Some people might say that I am a rhymer rather than a poet. I have had the ability to make rhyming lines fairly easily, but I like to think that my poetry has more in it than just rhyme. I love imagery–the sights, sounds, smells, feels and movements of natural things, and I try to make my poetry very concrete and real. For some reason, funerals have been a very large part of my poetic efforts, I suppose because poems celebrate a life better than mere speech. At any rate, I have included some poetry here, and I hope you like it. As always, the subject matter is very diverse.
Here is a poem I wrote while Molly, my wife, was teaching calculus. Her students had told her that they did not understand poetry: that the subject matter was so obscure, meaningless, and irrelevant. She replied that poetry could be about anything. They rebutted by saying, “Right! I suppose you could write a poem about mathematics!” Taking the challenge, she said, “Yes, you could write a poem about math.” “Let us see one then,” they countered. Molly came home and told me the story. “Is there some way we can make a poem about math?” she queried. I said, “Well, if you will help me with the terminology, I will try.” Here is what we came up with.
TRIGONOMETRY
By Dan Spier
There is nothing in life so darn hectic
As a brain in a course trigonometric.
I had much rather study invasions
Of Vandals and Huns than equations.
And especially ones like quadratics!
They’re fit only for fools and fanatics!
While my social life sits and relaxes,
My dumb brain is a blur of Y-axes.
Even tangents and points of inflection,
Make me suffer a loss of direction.
While derivatives—both first and second,
Are a little bit more than I reckoned.
When old fractions turn inverse proportions,
My sinuses go through contortions.
My domain is as strange as an ocean,
And my slope and my range? I’ve no notion!
I think radians are tires for one’s auto,
And determinants words for one’s motto.
Logarithms sound right for percussion,
And matrices good for discussion.
But my function’s velocity’s dropping,
And I sense by acceleration stopping.
My vertex’s endpoint—it dangles,
As I’m swallowed in huge right triangles.
All my maximums minimum weakly,
As my anti-log poem ends bleakly,
I guess if one thinks perpendiculous,
Trigonometry’s not so ridiculous.
If your DOB is—oh, sometime
Before the Y2K—
Then, OMG, we just might share
A verbal DNA
Infernal modern acronyms
IMO are wrecksters!
They’re like symbolic IOU’s
Or ESL for texters
My MO might be DOA
If acronyms persist
An MRI might show
I never did exist!
FYI, the FBI
A POI they claim you are
The AIC issued APB’s
To chase you in your car.
Race-Trac has the very best
At least it seems to me.
QT’s not as neat and clean
No matter where you be!
Of course the Hampton Inn’s a choice
Or Holiday the Inn and Suites
Just greet the lady at the desk
And casually walk in.
The Subway joints sometimes suffice
In tiny country towns
And Ingles works if you don’t mind
The long walk to the back
Publix offers places upfront most of the time.
John Flatt is a man admired by all,
But he never lets his ethics fall,
He stood by justice firm and proud,
Though critics bashed him long and loud.
He backs his people, come what may,
Though he risks his job to act that way.
This white-haired man of handsome face
Supports the freedom of the human race,
In human rights his faith is true
For teachers, kids, and parents, too.
To honor him we’d like to say:
John Flatt’s THE MAN in every way.
Tony Thomas, wake up, man,
You’re sleeping much too late.
No time to snooze:
Too much to lose.
You cannot hesitate.
Tony Thomas, we know you:
Athlete, farmer, livestock man
You make us laugh
You rope that calf
You’re a rodeoing man
Ride him,Tony, ride that bull
His hump can make a mess
It’s gonna hurt
And that’s for cert
Your nose now makes an “S”!
Tony Thomas, rise up, son,
There’s still so much to do.
There’s pigs to feed
And folks that need
To get a call from you.
Tony Thomas, you know that pig?
The one you sold Tom Greer?
That very one
For Jenny won
Grand Champion this year
Stock show, Tony, coming soon
The kids need tutoring:
Look at the judge
And gently nudge
The pig around the ring
Tony Thomas, sing for us,
Your whistle’s wet and wild
Mr. Seagram’s here
No need for beer
Sing Clovis loud, my child.
Hank Jr., son, would weep with pride
To hear you belt it out
So take a sip
And let er rip
For that green-eyed gal it’s about
Wake up, Tony, over there,
A ten-point shooter buck
He’s the one
Don’t pass him, son
You’ve never had such luck
Wake up, Tony, let’s get dressed
To town we go tonight
The girls are hot
With you to trot
So dance them up real tight
The Lord is calling, Tony pal,
Not Calvert, though, this round
No plastic cup,
No 7 up,
Just a slowly whispered sound:
“Little Big Man, come upstairs,”
The auction’s almost through
The bid is closed
And as I supposed
The price was high for you.
Tony Thomas, wait for us
We’ve been asleep like you
But we will wake
Your trip we’ll take
And sing Clovis ‘long with you.
Do your stoney walls hold out
The desperate, starving ones who shout
“Vive la France?”
Ahead, behind, from now until...
History shouts, “Man, be still!”
But no,
A lance, a pike, a stave, three stripes reveal
The restless urge to storm Bastille.
Now the mighty walls are down,
And unleashed fury wears the crown
Of living France.
“Why do faces look to thee,
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity?
For there, by chance,
A little man begins to rise,
While France rubs smoke from out her eyes.”
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The great artificer
Made my mate.
Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The mighty master
Gave to her.
Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The august father
Gave to me.
Dan Spier 2015
The dappled blotch of leaves on country roads,
And purple misty bands of blue ridge hills;
The mottled stretch of mingled marsh and sea
And ruddy roads of middle Georgia rills
These sights and more we've seen for thirty years
Our life together reads like a travel guide
With pleasant stops and conversation sweet
For thirty years as mates we've sojourned wide
We've shared the many duties of the home
I cook, you wash, you pay our monthly bills
We clean the house together when we must
Each moment with my wife brings constant thrills
This little sonnet will I hope express
My gratitude for endless happiness.
Love,
Dan
June 2014
The little hop and swinging cloak
Round the school hall got me first.
The broad-brimmed hat and girlish smile
Slaked my sentimental thirst.
Who was this jolly, well-dressed marm
Coming to school so late?
Where had she been since eight o’clock
And why this jolly gait?
Did she somehow know of me?
Was this a gentle flirt?
Or was she just a happy lass
In lovely wool plaid skirt?
Some years have passed from that fine day
Miss Moseley sauntered in
And struck a nerve in this old boy
And what a ride it’s been!
He married her, that lady coy
And shocked the entire school.
Miss Molly and the football coach
The entire town did fool!
Their married years are thirty-eight
In June of twenty-two
And every day they laugh and play
Enjoying love so true.
And now we come to celebrate
The birth of Molly sweet
She will have reached to seventy-five
A truly awesome feat.
Three-quarters of a century
Have passed since she arrived
And she has conquered many goals
Her aspirations thrived.
She mastered academics
In overwhelming rate
And taught her students flawlessly
As their triumphs indicate.
Her knitting and her needlepoint
Are treasures to behold.
And working on them every day—
It never gets too old.
But most of all she takes good care
Of crotchety old Dan
Her loving, faithful husband
Her one and only man.
And so, just like the players
When that third quarter ends,
We raise four fingers in the air
To demonstrate this way
That we wish a rich fourth quarter
For Molly May this day.
Dan Spier 2022
You knew her well, as we all did,
Our hearts her dwelling place.
But now, bereft, we gather here
Our souls an empty space.
And yet our mem’ries keep us near
The girl so smart and tall.
With sky-blue eyes and coal-black hair,
And smiles that charmed us all.
When I was twelve, we shot some hoops
Against our backyard goal.
The ball would whisk from long red nails
And swish right through the hole.
I thought she was the coolest girl
My brother could have found:
To be so cute and smart
And athletically sound.
She’d dance around and sing along
With a current top hit tune:
“It’s Amore” and “Volare”
And Be-Bop’s old “Blue Moon”.
While making tuna sandwiches—
My God, they were the best!—
Four kids she fed, Pop Layton too,
Yet never did she rest.
The Kenmore washer struggled hard
Red mud to de-corrode.
It jerked and moaned and walked the floor,
And washed each laundry load.
Old Fella stared and scratched his ear
In Vermack’s dirt backyard.
Amazed to watch young Eleanor
Do housework chores so hard.
She’d call to ask me about a book—
Often late at night—
Or play or poem for English class
She taught her students right.
Her students all loved Mrs. Spier
For her clever wit and pleasant air.
Mainly though she tried to be
Firm in rules but always fair.
She loved to put on yearly plays
With lots of song and dance.
The whole school body she would thrill
With comic scenes and light romance.
I used to marvel when she danced
With Steve, how cool they’d be.
They’d mesh and glide and step and whirl
In faultless symmetry.
But then I guess that’s how they met:
A reception dance it seems.
Steve had to ask her for a dance,
She was the stuff of dreams.
Tall and graceful slim and sweet,
Her picture you should see:
An Aztec flag girl in her pose
With boots and lifted knee.
You probably think it odd of me
To neglect her motherhood.
Well, “Mom” she was to four fine kids,
And, boy, she raised them good.
Lori, Dirk and Tanya too,
And Dena were her pride.
She fed and clothed and trained them well
And hugged them when they cried.
How ‘bout Grandma, you might say.
She was the best, I swear.
Just ask young Trevor, Garrett too
And Cody boy and Kinsey fair.
She loved them all, each on their own,
In all their joys and fears.
She’d laugh and hug their touseled hair
And wipe away their tears.
Or make them Snickerdoodles warm,
Sweet crunchy treats for all.
The pungent smell of cinnamon
Their tastebuds would recall.
And lately Great Grandma she was
To fair-haired Owen Haynes.
So, Eleanor the matriarch,
Her legacy sustains.
She was a friend to many folk:
Church members and what’s more,
Teacher friends and workout pals
And others by the score.
She got to travel far and wide
On Steven’s conference jaunts:
Vancouver, Banff and old Peking
And other foreign haunts.
But as she pedals heavenward
Her bike begins to soar.
God is waiting at the board,
A Scrabble game to score.
God has a word for Eleanor
On TRIPLE WORD it’s placed.
EXQUISITE is God’s word her
All worldly pain erased.
We’ll miss you, lovely blue-eyed queen
Thanks for all you’ve done.
Please save a place for us
Beyond the setting sun.
If Heaven has some old pawn shops,
And I’m told they prob’ly do;
They better bring out brooms and mops,
And scrub them through and through.
Cause as of Wednesday, August Two,
Change came up there, they tell,
A stranger came, his face was new,
But pawn shops knew him well.
If any carpenters all old and gray,
Would seek some bargain tools,
Like channel locks or pliers, let’s say,
Or wires or sliding rules,
Or any other stuff real cheap,
They must hope for greater luck,
Their dreams of fortune they must keep,
‘Cause the new guy knows a buck!
He’ll find the good stuff before they do,
He’ll have it tucked away.
He’s scoured ev’ry shop he knew
I’ve followed him ‘round all day!
He’s quite a welder, so they say,
With that must I agree,
And he has the finest metal shop:
The best you’ll ever see.
The barns and sheds so strong and bright,
Across the county wide,
Were built by him—they’re quite a sight!
And looked upon with pride.
His proudest work—real first class,
At the nudie club ‘twas thought:
The dancing pole of shiny brass,
Skillfully he wrought.
He had to check it many nights,
To see if it would hold
Those whirling girls without their tights,
As round and round they rolled.
He’ll have the best shop up there too.
The racks and tools will glow,
There won’t be any junk or goo
On shelves or down below.
A final prize he’ll carry ‘long,
And this you’d want to see:
Olympic pins from ninety-six,
There must be ninety-three!
Old Robert was a mighty friend,
I’ll miss him terribly.
He stuck by us until the end,
In peace his rest must be.
US History was a course
That everybody took.
You had to have a teacher
And you had to read the book.
At Murphy there was one such man
That students faced with dread
If you found out that you had his class
You knew that you were dead.
Mr. Evans was his name
I know you knew him well.
He was a legend at our school
About him now I’ll tell:
He loved to scare young office aides
That interrupted class.
“What do YOU want?” he would roar,
To the timid, trembling lass.
Whatever message that she had—
No matter what the cause—
The interruption clearly meant
The lesson had to pause.
And that, my friend, was something
That broke all Big John’s laws
The lesson plan was sacred—
History must not pause!
You’d better not be tardy
To Mr. Evans’ room;
The bell would ring; the door would shut;
Locked out would be your doom.
And if you had to wee-wee,
Twas hurry up for you!
The girls at least had three minutes;
The boys, they had but two!
Neatness too was strictly forced
Around your student seat.
No trash or purses in the aisle
Or long, protruding feet.
One time a girl had left her bag
Lying in the aisle.
Mr. Evans dragged it with his foot
Round the room in style.
The US History that he taught
Was full of facts and dates,
Lazy scholars were unmasked:
Poor grades their dreaded fates.
We had to memorize such stuff
As the capitols of each state,
And names of battle sites was tough
For me at any rate.
For instance, famous Bunker Hill
Wasn’t aptly named at all,
‘Cause where the Redcoats took a loss
“Breed’s “ Hill it was, y’all.
Trick questions were his favorite ploy;
You better be prepared:
Precision learning—girl or boy
For that he really cared!
The True-false quiz he much admired
To fool half-wakened youth
A careful reading was required
To certify the truth.
“TRUE-FALSE, Gaspee, a British ship was burned
And sunk” it said.
“Off west coast off Rhode Island,”
The question further read.
TRUE, some guessed, but it was wrong
“Gaspee WAS the vessel’s name,
Why was it marked WRONG?
We had ourselves to blame.
“Rhode Island has no WESTERN coast!”
Our leader growled with glee;
“You only got it partly true,
And therefore FALSE it be!
And yet a teacher great was he
In many ways observed.
Tough, but fair, his grading was
We got what we deserved.
What I admired was how we knew
Our current grade each day.
In file drawers by the wall we kept
Our tests all filed away.
He showed us how to average
The scores, both bad and good
For tests and quizzes, credit points,
We knew just where we stood.
Although he never showed it much,
He liked us after all.
I found out later that he knew
How each of us played ball
Or cheered or twirled or sang or wrote,
No matter what our skill.
He silently supported us
Like no one ever will.
His funeral was quite a show,
The church packed thoroughly
We learned much more about the man
Who taught us history.
They called him “Louis,” ‘stead of John,
The name we knew him by.
In North Carolina was he born
At 90 did he die.
At Erskine College first he went
In English studied he
A History Masters then he earned
At lofty Emory.
He served well as a soldier,
Intelligence his skill.
I’ll bet he sniffed out all the spies
It must have been a thrill!
Not only did he teach us kids
At Murphy High by day;
He also taught the evening school
At Bass High, so they say.
In fact he taught his entire life
At adult learning schools.
He never tired of sharing lore
And deeper thinking skills.
Four sons and loving wife had he.
Of course we never knew.
His private life he kept away
From all us nosy crew.
An active member of his church
He served quite dutifully.
New congregations he helped build
From mountains to the sea.
Mr. Evans, thank you, sir,
For all you did inspire.
You poured such wisdom in our brains
And made us all reach higher.
We Class of 62 here meet,
As all these years have passed,
Of all you taught you made us feel
We were your favorite class.
If Spring is so dogwood exquisite,
I’m compelled to ponder, “Why is it?”
When the world is all dusted chartreuse,
I grumble aloud, “What’s the use?”
When sinuses sniffly are suffering,
And headaches are begging for buffering,
My cry for eyedrops is quite urgent:
To most of this Spring I’m allergent
I suffer great waves of hysteria
When lavender blooms of wysteria
Assault me with tangled euphoria
And pungent sweet odors, O Gloria!
By then the red buds have dotted
The grey branches that winter had blotted
With delicate blooms not quite ruby
Less red, more purple, they would be.
Some finches are similar ‘tis said
The purple ones aren’t, they are red
But Nature can be quite confusing
When colors it opts for infusing:
For instance:
“Nature’s first green is gold”
Robert Frost wrote that I’m told
But how could he possibly know
With a name more common to snow?
Besides spring’s first color is yellow
Just look at the car of that fellow
Its once bright shiny red shimmer
The pollen has rendered much dimmer
And think of forsythias and daffodils
They promise early Springtime thrills
While pushing aside drifts of snow,
Seems to me quite inapropro
But enough of this negative blathering
I’m sure your anger is gathering.
“Who is this glib Prophet of Doom?
Who let him into this room?”
I wish my thoughts were more cheerful,
They might be if I were more beerful
Regardless, Spring is still welcome
It’s better than Winter and then some!
So, put on your nose plugs and goggles,
And listen to the crickets and froggles.
Enjoy the cold wind and rain showers
And dream of promised May flowers.
Of panting love and desperation
On sleepless nights I used to croon
My lusty respiration sparked
By ardent light of silv’ry moon
But now on wint’ry nights so drear
I simply totter off to bed
With breathing mask and all its gear
Another sleepless night to dread.
Like clockwork though I feel the call
At ten and two and four
And off I shuffle down the hall
The tee tee’s at the door!
Of course I take a pill for that
And lots of other stuff
No matter where the ailment’s are
One pill is not enough!
I have a pill for thyroid
And one for inner ear
I don’t have one for typhoid
But lots more, never fear!
Blood pressure takes a double dose
Preservision too for eyes
For leg cramps there’s another one
And cream for itching thighs.
I have an Epi-pin for stings
And Bi-pap when I sleep
For venous insufficiency
A steroid rub I keep
There’s Symbicort for shortened breath
Albuterol helps too
Lasix drains the fluid off
And runs me to the loo!
My God, you say, how do you keep
Those medications straight
Well, I have a dedicated lovely wife
Makes sure I’m up to date
At my age healthy living
Is quite a daunting chore
It takes a lot of medicine
And patience by the score.
But pardon all my whining
I’ve done it quite some time
Just never said it quite this way
In melancholic rhyme.
An ode on the SWD victory over Lakeside
September 29, 1978 Panthersville Stadium
The word was out that fateful day,
The stands they would be packed.
Eight thousand fans or more would see
two vaunted teams they backed.
A stupid boast the Vikings made,
Newspapers heard the quote:
“No problem is the Panther squad”!
The scribes they heard, and wrote.
“Northside Tigers beat the Gold,
With ease they passed and rushed.
So when the Purple takes the field,
The Panthers will be crushed!”
Ranked first in statewide football polls
The Panthers were Week One.
But a loss and tie their record marred
Their perfect season done.
Meanwhile Lakeside found a gem
In White County way up north;
Melvin Dorsey had the skill
To push the Vikings forth.
Full of strength and speed and skill,
This halfback had it all:
He dipped and cruised and crashed the line,
And really moved the ball.
The Panthers were just hanging on
To keep Lakeside off the board.
They couldn’t seem to put a stop
To the Sturdy Purple Horde.
Halftime found the Panthers down;
“13-7” was the score.
Their work and schemes seemed all for naught;
The Vikings would score more.
But the Panthers found a key,
A thing they seemed to lack:
Captain Lindsey’s stirring words:
“Get crazy: Take this game back!”
Just like the country redneck lad
In the song they often heard;
Their backs were up against the wall;
Giving up would be absurd!
Intent the Vikings to upset,
The Panthers took the field
Their cleats they churned; their eyes they burned:
The Vikings had to yield!
Clark put his hat right on their end,
And bowled him on his rear.
And Smith sliced through the gaping hole
To the end zone without fear.
The roar from Panther fans awoke
South County’s silent vale;
The sound did echo out for miles
The Vikings sat there pale.
The Viking horde would not retreat;
To stop them required skill.
They closed and scraped and hit and held
And every gap did fill.
Then much to everyone’s surprise
From deep in his own zone,
Bob Berry faked a criss-crop trap
And dropped back all alone
He fired a missile high and long
Fifty-seven yards it soared
Selesky down the left side flew
And caught the ball and scored!
The Viking cornerback was brave
The Purple lad gave all
But all the effort in the world
Wouldn’t help that boy catch Paul!
The sideline players did erupt;
The stands became unglued;
The Panther pride came surging back
All hopes were now renewed.
One final scare in their own zone
Occurred on fourth and one.
Lakeside tried to tie it up
But lost 13-21!
I’m sure by now you surely know
The moral of this long, long tale:
Don’t underestimate the Panther pride.
You do and you will fail!
By Coach Dan Spier
SWD assistant football coach 1968-1979
Revised 2018
The wrestlers are a sweaty bunch;
Their starving urges they negate
By skipping meals, quite often lunch,
And breakfast, too, to make their weight.
They have no use for basketball,
Or soccer, tennis, holidays,
TV, girls, or volleyball,
Happiness or friendly ways.
Aerobic shape they think the best,
They jog along a six-mile route,
In rubber suits, from east to west
From avenue to round-a-bout.
They often do not go to class,
And courses seem to them a joke,
Yet educated fools en masse
Cheer on these starving, insane folk.
In the Alphabetic Hall of Fame,
Some letters are the stars:
They stand for grades and acronyms,
With curls and dots and bars.
But I would like to celebrate
A letter oft ignored,
And demonstrate its merit
To the disrespectful hoard.
The letter I would nominate
For signatory fame,
Comes near the end of ABC’s,
And “X” would be its name.
You’ve heard about the struggles,
And battles of the sexes,
But I am here to sing the praise
Of humble little X’s.
You know the ones that gave you grief
In Algebra at school.
“Unknowns” they called them way back then;
To solve them was the rule.
One X could mean you got it wrong,
Two X’s, my oh my!
Three X’s, though, was oft forbade,
And I think that you know why!
And then in college we drank beer
From Mexico, they say.
And then one X was not enough,
Dos Equis ruled the day.
Divorces then began to rise,
As marriage went awry.
Then “exes” had a different slant,
For many a gal and guy!
The X of Xmas was not bad,
To some folk though it seemed.
For Greek X, Chi, referred to Christ,
Whose birth the world redeemed.
And when a string of X’s
Are paired up with some O’s,
It stands for hugs and kisses,
To thrill you to your toes!
But many days have added fame,
Our little guy to please;
St. Pius “X” and Malcolm “X”
X Games and XKE’s.
Madam X was quite a bomb,
And X Games curled your hair.
In history class we learned about
The XYZ affair.
Now don’t dare get “X” cited,
As England ponders BreXit.
But I “X”pect you’ve had enough:
It’s time for me to “X”it!
So give a cheer for X’s,
Their meanings make life clear.
They may not be the A team—
But their worth is just as dear.
Aviaries–they house birds;
Apiaries, bees.
Aviaries–they are spelled with V’s
But Apiaries P’s
It’s funny, isn’t it
How small the difference be
Between the names of houses
For birds and honey bees?
But then we shouldn’t wonder why
The difference is scant
Both creatures use the air to fly
Both pollinate the plant
And then the adolescent tale
Would never mean as much:
Unless you had both birds AND bees
Explaining sex and such.
They both have sweetness in their beaks
The bird of course in song
The bee out from the flower tweaks
Its honey thick and strong.
Lets be like birds and bees–
Our unique talents use;
To heck with V’s and P’s,
Let’s watch our P’s and Q’s!
To Steve upon his Eightieth Birthday
May 27, 2013
Here’s a toast to a guy named Steve,
He’s had a life you’ll scarce believe:
Places he’s been, and stuff he’s done;
His lifelong book would weigh a ton!
But I will try in brief to say
Some things about his life today.
In Minnesota he was born,
Perhaps it was a frosty morn.
At any rate his Preacher Dad–
A wand’ring itch he always had—
Miami south he moved his bunch;
They never even stopped for lunch!
Seattle next was home to Steve,
But soon thereafter they would leave.
To Jacksonville his family went
His Dad, he barely had a cent.
Old Ted–his Dad–he trusted God,
As cross the country they did plod.
A capsized trailer; tires blown out;
Left poor Young Stevie full of doubt.
They made it, though, to Jacksonville.
They all were healthy; not one ill.
The war years there were spare and lean
And offshore Nazi subs were seen
But vict’ry gardens got them through
And better days would come they knew.
Then to Atlanta next they moved:
A move I’m sure they all approved.
Doc Smith’s drug store did once employ
Young Stephen as delivery boy
On Cushman scooter he would fly
‘Round Little Five Points and nearby.
The days in Georgia numbered were
Their constant moving seemed a blur
Soon T. J. Spier informed the clan–
Including even newborn Dan–
Saskatchewan would be the place
The Spiers would try to find some space.
Which wasn’t difficult out there.
The western plains had lots of air,
And frost and flies and even heat;
Their nasty climate can’t be beat.
But Steve secured some part-time work:
A farm machinery warehouse clerk.
I’m running out of space and time,
And pretty soon there’ll be no rhyme.
But sadly hasten on I must;
Your patience will endure I trust.
Steve finished up his high school years
In St. Paul once again, my dears.
At Minnehaha (that’s no joke!)
A prep school year for our young bloke.
A part-time job to pay his board
Was pumping gas, but, oh, my Lord!
Some robbers beat him up real bad!
To tell the story makes me sad.
It made the young lad very tough.
The crooks were jailed, and that’s enough!
Then Spokane, Washington, became
The temporary home to claim.
Steve had jobs of various styles:
He lifted, loaded, travelled miles.
He climbed big poles and spliced some wires;
Along the way he quenched some fires
Of lovelorn maidens that he met;
Perhaps such things I should forget!
Korean War next reared its head;
Steve faced at once the draft board dread.
Selective Service you could use:
The branch of service you could choose.
So Coast Guard duty was his choice.
To “Aye, aye, Sir!” he gave his voice.
And here on this Memorial Day,
We salute his service and we say,
“Thanks from all of us to you,
We still are free, and it’s all due
To servicemen and women brave,
Who sacrificed themselves to save
The greatest nation on the earth:
The Face of Freedom from its birth.”
When Coast Guard life was finally through,
Steve had to figure what to do.
He sold some cars and boats awhile,
But those jobs didn’t fit his style.
But then a simple wedding dance
Led Stevie boy to hot romance.
Young Eleanor, a flag corps girl,
Young Stephen gave a dizzy twirl!
Then married they became, you see.
Together still live happily.
Steve worked at many jobs those years,
While making ends meet for the Spiers.
He worked at Lockheed twice ‘tis true,
He went to night school classes, too.
Insurance sales he gave a shot.
To me I think he sold a lot!
The field that gave him his best start
Was drafting, which was very smart,
For I’m an artist, but I’ll say,
His graphic drawings far outweigh
My scratchy outlines by a ton!
At any rate, his drafting skill
Allowed him access to fulfill
A dream career, and nothing less,
Full of promise and success.
Lithonia Lighting, east of town,
Was where old Stephen gained renown.
From draftsman to technician of
The R and D staff, then above,
To manager of testing lab,
And then a new deal he would grab:
A new department was his thing,
A Market Applications wing.
This worked real well, but then Steve went
To field sales—this was heaven-sent–,
For then the engineers could see
What they thought then could never be:
First-class knowledge from the man
Who know how lighting really ran.
The company sales went through the roof,
And Steve Spier’s foresight given proof.
People skills had helped old Steve
Carve out a niche to work and weave
A solid place where all could see
His value to the company.
But family duty was not shirked;
The frugal couple scrimped and worked.
Their offspring grew by bounds and leaps,
Their grocery bills piled up in heaps!
First Lori, Dirk and Tanya came,
Then Dena, “Peewee” was her name.
Poor Eleanor toiled hard at life,
As teacher, mom, and cook and wife.
And Steve coached youth league football teams,
And helped Red Runners reach their dreams.
With grandkids then they both were blest.
Four fine young birds to crowd the nest.
Trevor, Cody, then Garrett came,
The last one Kinsey was by name.
Grandpa Steve is their best friend,
Their love for him—it knows no end.
Steve’s own dream then would soon come true;
One for which he sure was due:
By Steve’s name engineers marked “Yes”
For president of IES.
Worldwide travel far and wide,
Banquets lush for Steve and bride.
China, Russia, other places:
Lots of sights and different faces.
Steve had made it to the top
Of his profession near non-stop.
Great career, you must agree;
He did it all with no degree.
This story has gone on too long;
I probably got some details wrong.
In closing I would like to say
To Stephen Spier on his great day:
You’ve been a rock to those around;
A steady voice with logic sound.
A helpful hand for others’ needs;
A thoughtful eye for future deeds.
A tender heart, no matter what;
A big right foot for kicking butt!
Happy 80th Birthday, Big Brother.
This is a poem that I wrote to commemorate a great experience that I had taking a watercolor painting class from a wonderful teacher named Fred Graff. We had an intense four-day workshop with him in Mt. Dora, Florida, a beautiful quaint town north of Orlando. It is quite an art community. This poem is a parody or takeoff on A. E. Housman's "To An Athlete Dying Young." You may remember Meryl Streep reciting this poem at the end of "Out of Africa" when Robert Redford's character died. I changed some words, ideas and rhymes to fit the occasion of our workshop, but I think it works pretty well for the occasion.
(with apologies to A.E. Housman)
The week you came for us to meet,
We cheered you down Mt. Dora's Street.
Guys and gals stood list’ning by,
As art you brought us on the fly.
And now, as vanished are our days
Our glasses shoulder-high we raise,
And send you off to your next town,
To add more praise to your renown.
Smart man, to slip betimes away
From all of us this wistful day:
"Cause slowly as the vignette winds,
It dwindles quickly from our minds.
Eyes that long for truth in art,
Can hardly bear to see you part.
Our questions louder sound than fears:
Our ignorance must hurt your ears.
Now you will never see the deed
Of folks that gave your words such heed --
Painters whom renown might score,
And Fred, you opened the door.
So, go, before your echoes fade,
And other artist's brains invade.
And hold the lofty two-inch brush,
And warn against creative rush.
As round that spattered easel grand
We flock to gaze and understand.
And find untarnished there to dwell
Abstract realism done so well.
Wrested from off the dusty plaster wall
Where long it hung a market crucifix,
Push pins had pierced the manufactured holes,
Long languished there in mercantile neglect
Amid the other Christmas stocking blanks,
Hand-painted graphs of erstwhile caribou
And candy canes and horns and dolls and drums
St. Nick and Magi, Bethlehem, and all.
But carefully in tissue tomb it now resides,
Awaiting morphogenesis to come.
Recumbent in her Lazy-Boy my wife
Reclines and carefully unfurls the coil.
Then starched and stiff, the latent prize unfurls
The canvas mesh she straightens on her knee,
And starting like the ancient Eastern kings,
The northeast corner working toward the west
And southward up and down the needle flies.
In subsequential holes, she fills with wool
Or brightly colored silk or cotton thread.
The acupuncture process heals the mass,
Converting fabric plain—mosaic-like,
The loops obliquely march in measured line,
A perfect pyramid emerges strong.
In places where the paint had flatly lain
The seamstress matches hue and tone and shape,
The screen by magic fills and plumps each fold
And trees and bells and sleeves and toys emerge.
Conversion comes at last to lifeless form
A vacant, empty shroud of cloth transformed
To Christmas stocking filled with Christmas joy
To Christmas stocking made with love and care.