his short legs, so desp'rate to follow,
Was left in the rear.  My GOSH! What a noise!
God certainly does give strong lungs to small boys!
We turned to go help him, and looked up the hill,
And saw that, behind Dink, the old house was still.

There wasn't a murmur of sound from that place.
Of witches and demons there wasn't a trace.
It was simply an old house of unpainted boards
And empty-eyed windows....but inside were  hordes ..
Well, we knew what they were, though they didn't have names,
And we couldn't tell folks 'cause they'd laugh at our claims.......
It's been many years now.  We kids are all old.
'Til now we've not breathed it. You're first to be told.

You don't quite believe me, it's easy to see.
If you'd look for yourself, then listen to me:
You go down the lane that skirts 'round the hill
Crossing the fields where the hot sun stood still
In the heavens, and into the dark, gnat-filled wood,
Down past the creek where the old stone bridge stood
Then up through the hollow ...  Oh, you know the way?
Thanks. I'll wait here. It's quiet late in the day. 
                      (C) by George McClellan

NOTE: When I was a kid we lived in a poor neighborhood, and couldn't
afford a haunted house. We found a haunted vacant lot, though, and scared
ourselves silly many times with our collective imagination. That is, I think it was our imagination.  Hmmm .. Do you suppose ...... ???

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A Buccaneer's Tale
What I Did Last Weekend

I've often dreamed the strangest dream, of running away from home,
To live the life of a Buccaneer, to sail the briney foam;
Or is it 'foamy brine?'  My gosh, I never get it right.
But I told my Uncle Fred about my dream last Saturday night.

He listened so intently and he nodded now and then.
He rubbed his chin and pulled his ear and rubbed his chin again.
And then he got up from his chair and opened the cellar door.
Said he, "Follow me to a distant sea and a tropical pirate shore."

With nearly silent footsteps we went down the cellar stair,
Pulled aside a dusty canvas that was stiffly hanging there,
And there was a wonderful -  I didn't know what to call it, but it was keen,
With pulleys and levers and things that flapped - my Uncle Fred's time machine!

He showed me where I had to sit, and he sat in the other seat.
He moved some switches and knobs with his hands and some pedals with his feet.
A humming started, and grew quite loud. The cellar faded from sight.
Then all I could see was Uncle Fred's face in a spooky lavendar light.

There was a thump - a definite bump - and then Uncle Fred and I
Were rowing a boat on a turquoise sea under an azure sky.

"It's Porto Bello," said Uncle Fred, "In sixteen-eighty-three.
"I thought we pirates should pay a call and see what we can see."

After rowing a while we arrived at  the  town (that was our ship, offshore).
We moored the boat at a pier and entered the seaport to explore.
We found an inn.  "Your choice for lunch?" asked my Uncle Fred.
I said I'd like a burger and fries.  I got goat stew instead.

It's good there was a seabreeze 'cause outside the sun was hot,
And most of the folks smelled sweaty or worse, like their showers had been forgot.
"There are no showers," my uncle said.  "The water comes from a well.
"They don't bathe very often here."  I said, "Yeah, I can tell."

As the sun went down a yellow glow was seen in every room
As candles and lanterns tried to fight the deep, forbidding gloom.
"We'll find a room to sleep in now," my dear old uncle said.
"Oh, you don't mind a bedbug, do you,crawling in your bed?"

"I think I'd rather sleep outside if that's the choice," said I.
"Much better we should watch the stars crawling across the sky."
We rowed out to the ship and slept that night upon the deck.
I woke to find a pirate boot was pressed against my neck.

"Avast ye lubbers!" roared a voice.  "It's time for our invasion -
"To seize the gold of Panama - a very grand occasion!"
A cheer went up from many throats. I rose and looked about.
"Three cheers for Captain Morgan, men!"  I heard a pirate shout.

And cheer they did.  Excitement rose and voices grew much louder
As arms were issued: cutlasses and pistols, ball and powder.
They talked of stealing riches, and things that they had planned 
For every luckless citizen.  A most bloodthirsty band!

A fight broke out between two men and one of them was shot.
They tossed his body to the sharks without a second thought.
Now, I was scared!  This bunch of thugs was not my cup of  tea.
I thought, "Perhaps I've got it wrong about a life at sea."

I found my uncle, and I told him, whispering, I said,
"If  I've a choice in this I'd rather be at home, in bed."
He quickly reached inside his shirt, pulled out a strange device,
Turned one knob and flicked one switch, and pressed a button twice.

A pirate reached to steal it, and he grabbed my uncle's arm
As the ship and ocean disappeared.  We got home, safe from harm.
But so'd the pirate! Now we've got a  problem in the cellar.
He's scared and all he wants to do is moan and cry and beller.

Uncle Fred would take him back if he'd get in the machine,
But he only shakes his head and cries and makes an awful scene.
He's wrecked the vision I once had of pirates brave and bold.
They're not what they're cracked up to be.  That's it.  My tale is told.

But still I dream the strangest dream of running off to be
A pirate in a sailing ship, where they're all nice guys like me.
We only fight the bad guys and save maidens in distress.
Though it's not the way it really was, it's alright for dreams, I guess.

                                  (C) 1993 by George McClellan

In Panama City, Panama, there's a church I only know as "The Church of the Golden Altar."  The altar is elaborately carved and covered with gold - probably gold leaf.  When Henry Morgan crossed the Isthmus from Atlantic to Pacific side in the late sixteen hundreds, the citizens knew he was coming and buried their treasures, and left town with their wives and daughters.  Unable to move the altar to a safe place they whitewashed it.  The pirates did not see the gold, and it was left undisturbed.  In 1946 I was aboard an Air Force Catalina Patrol Bomber, flying out of Albrook Army Air  Base on the Pacific side. We flew over Porto Bello, which at that time appeared to be abandoned. We had heard that it was the place where Morgan launched his attack on Panama City. I also visited the Church of The Golden Altar during a Red Cross tour. 
I've never seen a time machine. ...Or a pirate ship.

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The Saga of Benjamin Pratt

Benjamin Pratt was a little bit fat, 
But remarkably fit for his years.
He always arose right at eight, on the nose, 
To the sound of his serving staff's cheers.

Up from his rest he then showered and dressed 
And sauntered to breakfast with Grace.
Or perhaps it was Helen, or sweet Mary Ellen  -
Whoever had stayed at his place.

In a flowery bower they'd dine for an hour
On crullers and lambchops and such,
All washed down with wine - a Sauterne or a Rhine -
For that genteel, civilized touch.

Of course they had brunch an hour before lunch,
Served 'neath a bright parasol
Some kippers or trout and a bottle of stout;
A mere appetizer was all.

The clock would strike noon not a moment too soon
For Benjamin's innards would growl
Like demons unchecked if they didn't detect
The descent of some veal or fowl.

An afternoon snack kept the day on track;
Some pasta or beans would suffice
If served up with ardour, soup from the larder,
And a garnish of roast pork was nice.

Lest he somehow get thinner he'd then hie to a dinner
Of curries and Wellington beef,
And there, with each swallowing, he was given to wallowing
Like a tanker impaled on a reef.

At this point, feeling stress, he'd need help to undress
So his servants would waft him away
And settle him down with covers tucked 'round
To rest up for another full day.

Now to live in this mode, many doctors would bode,
Is to soon leave this vale of tears;
But Benjamin Pratt put the lie to all that,
For he lived more than thirty-one years!

                                (C) 1992 by George McClellan

This one was published in a physicians' humor magazine produced in Canada.
I wonder why.
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Hero Pilot

The Hero Pilot sat in the cockpit
And tried to feel like a flier.
He wore helmet and goggles
Which helped quite a bit,
But it takes so much more than attire!

His instructor had earlier knelt on the wing
And outlined the plan for the day.
Some high work and low work
And, "Bring her on home.
"Watch the fuel level, too, 'long  the way."      

Then straining to crank the Fairchild's starter
He coaxed the old radial to run
And watched as his student
Waddled off to the runway.
A day of travail had begun.

After the takeoff, like a good boy,
The student had stayed with the plan.
The high work came first -
Some snap rolls and spins,
All flown with a sure, steady hand.

Then down swooped the eagle
To round out his flight
With the low work he'd been told to do.
He'd set up to practice some on-pylon eights
When his power plant bade him adieu.

Sudden silence - the bane of a pilot's life!
The wobble pump's comfort he'd sought.
'Tho' the prop had still spun 
As he lined up to land
The Lycoming mill hadn't caught.

Yet he'd stayed cool and started his flare
With plenty of clear turf ahead.
His well-chosen field 
Warmly beckoned him in,
But the Gods dealt a joker instead.

As the nose had come up 
And fuel had sloshed back
In the near-empty tank he was using,
The engine had roared to cruise power once more.
Oh, the Gods must have found that amusing!

"I'm flying!" he'd thought, and he'd leveled her out
And waited for airspeed to build;
And with most of his runway
Now to his stern
The thunder..was...once... again ...   stilled.

His mains hit the ground just a moment before
A fence ripped the wings off - clean!
As he flashed through a barnyard
Cows bolted and bawled
At the strangest sight they'd ever seen.

At last, it was done.  The plane came to rest
In a hog wallow, down by a slough.
And the farmer's call
To the flying school
Brought a teed-off recovery crew.

They towed the ship back to the airport that day,
Tailwheel tied to the bed of a truck.
And the student sat
Facing aft all the way
Cursing his mis'rable luck.

The engine did not have to quit, you see.
What was lacking was fuel to run it.
If only he'd thought 
To select a full tank
A turn of a valve would have done it.

So the Hero Pilot sat in the cockpit,
Trying to feel like a flier.
He wore helmet and goggles,
Which helped quite a bit,

       Note:  This is based on an event at Galesburg, Illinois, in '47 or '48.  The truck, the PT-23 airplane and silent one-man crew were parked in front of the hangar for the longest time, viewed by an amused audience.  After interest had waned, someone noticed that the pilot was no longer there. No one saw him climb out of the cockpit.

(C) George McClellan

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Time Warp

Lief Erickson left his abode
And after one more for the road,
He leapt into his boat and sailed away.
He returned in a year or two
And told the folks that he now knew
Just where the land of milk and honey lay.       
"It's out beyond the western stars;
It's full o' Cokes and candy bars,
And nickel seegars smooth as dairy cream.
There's juke box music, hot and sweet,
And trolley cars on every street.
I'll be danged if it don't seem like a dream."

'Rick the Red put down his mead
And said, "Lief, son, it seems you need
A short course in American History.
The things you saw made you contented
But they will not be invented
Until about year eighteen-ninety-three.


Cleopatra, on her barge,
Said, "Caes, honey, by and large,
I gotta admit this hulk has got some style.
But me, I really got the hots
To blast along at forty knots.
Let's put some life into the stately Nile."

"Let's get us a hydrofoil
And fill the tanks with fuel and oil,
Then light off our gas turbines and we'll FLY!
Why, we can run down to the Med
And back before it's time for bed.
Folks'll be so jealous they'll just DIE!"

Caesar said, "Uhhh, Cleo, sweets,
This'll knock you off your feets,
But none o' them things you talked about is here.
By the time that boat arrives 
We'll have said our last good-byes.
We'll be dead about two thousand years."

Copernicus said, quite late one night,
"We simply must improve our sight.
We're going to build a satellite to view the stars  from space.
Without distortion caused by air,
We'll see straight from here to there.
Quickly telephone NASA's shuttle base!"

"We'll digitize the pics, I think,
And bring 'em down by data link.
Ain't you got them fellers on the phone?
We've got to get to workin' fast.
A thought this hot just might not last.
Waddayou mean you can't get a dial tone?"       

His helper said, while cringing slightly,
"Sir, your long hours working nightly
Must have sprung a spring in your perspective.
I don't know where you're comin' from.
Whatever you're smokin', give me some.
I do not understand your last directive."


Dear reader, just one moment, please.
You doubtless think that I'm a tease;
That these events are all imaginary.
But haven't you noticed folks nearby
Who look like they're about to fly,
Expressions blank and eyes opaque and starey?       

They're the ones who have the pow'r
To see beyond the present hour.
They wouldn't hear your voice if you should shout.
Don't worry if their eyes ain't blinkin',
They're engaged in future thinkin'.
That's really what all progress is about.

Please remember: someday you
May also catch a sparkling view
Of things that lie ahead for us, in time.
When it happens, please recall
How you now doubt, but most of all,     
How you first heard about it in this cockamamie rhyme.      

(C) George McClellan

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A Platform Called Ship Shoal One Ninety-Nine "E"

It started on Sunday; the telephone rang.
I answered.  A voice with a clear coonass twang
Said, "We're gonna need you for a big operation.    
Gotta unplug a pipeline and start up the station.
We'll need you on Tuesday, away out at sea,
On a platform called Ship Shoal 199 "E".
So bring all your tools an' a clean pair o' sox,
An' th' 'lectical stuff in the pretty red box."                                                              
On Tuesday, 'fore sunrise, I signed on the list
To catch the first chopper, but that one I missed.
The Dispatcher said, "It's full up so I reckoned
You'd wait until ten and go out on the second.
But it was full, too, so I left on the third.
You can't be important and ride the last bird.
And when we arrived in the late afternoon,
They said just to cool it. I'd got there too soon.

Now, some folks are smart. When they see how things are,
They can use simple logic and tell you quite far
In advance what will happen. But that isn't me.
I smiled and sacked out on 198 "D".
On We'nsday and Thursday I made my inspection.
For each fault I found I made a correction.
Then the machin'ry stood ready for use.
I said, "Gimme gas and I'll turn these things loose."

Instead of some gas all I got was a smile.
And Mister Dupuis said, "Just wait for a while.
We'll be in production real soon, you will see
On this platform called Ship Shoal 199 "E"."
The next day I puttered and polished some brass.
But mostly I read while I waited for gas.
The day after that I spent much the same way,
But they said we'd be pumpin' later that day.

We thought we'd soon have the plant running, you see,
So long after dark we sat there on "E",
And thought of the chow being dished up on "D"
But continued to sit there, Dupuis and me.
We listened real close to the radio speaker:
"Gimme more pressure. I think it's got weaker,"
And, "You pump it this way and I'll pump it that,"
And me and Dupuis just listened and sat.


And finally they said that we oughta go back
To the quarters and eat and crawl into the sack.
And the next day we went back to 1-9-9-"E"
And sat on our duffs. Who? Well, me and Dupuis.
On Monday I stayed at the quarters on"D"      
And didn't  get close to 199 "E"
Until about ten in the morning, I'd say,
When the boat I was on made a stop on the way.                                                                  
I was on my way in. My waiting was done.
It was finally clear that the pipeline had won.
As he dropped some equipment on deck, I could see
That the man in the crane was Mister Dupuis.
His lips formed the words of an often-heard sayin'.
They were rough words, and coarse but almost like prayin'.
He said, "Come on, Tuesday!  Let's finish this hitch
And then I can get off this son-of-a-bitch!"

I got home that night.  Walked in at ten-thirty.
Bushed and unshaven and clothes rotten dirty.
The wife was concerned and she fixed me a drink.
And then we sat down just to talk and to think.
She said, "How'd it go?"  "It didn't," I said.
We chatted a while and then fell into bed.        
And I slept, and I dreamed about being at sea
On a platform called Ship Shoal 199 "E".

NOTE: This was written after an exasperating week spent
on an off-shore platform in the Gulf of Mexico. A gas pipeline
had become loaded with parafin and the device (called a pig) sent
through  the pipe to clean it got lost in the mass of parafin it had
scraped off the walls of the pipe. They couldn't locate it and the
pipe was plugged. My job had to do with the gas turbine engines
and the gas compressors they drove. I do not know if the pig was
found, for I happily left that region shortly afterward.  "E"
was the production rig and "D" provided living quarters for crews.

Oh, yes..."Dupuis" is pronounced "DooPWEE."
He was the boss pumper on the platform. AND a very nice guy.

(C) 1974  by George McClellan

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It's Christmas Again

In December, do you notice
When your tightwad Uncle Otis
Hides packages beneath the attic stair?
Are you aware your kids stop scrapping
When the sounds of people wrapping
Things are audible, most oddly, everywhere?
It is said the entire nation
Dons an air of expectation
As though we wait for something quite momentous.
But it's already here,
Though it comes again each year.
It's a blessing only Heaven could have sent us.
There's a more important reason
Than the glitter of the season
And certainly it does affect us all.
A renewal's taking place
Amid the supersonic pace
And the waves of shoppers filling every mall.
It's the nurturing of giving;
It is Spirit, bright and living.
We are filled with it and marvel at its power.
As it grows in us we give it
And help others, then, to live it.
And it burgeons more with each advancing hour.
We know by heart the source
Of this Myst'ry, and of course
The retold Story holds us in its sway.
And we rise again, as one,
To pay homage to the Son,
He who came to us on that first Christmas Day.

 (C) 1996 by George McClellan

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Let's Talk About the Good Old Days

Let's talk about the good old days 
'Bout Ford's 'V-8's and Model 'A's
And Baseball greats like Willy Mays.
Man, that was some fun.
Women were such ladies then
And didn't try to act like men.
And THAT'S long gone since don't know when,
But, lucky me, I married one.

We didn't have no raunchy shows
On TV then, 'cause Good Lord knows,
We only had our radios.
But, man, they were such fun!
We'd hear big bands and mysteries,
And comics'd bring you to your knees.
And shows were broadcast overseas
Until the war was won.

Most politicians seemed to be
Quite honest, but then, two or three
Flirted with catastrophe.
They didn't last for long.
No "experts" told us milk was bad,
Or touted the most recent fad
In foods. You know, it makes me mad
To hear them blather on.

High school girls looked clean and fair
With pleated skirts and fresh-brushed hair.
An' you never saw their underwear
Unless the wind was a-blowin'.
It seems to me a lot has fallen
By the wayside.  Just recallin' ....
...Different things.  It's pretty gallin'
T' see what we're outgrowin'.


But then I wonder who's to say
We're growin', -  'cept in some weird way -
No black or white, just shades of gray.
It doesn't make much sense.
We've got to know what's right and wrong
And what it takes to get along.
But we'll never be one happy throng
Across the continents.

See how some folks stand and gawk
While listenin' to the bigshots talk?
They look like they're in culture shock.
The snakeoil man's in town.
I doubt the world will ever be
A place that's right for you and me
But I plan to wait and see
So I'll be hangin' 'round.

I don't know if it's good or bad -
- Sometimes it makes me sorta sad -
To reminisce 'bout the things we had,
Especially when they're gone.
I   s'pose it's just the way things are -
Can't put the genie in the jar
Once he's out.  We've gone too far,
And the world keeps turnin' on.


(C) 2001 by George McClellan
All rights reserved.

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