song lyric from 1987 - The Heartaches Get Harder

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Heartaches Get Harder
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written November 9, 1987

. . For me, love was never a silly old game I could play.
. . I haven't loved often, but I've had my share, I must say.
. . It's no trick to leave before becoming close enough to care,
. . But when something good dies, the hurt becomes almost too much to bear.

. . . . (chorus)
. . . . . . And the heartaches get harder, the breakups are more of a pain.
. . . . . . When lovers depart in their middle years, it's more of a drain.
. . . . . . So to eager young sweethearts: Don't give up when love's on the sane
. . . . . . For the heartaches get harder; you may never find true love again.

. . Oh, I had me a sweetheart who loved me, and I loved her too,
. . But I took her for granted, as my kind of men often do.
. . Now she's found a new friend, and my chances are shot all to hell.
. . There's a lesson to learn here, and God knows I've learned it very well.

(chorus)

. . The colds that you have as a kid linger longer with age.
. . And the tumble as young love goes south can evolve into rage.
. . Being lonesome for love I screwed, up really cripples my style,
. . So I write stupid songs, and I try to hang on for awhile.

(chorus)

- - The lyric is published in my book Minstrel's Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois and available from Prairie Archives in lyrical downtown Springfield AND whenever I read, recite and sing my poetry. If YOU like the words, make up your own song and share it with others. You have my permission. I'm interested less in the perpetuation of my name than I am in the perpetuation of my words. If you really like the words, arrange for me to perform it at your "tax and spend Libra" social occasion or effigy burning.
. . . . The song is autobiographical, but I'm not uncomfortable singing it for strangers. To admit to my frustration is to reveal a human frailty about as shame eliciting as hitting my thumb with a hammer when I'm putting a nail into the wall to hang a picture.
. . . . I know the words border on cliche, and it seems to OOZE "poor little me" but the insight that for me anyway, breaking up with a paramour of the feminine persuasion is rougher on older farts than young stallions makes it original and worth sharing.
. . . . What do you think?

new poem - And So . . .

I posted the following poem June 6, 2006 at this blog and two days later it disappeared. I don't know how it happened, but I know I did not have a hand in it. I wonder who did and why, and if the perpetrator of the deletion will contact me -- writer@eosinc.com -- and explain, I will be happy to share the information in a future blog entry.
. . . . I wish my earlier posting had not been deleted because I am a patriot, a past election judge representing the Republican Party, and I've voted in almost every election since I was in college. Even so, I am glad the deleting entity provided me the inspiration to pay more attention to it in revising the early version into the current incarnation which makes my point better than before. I hope you agree.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And So . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written 7:55 pm, Monday, June 5, 2006

. . . You didn't listen when I suggested
. . . Dubya is no more than Dan Quayle
. . . with a Moses mission and no conscience.
. . . Your ears were deaf to my urging
. . . to nip his virulent "Creeping Charlie" weedness,
. . . transforming our cherished panoply of freedoms
. . . into a pedagogic garden of worse.
. . . You believed his lies while you doubted
. . . the deeds of proven patriots,
. . . and I sang of the sad fate
. . . your glib contentment would bring.
. . . Can you hear me now?
. . . Can you hear me now?

. . . You scurried from fear more earnestly
. . . than you sought the truth,
. . . not caring to comprehend how theocrats
. . . humping autocrats
. . . breed only dark despair.
. . . You called him holy for the oaths
. . . he chanted like an anointed Pharisee
. . . cloaked in the solemn vestments of a president,
. . . and for his certitude of stance,
. . . untainted by facts and other voices.
. . . I told you he was a bad penny
. . . who would out-bid morality
. . . and bankrupt the dreams of our forefathers.
. . . Can you hear me now?
. . . Can you hear me now?

older poem; new posting - Tuff Tookas!

Tuff Tookas
by Job Conger

You have a gift, and the world doesn't give a damn?
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
You feel lost, and you hardly know where you amn?
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

When you're altogether twisted, down and feeling blue,
When your friends are moving upward, and you're stuck like glue,
Just remember what the world wants to say to you:
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

Yes, you told me that you loved me when my kisses were sweet.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
Now you tell me that your world seems in com plete.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

It's the fate of everybody that we crash and burn.
When we reach a point of panic and there's nowhere to turn,
There's a moral to the story that we all must learn:
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

The nice thing in being older: there are fewer surprises.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
You still hurt like hell, but you know what to be wise is.
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

Now's the time to get you working up a new head of steam.
Find an on-ramp to tomorrow and an open dream.
Say goodbye to pain and sorrow with a primal SCREAM!
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!
Tuff tookas; tuff tuff tookas!

---- written April 7, 1996 and published in Minstrel's Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois by Job Conger.
. . . . All I needed during this year of my involvement with Poets & Writers Literary Forum of Springfield to write a new poem was a reminder that our next meeting at Barnes & Noble was the day after tomorrow. The night I recited it, I approached Marcellus Leonard as I headed for the microphone, and checked with him, just to be sure that "tookas" was not an unacceptable, inappropriate word to speak to an audience that included a few 10 year olds with their parents. I had a hunch it was okay, but checking with Marcellus also gave me a boost of confidence, always handy when premiering a poem -- or as Melissa Sullivan might have said, "when premiering a poem for the first time."
. . . .They were joyous days. No spooks, no ghosts, no serious sour notes.

"We thought we could live forever in fun. But our chances, really, were a million to one."
-- Bob Dylan

Another Poem -- a real one, I think

Fourty-two of the 69 arguably poetically-turned contributions to my first book of poems and essays were written for practiced, consistently rendered musical accompaniment, and of those 37 were written to be sung with practiced, consistently rendered melodies. So even if you count only the latter category, a Boston stranger might reasonably deduce I am a songwriter who wears the coat, the cloak, of a poet. I chafe at this. I'd rather die a failed poet than a successful songwriter; it just seems a more noble way to fail.
. . . . . Here is a poem I wrote. The periods are inserted because this internet format will not permit spaces.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When Someone Inspires
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger

. . . I will build for her enchanting form and mind
. . . . . . . . . . . . . castles of hopes and dreams
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .contructed with pen and heart,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . lines of inspired imagery
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and lilting, lusting, lyricism.

. . . Giving melody to desire
. . . . . . for times in which I want to capture her
. . . . . . . . . . . . and rush to hot times at the Hyatt Regency,
. . . . . . predicting ecstasy,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . surrendering hearts,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and good times coming our way,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will flower the path to love
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . with roses of words,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and as I do,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .I will write
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the end
. . before the beginning!
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

. . . . . I wrote this poem February 16, 1971 as I sat in the student lounge at MacMurray College.
. . . . I don't even remember the name of the girl I wrote it about (we remained just friends; not a big deal) , but I remember the name of the girl she and I had talked about a few days earlier. She knew the girl I had taken to the Senior Prom at Springfield High three years previously. Her name was Joyce Mitchell. To this day, I can't drive by a certain house on way-south Second Street without wanting to pull into the driveway and asking her fine parents if she's ready to go.
. . . . Some memories are too powerful for poetry and rhyme, and even song. Some memories named Joyce Elaine Mitchell are destined to live forever only in time.

In Celebration of Carillons - Cameron Dowe ll

I wrote this poem because I wanted a parody that would describe a star "who could ring him a bell just like a playin' guitar." The only folks who can do that are bell choir participants and carilloneurs, and since I dig carillons, the choice was easy. From the start, I wanted to use a West Side name, and since Cameron is the name of the son of a former friend, it was a natural choice.
. . . . . I had to decide whether to title it Cameron Do Well since it's obviously a parody of Johnny B. Goode OR title it Cameron Dowe II and just use the obvious variation in the chorus. I chose the latter, and I hope you like it. Better yet, I hope you invite me to your party and ask me to play and sing it for you. . . . . . . . . . One two three FOUR

Cameron Dowe II
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger

In Central Illinois in rocking Springfield town
He plays his tasteful music 'fore the sun go down
The kid is total kewl and surely will go far
And he can ring a bell just like a playin' guitar.
At Washington Park's carillon we hear him play,
Singing go Cameron go today -- hey, hey, hey

GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO, go Cameron go, GO. go Cameron go,
GO -- Cameron, do well!

He grew up walking distance from the White Oaks Mall
The boy was barely 10 when he first heard the call
Of tintinnabulation and the many fans
Of Thomas Rees Memorial's Karel Keldermans.
The bronze and granite edifice will bring him fame.
If you don't dig the music, that's a crying shame, so

GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO -- Cameron, do well!

With lofty aspirations and a heart that's pure,
The kid is destined to be a great carilloneur.
He pounds the Posdro, Barnes, DeTurk and anthems sweet,
His crazy boppin' Byrnes with a funky beat.
Folks outside, they can hear him thirty blocks away,
Singing go Cameron go today.

GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO, go Cameron go, GO, go Cameron go,
GO -- Cameron, do well!

. . . . . . . I sent the words and a short note to the Springfield Park District who kindly forwarded my note and lyrics to Karel (pronounced Carl). I had asked in the note to call me if he could add anything to improve the technical accuracy. I was especially concerned with composers' names since I had originally used 17th & 18th Century composers I knew, but could not say for certain, had composed for the carillon. Karel kindly set me right with the names I used in the revised version.
. . . . . Though I had some fun with the parody, I'm a big fan of the head carilloneur and the magnificent instrument he plays.

Poems and Fish

Sunday's emailed The Writer's Almanac was so arresting, I can't believe I didn't have to pay for it!
. . . . It contained e.e. cummings' poem "since feeling is first" and my first feeling was to blow by it and read the historical information . . . and I did. Happy 19th Amendment Passage Day, especially to all women who vote.
. . . . And then I returned to e.e. whom I've always kept at my intellectual arms' lengths since the nuance he invented was the practice of never using upper case letters like other famous poets did at the time. Until I looked close at "since feeling'" I could not have sworn that he used college-standard punctuation. but i'm not one to be influenced by trendy fads
. . . . When I returned to this poem, I decided that here was a poem I would memorize soon, and if I never share it with another strangersoul, I will share it with a friend or two. When I read, "Reprinted with permission." I sighed because I knew I could not share the words with you here. Then I entered the title into Google, and at the top of the list was a link to the poem. You can find the text by visiting http://www/cs/berkeley/edu~richie/poetry/html/poem162.html and discovering . . . and PRINTING this wonderful poem for yourself.
. . . . Or not. I probably too often talk about the joylessness of most poetry readings. And when I'm not whining about that, I'm probably too often joylessly bemoaning the passionlessness of poetry. In this poem by e.e. c are both that hit me like the concluding five minutes of the NBC TV show Saint Elsewhere used to hit me. And that's why I'm going to memorize this wonderful poem; because having it that deeply into me will improve my disposition and froggy countenance simply by having atoms of that poem's words subtlely transfiguring me.
. . . . I was going to memorize "The Lost House" by David Mason, and I still may. It's another keeper that nourishes me every time I read it. My print of that poem -- from The Writer's Almanac, of course -- is still here in the office, sitting on my lap as I write this, and within arms' reach since May 26 when I discovered it.
. . . . But you know, you can be a successful fisherman, even though you don't keep every fish you lift out of the water and into the asphyxiating air. Some fish are not worth the trouble of reeling in, but how else can you disengage the hook, look them over and throw them back? Disengaging the hook is essential, and to do that you have to look at the fish.
. . . . That's why reading poems is essential for hummin' beans who presume to write them. I'm going simple and arbitrary in saying this, but if you call yourself a poet and can't tell me at least three poets you generally enjoy and three you generally don't enjoy, you aren't reading enough. I usually avoid poems when I'm not up to the obligation of being challenged by fresh writing. But when I approach the plate, and I want to play ball, and I'm game, there aren't many things I can do with my eyes that net me more satisfaction. Kevin Stein said it best: you don't have to like every poem you read (I've said it before I heard him say it at Iles School in 2005, but since he said it, I feel better about saying it my own dang self.) but the pursuit of nourishing poems is a worth enterprise for good people who like words. If YOU'RE that kind of person, visit that link I posted to my new favorite e.e. poem, aye?