Selected Poems by Don
by donald emerson phillips
Don and Sally, Wedding Picture 1946
Sally 65th Birthday
You’re sixty-five? Can this be true?
You look just like the girl I knew
In ‘46. How can this be?
Have you unlocked the mystery
Of ageless, endless youth sublime?
A bod impervious to time?
When we were wed, and friends we’d meet,
They’d smile, and usually they’d greet us,
Saying, “this must be your wife,
Who justifies your aimless life.”
Inside I fumed, but outwardly
Maintained my equanimity.
Two decades passed…so did my youth.
You still looked great, I looked uncouth.
And now those friends, since moved away,
Upon returning for a day,
Would smile a puzzled smile and say,
“Your daughter’s healthy, anyway.”
More years have gone, they took their toll.
Your stomach’s flat, mine’s on a roll.
Your hair looks neat, mine’s incomplete.
Your eyes are clear, mine tend to blear.
Your chin is one, mine’s come undone.
Your skin’s like gold, mine tends to fold.
And should those friends drop by today,
They’d best be careful what they say.
I’ve been your husband, then your dad.
It hurt, but wasn’t all that bad.
But I must warm them forcefully,
Your grandpapa I WILL NOT BE!!!!
Sally 72nd Birthday
When first we met, in forty-six
Your seven had a two prefix.
At twenty-seven, you were chick,
Your beauty at its very peak.
The years have passed, both best and worst
And now your numbers have reversed.
The seven now precedes the two.
Incredible! Just look at you!
Your figure hasn’t lost a thing.
How can this be! What’s happening?
By now you should have grown a beard
And should be wrinkled, fat, and weird.
Instead, no difference in your weight.
Your smile is bright, composure great.
Demeanor positive and strong.
Life throws a curve? You get along.
Just keep it going, pretty gal.
I’ve loved my many years with Sal
Our meeting? Wonderful for me.
HOW FORTUNATE CAN ONE GUY BE?
Niece-Nephew Support Group
The Doctor said, “A good report.”
I said, “It must be my support.”
I have a niece and nephew team
Who boosts my sagging self-esteem.
When I am feeling low and blue
They charge my batteries anew.
They coax me, goose me, change my mood,
And thus improve my attitude.
They work with faith and prayer and charm.
Without them, I’d have bought the farm!
The Doctor said, “I guess you know
Your time was up long, long ago,
And if this cancer problem ends,
You’d better thank your loyal friends.
They saved your sorry butt once more,
Perhaps that’s what close friends are for!!!”
Written in Prison Camp, WWII, 1944
Are you weary of the present?
Home or business life unpleasant?
Do you long to stow it all and get away?
Taxes eating up your income?
Bonds depleting it, and then some?
Draft board calling louder every day?
Some blonde siren with a bubble
On your trail and brewing trouble?
Wife and in-laws getting in your hair?
Tried of getting up at seven?
Swing shift working you till ‘leven?
Looking for the life without a care?
Stalag Three’s the spot for you, boy!
Hop a thousand bomber convoy.
Come and live the life of Reilly for a year.
Sleep the clock around on Monday;
Sleep the week around till Sunday.
Let the Krautheads feed and clothe you while you’re here.
Rest assured that blonde tornadoes,
Salesmen, wives, and desperadoes
Cannot storm this haven on a hill.
Barbed wire serves as insulation
To the woes of civ’lization.
Hawk-eyed Super-guards complete the bill.
One important stipulation…
When you leave your present station
Hold it open for me, will you please?
Because for me this life has cloyed
And I’d be damned well overjoyed
To peddle apples in that land across the seas.
My Colors Flying!
My body woos
The taste of booze.
My taste buds drool
And lose their cool
At thoughts of wine and whiskey.
And yet I’m told
I won’t grow old,
My liver first
Will swell and burst
If its’s immersed in whiskey.
So I abstain,
At least refrain
From daily stops
At liquor shops
To try to save my liver.
Sometimes I slip
And take a nip
Or three or four
Or even more,
And make my liver quiver.
But mainly now
I take the vow,
Reject the corn,
The grape, and mourn
The bareness of tomorrow.
Refuse a drink
And smile to think
That, while a shot
Would hit the spot,
The end result is sorrow.
Maturity
Is stalking me.
I’ve turned the page
To middle age
And my reactions vary.
A growing voice
Rejects my choice,
Pleads common sense,
Says abstinence
Is quite unnecessary.
It says, suppose
An X-ray shows
A cancerous
Cantankerous
Malignancy is certain.
And Dr. Good,
The neighborhood
Physician speaks
Of only weeks
Before the final curtain.
My thought will be,
Oh, Stupid me!
What have I gained
To have abstained
From pleasures gratifying?
Much better to
Have drunk the brew,
Consumed the grape
And hit the tape
With all my colors flying!
Sun City West Blues
The cobwebs in my aging mind
Grow denser every month, I find.
Before, my keen computer brain
Could handle problems with disdain,
And brushed aside its daily chore
As minimal, a breeze, a bore.
But now, I face a door with doubt.
Do I come in, should I go out?
My purpose really isn’t clear,
To go out there, or stay in here.
The Frigidaire’s a problem, too.
I can’t remember what to do.
Did I come here to grab a snack,
Or store these groceries in the back?
And when I drive, my mind goes blank.
Was I commuting to the bank?
Or was I heading for the store?
Or have I been to bore before?
And now, the cruelest cut of all,
Makes other blunders seem quite small.
I’ve finished writing you today.
With letter stamped, I’m on the way.
The nearest mailbox looms ahead,
And now my face is really red!
I didn’t drop the letter in.
Stupidity has won again.
My geriatric-addled head
Has opened it, to read, instead!
There’s Trouble
We planned the trip in early spring.
I said, “Let’s go meandering
Thru Ireland, Scotland, England, Wales.
Let’s go before our good health fails.”
At least it was the day before.
Our bags were packed and by the door.
The doctor’s phone call set me back.
He said, “There’s trouble, Don, unpack.”
A dreaded word, malignancy.
A HORRID word, colostomy.
Combining both, the doctors say,
May tend to spoil a patient’s day.
Two weeks have passed, I’m heading out.
A brave new world lies just without,
A world of bags and belts and stomas,
Of ostomates, and new aromas.
I gamble with my golfing friends
And sometimes, as the golf game ends,
They’ve said, in tones as hard as brass,
“Tomorrow, Don, I’ll get your ass!!!”
Now, retribution will be mine
As innocently I opine,
“You’re victims of a cruel fate…
It’s gone already, you’re too late!!!”
Seventy-Five
Three quarters of a century,
Some say, is an eternity.
I hold a different point of view.
Life passes like the morning dew,
A summer rain, a gentle breeze,
But, ah, I have my memories!
When I Am 92 and Frail
When I am 92 and frail,
A nursing home my final jail,
I hope my memory is kind.
I hope it only brings to mind
The things that I enjoy today,
An early morning run in May,
A 7-iron with lots of spin
That stops the ball beside the pin,
A brilliantly maneuvered scam
That clinches my redoubled slam,
A glass of Mr. Daniels best
To put my taste buds to the test.
I’m hoping that my memory
Blanks out the things not dear to me.
The unkind word that hurt a friend,
The greeting I forgot to send,
The thoughtless deed that needlessly
Created animosity,
The many things I didn’t say
That would have eased another’s day,
The hand I should have offered more
To help another’s daily chore.
All these, and other wrongs, I trust
My mind will relegate to dust.
The Club Fan
He’s learned, in other, bitter years
To temper confidence with fears.
He’s learned that April’s early surge
Can turn to August’s mournful dirge.
He’s learned that hitters in July
Will later wither, fold, and die
And stand immobile at the plate
As though afraid to hit their weight.
He’s learned that April’s double plays
Result in April’s winning ways.
But August’s grounder dribbles through
And August’s pop fly drops for two.
And yet, as ‘69 began
The Cubs were playing, to a man,
As though they felt themselves to be
The favored Tots of Destiny.
The fans at first displayed some doubt
But soon began a turnabout
And, as the season gathered steam,
Allowed themselves a pennant dream.
And loyal hordes of Bleacher Bums
Gave out with trumpets, cheers, and drums
And yelled approval lustily
As Santo kicked his heels in glee.
The stifling heat of August waned
And less than thirty games remained,
And with momentum on their side
It seemed that naught would stem the tide.
When suddenly the bubble burst.
The stumbling Cubbies fell from first
And, tumbling badly, looked to find
They’d fallen several games behind.
So this is where it stand today.
A dozen games remain to play.
The favored team in all the bets
Is now those most amazing Mets.
With only twelve to go, you’d say
The fight is hopeless anyway.
WELL, THIS IS WHERE YOU’RE WONG, MY FRIEND,
THE SEASONS’ OPEN TILL THE END.
THINK POSITIVE, THINK “NO MORE FLUBS”!
THINK “STRIKE-OUT, METS”, AND “BASE-HIT, CUBS”
The hex that Lady Luck bestows
Might break the Met’s amazing nose!
Don & Sally, 1994
