Category: Poem

“Finally – Dad’s Song*”

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My father, John Leslie Richards, prepares for his 1984 Walt Disney World second retirement (Navy, 1961) by choppind down and de-stumping one of two then-30 year old camphor trees in the South side yard of his Cedar Avenue, Sanford, Florida home. With his pickup to pull, he did all the chainsawing, digging, and hauling. I just happened to come hove for a brief visit in the early 1980s to witness the feat. Cocky little bastard.
Some – but not anywhere near all -photos found from a friendlier time.

hey, dad, you were more

than ever what I deserve

and always needed

 

*(Sally’s Song came quick.  The first – of nearly a dozen versions – came the night she died. For years, the decades I despaired ever of catching that enigma known as John Leslie Richards.  He flew as an enlisted tail gunner and avaiation motor machinists mate over Japanese warships at The Battle of The Coral Sea and later at Midway and when his carrier USS Hornet (CV-8) was sunk went swimming in The South Pacific for a time. Later he flew off the escort carrier USS Card, CVE-11, in The North Atlantic and Mediterranean.  He saw the invasion of Southern France after Morocco and Algeria in between anti-submarine duties en route from New York City – where he met and fell hopelessly in thrall to mom – to England and Murmansk and Arkhangle in The Soviet Union until his collapse and later reassignment to Patuxant Naval Air Station where he became one of America’s first Hurricane Hunters, flying as an enlisted crew chief aboard a converted Army B-25 medium bomber.  That’s when he married mom, found Sanford, Florida, and began the process of proving to himself he could not only father but actually be one – however imperfectly and that was often enough – and continue his career as a famous guide, hunter and fisher from Lake of The Woods, Minnesota, Northeast Arm, Newfoundland, Canada, and throughout The St. Johns River, and parts both Salt and Freshwater throughout Central Florida.  We fought. Sometimes every day since I can remember and perhaps before. From the time I refused to talk to his alcohol-smelly self and then declined to cry when I felt his shoe on my bottom in his momentary drunken rage, to sitting across from him at daily table displaying the decorum upon which he insisted but rarely if ever achieved himself, to his table-talk temptings of school subjects he obviously never knew (mom finished the eighth-grade drop-outs GED) to the time when I was home on leave and both of us were less-than-sober and when The Hornet’s welterweight Golden Gloves champ swung roundhousedly at me and I ducked under and went behind in a waist-lock leg-grapefine takedown I to this day can not say for sure who was more stunned: him or me?  I took his belt years before who playing guess what I got inside this zipper in our side yard with a neighboring girl.  That was the second – and last time – he touched me in anger.  When mom asked who else I fished with other than dad, I told her: No one.  Dad and I go out before sunrise, have a couple of beers and two sandwiches each, and come home after sunset and clean our catches and will have shared about seven words each. So, mom, no one. Why? She said she asked dad the same question and he said: No one. I’ll wait for J to come home Tuesday or Wednesday from Titusville – newspaper – and we’ll go out before sunrise the day after he comes home and helps you do housework, and we will fish all day until dark and drink a couple of beers each and eat your two sandwiches each and kill fish and say maybe six or seven words each all day other than “‘nother minnow?” or “snake’s after the stringer!” or things like that.” She said: “I asked him if he’d go out with Ralph” (her best bud’s husband, a retired Navy Chief who also liked to fish – supposedly.  I interrupted: Ralph wants to go out at 9 a.m. after breakfast, fish – for bass and not specs (speckled perch, called Black Crappie) and be back by noon or so so he can play golf all afternoon>” She laughed: “that’s almost exactly what Johnnie said.” So.  So.  We didn’t agree on much, Dad and I.  But this one thing.  When I got out of the naval hospital after being medically evacuated from Vietnam, and Dad took me with him to the Navy Fleet Reserve Association Sanford unit’s lounge and nightclub, I got asked about Vietnam by one of the sailors there, and before the guy asking me could respond, Dad interjected: “Hey! We don’t let no one who wasn’t there talk about our war, so let the boy have his say,” before the issue got even more heated. I turned from my inquisitor to face Dad: “Boy? You see a boy, Old Man, you best slap him up-side the head!” and ruffled his flattop buzzcut hair and slipped into a half-hearted headlock and whispered to his ear by my mouth, “Thanks, Pop.”)

by Categories: August, Dad, Fish, Fishing, Haiku, J Richards, Poem, Poetry, VerseTags: , , , ,

“Gotta Book* I Can Read?”

Old, bitter, black man

came by and asked for a book:

Gave him a new Dune!

 

  • (Carlos comes by sometimes, cussin’ and hollerin’ and bangin’ on the neighbor’s front door.  This is the first time he stopped and saw me reading in my rocking chair along the paved path to the front door.  I had just finished some vegetable garden chores and was taking my ease.  He approached when I told him thanks to North Vietnam I rarely could hear softly spoken words well. “Got another book I can read?” I replied in the affirmative, “But I’m not going to go inside and get it right now because this one’s so good. Can you come back tomorrow? Whatchyou like to read?”  “No. Wanna read now. I like science fiction, mysteries and such, but I’ll just go next door,” he continued after we had exchanged names and went to an abbreviated and embarrassingly flawed ‘dap’ Vietnam era black handshake routine.  Quickly I went inside and found a never-before touched copy of Frank Herbert’s “Dune.”  First place I looked. I was wearing my polarized dark sunglasses and barely could see. I knew I had my old self-annotated paperback copy on the shelves somewhere, so why not? He came into the street, bookless, and I called over: “Hey, Carlos. Got you a book.”  He mentioned he never expected me to remember his name.  I never said why it was important to me.  “This a good’un,” he asked. “That’s for you to say, now, but I really think you will like the fremen and the young duke and what they did.” He went on his way, his head going back and forth with a lilt to his step.  Hours later I went back inside to check the office phone messages and grab an apple and as I entered the kitchen I saw in a chair just outside its domain another pristine copy of Dune. Thanks, Lord.)
by Categories: Book, Haiku, J Richards, Poem, PoetryTags: , , , , ,

“If I Were A Plant, I’d Sue!”

Two try to make “Square*”

a Smokers’ Aquarium”

sans plexi-glass cube.

 

  • (Magnolia Square in downtown Sanford, Florida, a cloosed-off portion of Magnolia Avenue fronting First Street, turned into a brick-paved fountain-centered, planter-ringed gathering place for music, art, food and gatherings.  The two men from the upstairs near-constantly changing business doing something internettishly significant, this time with insurance hawking, crawl out the stairwell’s card-holder-only door and one lights up a cancer stick and the other produces an E-pipe and both pump poison into the air.  All that nicotine-laced water vapor and those carcinogens right under the hanging planters which decoratively dangle from the faux-antique lampposts: what’s a tree hugger and/or liberal to think or do.  Form a Shame Police?  Naw: get crackin’ on sentient decorative plants from your personal laboratory and then introduce them to a like-planted-mind lawyer and sue the feces out of them and the city to force them to build Smokers’ Aquariums – a notion first brought to me by Libertarian reformed lawyer-turned-radio-talker Neal Boortz as he described the glass-enclosed tower into which the so-called addicted may repair to puff away at Atlanta, Georgia’s sprawling jetport.  If these Sanford downtown toilers of internet wares must exit their offices to smoke why must we tolerate their doing so with impunity once unleashed to the outer-world?  Put them into cubes of plexiglass and make them pump quarters (or swipe cards or point phones) to pay to wash their befouled air elsewhere where it annoyeth not the people or plants who so choose to die differently. In the local library entrance alcove is a sign prominently displayed: No Smoking.  Yet there is a butt-can within the bounds and overhead.  And the smokers thereby gathered congregate on the sidewalk before the aforesaid entrance.  Makes sense, right?)
by Categories: Cigarettes, Coffin Nails, Commentary, E-Cigs, Haiku, J Richards, Poem, Poetry, Smokers, smokingTags: , 2 Comments