Category: POEMS (Page 20 of 30)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: Catchy Tune #606

July 25, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Here’s another poem that I wrote, inspired by the John Mayer tune, New Light. I’ll provide more of an explanation in my next post today. The classic journalism tease!

Catchy Tune

Over and over,
I hear it inside.
Is there a doctor,
That I can confide?

“There’s nothing in there,”
The nurse used a scope.
It won’t come out,
Even with soap.

It’s not like some pest,
Crawled in my ear.
It’s just a song,
There’s nothing to fear.

I’m not even sure,
Where it came from?
It’s just a tune.
I continue to hummmm.

Where did it start?
This much I know.
I was just listening,
To the radio.

Can you hear it?
Or is it just me?
And If you could,
You’d surely agree.

It was catchy,
Caught my attention.
How it got in there,
Is beyond comprehension.

I’ll sing to myself,
Then play it again.
My mind is a jukebox,
With a record to spin.

Don’t need a quarter,

Or punch B-23.

It repeats itself,

All for free.

One more time,

Don’t ever stop.

No replay to push,

Or needle to drop.

No album to buy,

A download was made.

I liked what I heard,

And within me it played.

Does it hurt?

No, I’m not in pain.

It’s just a favorite,

Stuck in my brain

It’s not contagious,

Nor is it a germ.

I think they call it,

An inner ear worm.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sleepless #605

July 25, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I think we’ve all had one of these nights (This is what my wife might say about me, if she could write poetry):

Sleepless

What’s that noise?
Keeping me awake.
I think we’re having,
Another earthquake.

I look over,
You’re on your back.
I think our bed,
Is under attack.

I’m not quite sure,
How much I can take?
I reach over and give,
Your shoulder a shake.

You roll over,
There’s a moment of quiet.
The next thing I know,
You break out like a Riot.

The thunder roars,
I cover my ears.
Grunting sounds,
From Prehistoric years.

I’d much rather sleep,
With a rattlesnake.
Use a Breathe-Rite strip,
For Heaven’s sake.

You were once,
Everything I adore.
Now one of us,
Should go next door.

Please be warned,
Next time you snore.
I may just shove,
You to the floor.

Diary of an Adoptee: Graves #601

July 19, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Over the past couple of months, I’ve been obsessively adding names to my Jerry Banister Family Tree on Ancestry.com. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, other than to find some of my DNA matches and see how they fit into the family that I’m just getting to know. I chose a picture of Laborn Banister’s (1801-1885) grave marker to headline this post, since he is considered the elder statesman of the Banister family. He married Sarah “Sally” Yoder on November 22, 1825. One of my Banister connections sent me an invitation to the Yoder Family reunion in Maiden, North Carolina, but I think that I will focus on the Banister and Johnston families first, before I explore the Conrad Yoder branch of the tree.

Johnston is my adopted family, while my birth certificate reads Jerry Lee Banister. I was born August 27, 1951 and adopted by Burt and Catherine Johnston on October 29, 1951. The first two months of my life I spent in Indianapolis at the Suemma Coleman adoption agency that provided housing and care for expectant mothers. Years later, the home itself was torn down, but the office that I worked in looked directly over it’s former location. Like a homing pigeon, it took me thirty-five years to return to the “neighborhood,” but somehow I returned (See Post #392). This I consider to be the first of two astounding “coincidences” that continue to make me shake my head in disbelief.

I’ve always known that I was adopted, but it was presented to me as something special. Certainly, the parents who raised me were something special, but I was born just like everyone else. I’m just not sure that I really ever understood that fact of life. I can remember mistakenly thinking that I was not really born but rather selected, almost like I was the “immaculate conception.” It seems very egotistical, but books I received suggested that I was “picked,” as if from a supermarket, instead of delivered without any option of choice. It’s embarrassing, but it gave me the impression that adopted children were not the product of a sexual encounter and because of that they were “good.” It was until years later that I learned how confused I really was. As a result, genealogy was never important to me, as I never really understood the intricacies of blood relatives.

It’s funny how I’ve added without much emotion, thousands of names on my family tree over the past couple of months. I have yet to meet a single Banister relative in person, let alone understand their relationships with each other. It has been an endless task, as another branch leads to another name of an unfamiliar person. In all this work, there are only a hand-full of DNA-relative connections that I’ve found so far. DNA is the only link that I honestly have to them, as I have yet to get confirmation on the Banister birth parents that I now strongly suspect. I continue to ask questions, but realistically I will probably never know the truth.

Yesterday, I took a slightly different approach to my family tree. I followed the route of my adoptive Johnston parents, and surprisingly it was much more intriguing, as I began to put together the connections of people I actually knew. It’s turning out to be a very emotional experience, as all these people that I’ve known only in-pieces, suddenly fit together like a puzzle. I learned that my Grandfather’s mother’s name is the same as my son’s wife, Eliza. I realized that Aunt Myrtle was actually my Grandfather’s sister, who made me envious at the dinner table because all she could eat was graham crackers. I wanted graham crackers for dinner! His other sister Gilberta was once married, but all I remember is how slow she moved on a walker. I also discovered that my cool Uncle Dick, who owned a swimming pool to host some of our reunions, suddenly had a new curvaceous wife. She spoke broken-English and we all whispered that she was half his age. I just uncovered that she was only 12 years younger and was from Germany. Also, my Aunt Ruth, who lived on Simonton Lake with Uncle Hershel, was actually my Grandmother’s sister, and our Aunt Edna was never even related. I was sad when I came across names that had passed away, and happy recalling memories of others. It was a completely different experience than tediously entering unfamiliar names.

I will, of course, continue to search for leads. The other adoption “coincidence” that haunts me is my fascination with the Marine’s Hymn. I’ve written about this before, but it took on new meaning these last couple of days. According to the adoption records, my 20-year old father was supposedly a Marine. The man that I now suspect to be my father was missing this important detail, as I was looking over pictures and his obituary. Surprisingly, the articles on his death failed to mention his service record, as Ancestry documents show that he spent three years in the Marines, including a brief stint in Korea. If he is indeed the father, he would have never know that I existed because of his enlistment dates. He and my birth mother might have gotten together during the Thanksgiving holidays of 1950, just before he got engaged and left for Quantico. I believe that she was in love with him and had visions of marrying a Marine, but he had other plans. I also contend that she would hum the Marine’s Hymn, with hopes of him returning to her, while she was pregnant with me. I convey this because the Marine’s Hymn was the only song I ever learned to play on the piano, despite lessons. I would play it over-and-over again, much to the consternation of my adoptive parents, who were well aware of this detail on the adoption record. I did not know this Marine connection to the father at the time, and I still wonder if this was some kind of bizarre prenatal influence? If so, it’s the only connection I have with the father.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Kernel #595

July 10, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I spent over 40 years in the media business, and often thought that I would someday write a sales training book. I went back through some of my files and found an outline and some excerpts. I always considered myself as being creative – an idea man. I always kidded that I was like Bill Blazejowski in the movie Night Shift. Here are some of his memorable quotes:

“Wanna know why I carry this tape recorder? To tape things. See, I’m an idea man, Chuck. I got ideas coming at me all day… I couldn’t even fight ’em off if I wanted. Wait a second… hold the phone! Hold the phone! [speaking into tape recorder] Idea to eliminate garbage. Edible paper. You eat it, it’s gone! You eat it, it’s outta there! No more garbage!”

“So there I was at the Blackjack table with all my wash ‘n’ dries… did I tell you I had the idea for them first?”

“What if you mix…mayonnaise right in the can with the tuna fish? Hold it! Hold it! Wait a minute! Chuck! Take live tuna fish…and feed them mayonnaise. Oh this is good. [speaks into tape recorder] Call StarKist.”

I once had a artist friend of mine design a logo based on the catch-phrase “Give me a kernel and I’ll make it pop.” You can see it at the top of this post. I even wrote this poem to preface the book:

I’m an idea-man,
Throw me a line.
I’ll put together,
A creative design.

Give me a seed,
I’ll grow a crop.
Give me a kernel,
I’ll make it pop.

With imagination,
And a unique plan.
I’ll work my magic,
As no one else can.

Lend me your hand,
And open your heart.
Let’s work together,
Instead of apart.

Give me your business,
I’ll help you grow.
Take full advantage,
Of all that I know.

My mind is full
Of great concepts.
And with your trust,
You’ll have no regrets

So, give me a kernel,
And I’ll make it pop.
Ideas keep coming,
I can’t make them stop.

My career, whether managing or selling, was all about filling holes in time with ads, and using ideas to accomplish this critical task. In the radio & TV business, we called it “time-sales.” Good content was the reason people watched, listened, or read. It was my professional duty to bridge this compelling content with revenue-generating advertising, without driving these customers away. You had to somehow make the advertising as interesting as the content. It was a S.H.I.T. job, so now I’m glad to be retired, but here’s how I made it work:

20 Ways to get your S.H.I.T. together. Selling Holes In Time. (Time is Money)

Write It down…you’ll do it.
Set goals regularly for your job, yourself, and your family…write them down. Writing them down is the first step to accomplishment. Refer to your goals frequently-keep them in front of you.
Imagine yourself in positive, winning situations – think about them before you go to bed – dream about them. The “Magic of Believing” is powerful.
Stay out of the office as much as possible-do paperwork early or late in the day-if you’re on the streets you know what’s going on.
Always have one big “gravy” project going that could make you and the station a lot of money. That one project can keep you going no matter how bad your day is going.
Get plenty of physical and mental exercise – keep your mind and body sharp.
Ask a lot of questions and most importantly, really listen for the answers. People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care. Use the information you’ve been told.
Reward yourself frequently for your successes. A new wardrobe item makes you feel good and look even better.
Force yourself to be organized. Plan to be at appointments early – so you’ll at least be there on time. If you are early, go over your presentation one more time in your mind – imagine them reacting positively to your suggestions.
Never convert your sales into commissions – you lose your job perspective. Don’t worry about how much money you’re making – worry about finding and solving problems and the money will happen.
Go to as many outside activities as possible. Join clubs, go to parties – meet as many people as possible. Find out what business they’re in, but avoid talking business at social functions. Get to know them personally.
Conquer your fears but be patient with yourself. Keep improving no matter how good you are.
Don’t wait – create. Put yourself in a position where you’re taking more ideas to them than they are providing you to sell.
Accept a no as graciously as a yes. Smile even when it hurts. Every rejection is statistically a step to a yes.
Practice “negative thinking” in a positive way. Be prepared for all the things that could go wrong and chances are they won’t.
Don’t take your job too seriously – keep it fun and challenging. Actions trigger reactions – send out enthusiasm not desperation.
Learn to capitalize on your mistakes. Grow from them – they’re a necessary part of learning.
Don’t burn bridges – the media business is a small world – your successes and failures travel like wildfire. Receptionists become buyers, buyers become agency owners – what comes around goes around.
Be a team player – keep superiors aware of where you are and what’s “happening” on the streets. Assist co-workers in tape pick-ups, ideas, etc. Be as good a salesperson in the office as on the streets.
Loosen up – be a little crazy and a little lazy. Find your presentation/personality niche – many times they are things about yourself you may not like. Use them as a strength.

Retirement is not without Hassles: If Some How I Could #594

July 9, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

This morning as I ran my usual route through the neighboring streets, the battery died on my radio. Yes, I still use a transistor radio when there are so many other options to listen to music. It seems less complicated, except when the battery fails. However, I was not disappointed, as it left me with different ways to pass the time instead of the five or six songs between chatter that it normally takes to complete my daily run. Without the ear buds, I listened to my footsteps and counted out the 900 steps that it took to complete a half-mile. My slowing stride is now down to less than a yard, so it takes 1800 steps to complete a mile, if my math is correct. When I think about ten years of doing this every day, that’s a lot of steps. (See Post #590 for another poem). Here’s the sequel:

If Some How I Could

Playing mind-games,
When I run.
Hoping somehow,
To keep it fun.

But then the pain,
Gets in the way.
I count the steps,
And plan my day.

Diversion works,
Distraction better.
Sometimes I write,
A poem or letter.

My feet keep moving,
Never fast enough.
Each and Every morning,
The course is rough.

If there was a way?
If somehow I could?
If only I could make,
The strain feel good.

I start to sweat,
I’m half-way there,
My muscles ache,
I’m sucking air.

It’s hot outside,
I see Mount Hood.
I’m all alone,
The rain feels good.

Jumped out of bed,
Slept-in if I could.
The road was calling,
Insane feels good.

I just want to stop,
And rest for awhile.
But I’ve got to run,
Anotherlong mile.

If there was a way?
If somehow I could?
If only I could make,
The pain feel good.

I’m almost done,
I think I’ll make it.
I’m tired and sore,
But much more fit.

I’ve exercised,
As others should.
My body hurts,
But my brain feels good.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Steps #590

July 6, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

When I’m out running every morning, I usually am thinking about steps. Sometimes when I count them it helps to pass the time, but today I was trying to construct this poem. The Police came to mind with these familiar lyrics: “Every move you make, Every bond you break, Every step you take, I’ll be watching you…” I guess we all wonder when that last step will ultimately happen, but it’s the steps leading up to it that define our lives, starting with our very first.

Every step I take every morning is one less that I have to take to complete my 3.1 miles. I had some fun with this poem, including everything step-related from Cinderella to the Three Stooges. I hope you enjoy it:

Steps

Every great distance,
Is nothing but steps.
Made up of thousands,
Of arm and leg reps.

The quicker the steps,
The faster you go.
Just step-it-down,
To gradually slow.

Or Step-it-up,
Pick up the pace.
Whatever it takes,
To win the race.

Some might say,”step softly,”
Go forth only if you dare.
But if you take just baby steps,
They may never get you there.

Step carefully over this,
And please don’t step on me.
Step over this way,
If you agree.

Step up to the plate,
Then step-in to the ball.
You can always step back,
But never quit or stall.

Watch where you’re going,
Don’t step on the cat.
And whatever you do,
Don’t step in that!

Also, they say.
Don’t step on a crack,
That step might break.
Your mother’s back.

“One small step for man,
A Giant leap for mankind.”
Never has a single step,
Been more “top of mind.”

Put some “Spring” in your step,
Try not to trip and “Fall.”
“Summer” steps-in-between,
Then “Winter” comes to call.

Put some pep-in-your-step
Add “get-up” to your gait.
Take a step forward,
Why ever hesitate?

Just put one foot,
In front of the other.
Take some steps,
To serve your brother.

If you somehow think,
You’ve got “The Blues.”
Then take a step,
In another person’s shoes.

But if your next step,
Involves eviction.
Take 12 more steps,
And fight addiction.

You probably don’t remember,
The first step that you tried.
But your biggest supporter,
Was close by your side.

But learning a Dance-step,
Takes even more grace.
Don’t step on your partner,
Or fall on your face.

The Stooges made famous,
Turning slowly they crept.
Inch-by-Inch.”
“Step-by-Step.”

Cinderella overcame,
Her evil Step-Sisters.
Stepping-out in glass slippers,
Can give your feet blisters.

On the “Stairway to Heaven,”
Missteps can really suck.
When you face the StairMaster,
You’re sadly out of luck.

Stay on the Stepping Stones,
Walk a straight path.
For if you slip-up,
You might take a bath.

String your steps together,
For miles of progress.
One stride forward,
Means one step less.

Don’t step in the deep end,
Or try to move too fast.
Look before you step,
Or it could be your last.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Just to be Done #581

June 28, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

After a tough morning run in Omaha, feeling the effects of high temperatures and humidity, I put down the words to a poem once I finally got back to our hotel room. My bright orange Oregon State t-shirt was soaked, and my times slow, but I followed the Missouri River up to the Riverboat and looped back towards downtown. It was day 3469 and I continue to be ranked #203 on the runeveryday.com website that explains the details of participation. I have nearly ten years invested in this streak, and regard it one of my great accomplishments in life, regardless of how long it eventually lasts. I consider myself lucky every day I get it done.

Just to be done

I know it will be,
A glorious day.
Once this run,
Is out of the way.

The run comes first,
As I hop out of bed.
It’s the first indication,
That I’m not dead.

Breathing hard,
And covered in sweat.
How much worse,
Can it get?

The finish line,
Seems far away.
But just how far?
Is hard to say.

Just keep going,
Ignore the pain.
Feel those muscles,
Start to strain.

Left foot forward,
And then the right.
Just keep moving,
Prove your might.

Pump those arms,
Climb those hills.
Where’s your form?
Show some Skills.

Your legs feel heavy,
Your lungs may burn.
And it magnifies,
With every churn.

Engage your mind,
Think pleasantries.
Try telling that,
To your knees.

Whoever said,
That this is fun?
It sure feels good,
Just to be done.

Retirement is not without Hassles: It’s a Wrap #568

June 18, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

We wrapped-up our 1,100 mile drive through the Midwest, with a Cubs victory over the Cardinals and a flight out of St. Louis. This included an unexpected stop at the Route 66 museum in Litchfield, Illinois. With my 66th year of life coming to a conclusion in a few short months, this famous road has been an unplanned lure during our travels throughout the country. (See Post #235). Next month, I will get a picture at Lake Shore Dr. and Jackson Street in Chicago where the highway originally started. A Cubs game will also be part of that trip.

Speaking of baseball, Litchfield turns out to be the home town of Chicago White Sox Hall of Fame catcher Ray Schalk, who preceded Sherm Lollar by 25-years behind the plate at Comiskey Park. Both were known for their defense, but Sherm never made it to Cooperstown (yet). Ray made his debut with the Sox on August 11, 1912 and played in the 1919 World Series loss that became known as the “Black Sox Scandal.” He also coached the Chicago Cubs in 1930 & 1931, and served as a scout for the team in 1944, and spent the last 18 years of his career as the baseball coach for the Purdue Boilermakers.

The drive to and from St. Louis passed through Indianapolis, Rochester, Kokomo, and Decatur, Illinois. We stayed two nights with my wife’s sister, one night in a Quality Inn, and 5 nights in a variety of Marriott properties, using a bank of points I received for joining the Marriott Vacation Club. My wife claims that I love my Marriott points more than her, so I wrote this poem to recap our adventure:

Marriott Tour

A week together,

Back Home Again.

It ends with the Cubs,

Who pulled off a win.

Their “Arch rival,”

Didn’t play well.

All that Cardinal red,

Randy and Noelle.

Started and ended,

With nights at The Grand.

Would have rather,

Had our toes in the sand.

Mom business,

Had us on the run.

Errands and Appointments,

Were not much fun.

But there were moments,

Like meeting Cole.

And dinner with friends,

Your fav Dover Sole.

Blasts from the past,

More plans for travel.

Cemetery moments,

Emotions unravel.

A run on the Nickel Plate,

And through the canals.

Food and beer,

With my old pals.

Two Dyer nights,

Plenty of wine.

Murphy’s for steak,

Family time.

Ribs on the grill,

And at the Roadhouse.

Dietary support,

From your Spouse.

Some bad Chinese,

Near the Courtyard Kokomo.

Plus a ton of silver,

In our luggage to stow.

A few surprises,

Along the way.

“Would you give up your pay,

For a view of the Bay?”

Covington Beef House,

The one-hour tower.

Animal Shelter,

Boob-friendly shower.

A room atop Indy,

Then the fall to Fairfield.

The smell of Decatur,

Great friendship its yield.

Dinner at R-Bar,

With Ray as our host.

Just one of many a,

Shared Facebook post.

Kit’s retirement poem,

Talk of Rubberware.

Ninety-three degrees,

Humidity in the air.

Robbies for a nightcap,

Will we ever return again?

And If we do come back,

We’ll book the Residence Inn.

Museum in Litchfield.

Route 66 detour.

In my 66th year,

This road is a lure.

Father’s Day finish,

San Diego’s on our route?

With this Marriott Tour,

The points have run out.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Happy Birthday, Baby #567

June 18, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s my wife’s birthday today, and one of my favorite holiday songs is “Merry Christmas, Baby.” The song was originally recorded in 1947 by Johnny Moore’s Three Blazers, featuring the singer and pianist Charles Brown, but my favorite version is by B.B. King. While we already did some major shopping a month ago on the Big Island, I also bought her a Limoges box to honor the day. She’s now Social Security eligible, with a goal of joining me in retirement a few years from now. Two years ago we went to Bora-Bora to celebrate, hoping to make up for a disastrous 50th that put me in the emergency room with a kidney stone. Tahiti was the #1 travel destination on her travel list and where we unexpectedly spent the first night of that memorable trip. When she’s retirement age, we plan to do a world cruise, and will celebrate her birthday as part of that voyage.

Her birthday and Christmas are two favorite days each year, and Limoges box giving is part of both traditions. They come from the porcelain factories in Limoges, France, another memorable trip that we took 15-years ago. Birthday Bear, an American Greetings cardboard toy, will also be part of the celebration that will involve a casual dinner with her daughter & me tonight and a gourmet extravaganza for just the two of us at Nomad.PDX tomorrow evening.

We acknowledge the anniversary of her birthday every month, and the day itself often lingers on for weeks. I know that when it’s time to give our pups their monthly dose of Trifexus medication, it’s appropriate to acknowledge her fractional-birthday. She recently won a “Super Woman” award at work, and was honored with a custom bobble-head. She also drives a classic 2005 Lexus convertible that she will probably keep forever, hopefully like me. Pearls have taken priority over bling, but she’s never disappointed with anything shiny. I give you this background so you’ll better understand this poem done in the spirit of “Merry Christmas, Baby:”

Happy Birthday, Baby

On the mantle,

Sits birthday bear.

Your birthday suit,

Is ready to wear.

We celebrate monthly,

My babe in her Lexus.

With a calendar reminder,

It’ s time for Trifexus.

Social Security,

Knocks at your door.

A few more years,

Of work in-store.

There’s so much more,

A world to Explore.

With the Super Woman,

That I’ll always adore.

The pearly girl,

Longs for an encore.

Daddy’s “Needer Bug,”

Always craves more.

She’s my Gemini,

Twice as nice.

More to love,

Double spice.

The main gift given,

Months before.

While shopping in,

A Big Island store.

Some Angel cream,

A sapphire ring.

Only the song,

Left to sing?

A gourmet dinner,

Is yet to come.

The PDX Nomad chef,

Fills your Tum with Yum!

Could there yet be,

Another thrill?

The Limoges display,

Has holes to fill.

So one more gift,

To make you gay.

A porcelain bag,

Happy Birth Day.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hometown Fever #563

June 14, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 1 Comment

I had some drinks some former work friends the other evening. They are all still working while I lead a life of leisure. Each of them is approaching that age of making decisions for retirement, but sometimes fate leads you down a different path. I was struck that one of them, after living in much bigger cities, wants to return to his small town roots. Does he have hometown fever? With all due respect, I would never want to go back to my hometown, and thoughts of an upcoming 50th high school reunion only reinforce that notion. Everything has changed since I left, so it’s not really home any more. I hope the best for my friend as he opens a business back home, and wrote this poem in honor of the difficult life choices that all of us make.

Hometown Fever

You Can’t Go Back!
Some might say.
The road of life,
Goes just one way.

Home, others scoff,
Is where you hang your hat.
Some find that comfort,
Wherever they’re at.

Once you leave home,
Leaving nothing on the rack.
You best think twice,
Before you go and pack.

She’s your shelter,
Where you’re well known.
Your port in a storm.
Where you’re not alone.

People there know you,
And may beg you to stay.
But you can’t wait.
To get on your way.

Before you remove,
That safety net.
And run as far away,
As you can get.

Will you someday catch,
Hometown fever?
Wishing you had never,
Taken steps to leave her.

Not everyone,
Flees the nest.
For some of us,
Home is best.

Homesickness is,
A lesson to learn.
From those who leave,
And try to return.

Had you stayed,
With hat on head.
A different life,
You would have led.

Or had you gone,
And said goodbye?
At least you could say,
“I gave it a try.”

Is coming back,
The answer then?
Or will you always wonder,
How it might have been?