What I've Larned Before Signing Out

I've created a new blog as an adjunct to my aviation web site, and this is my final entry here. The new site is called Honey and Quinine. KUDOS to Blogspot for offering this opportunity, but it's proven beyond my brain's limited capacity to enjoy it. To read more, visit www.aeroknow.com/blogofjob.htm

R.I..P, -- temporarily -- Talking Poetry

Three people -- two casual acquaintances and one admired acq uaintance -- I told face-to-face about Talking Poetry at Trout Lily said they'd try to attend September 19. None did.
.. . . . That's okay. I agreed to moderate it. I don't believe that the proprietor of the establishment's disinterest in writing and distributing a news release affected the outcome. Nor did her removing the promotional flier I gave mer after displaying it less than two weeks. Nor did her declaring it finished after tthree weeks. Nor did MY getting the date wrong in the news release I distributed two weeks after the release should have gone to the media. Everyone I know who calls himself or herself a poet WORKS on Tuesday afternoon. So attempting to reach that likely-miniscule "niche" of poets and poetry enthusiasts who don't work Tuesdays seemed like a moon shot from the get go.
. . . . That's okay. I successfully produced a flyer which was distributed to all the public libraries in town and five downtown businesses and one institutions of higher learning. I produced a news release, gave it to the person whom, for propriety's sake was the appropriate sharer of news of the event, followed her advice when I learned she had not had the time to email it to the media, and appeared at the venue on time each of the three weeks in which I was permitted to sit on the luncing pad, ready to go.
. . . . . Talking poetry will rise again, sports fans and athletic supporters. And I'll tell you all about it when it do. Stay tuned . . . .

Talking Poetry Swan Song?

So it's Tuesday, September 12, and I'm 59 and a week old, arriving at Trout Lily Cafe in drizzily precip. And into Trout Lily a minute before 1:30. I'd have been there earlier, but I decided to take in downtown scenery while shopping for an empty parking space. And at the last minute, I found one across the street from TL. It cost me only $10.50.
. . . . Into a bustling TL. Manning and Maureen at one table; Crook and confidante at an other. Who'd imagine a bomb was about to drop?
. . . . My first question to Kate: "Did you get the news release out? (I had delivered it to her last Tues in hard copy and disc.)
. . . . ."Haven't had the time," she replies. "I've been working 12-hour days. How is your publicity going? Is anyone coming today?"
. . . . "I ran into Nick Wassmer at the Jackson reception. He said he'd try to make it." I didn't tell her flyers are posted at two more restaurants and that Lincoln Library has distributed flyers to the branches, and I know one's on display on the ground floor at the main branch. "May I distribute the news release?"
. . . . . "Yes. You have until next Tuesday," she says. "If no one comes, that's all for (Talking Poetry)."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B O O M
. . . . I also don't tell her that Sunday afternoon, the substitute teacher line called and offered me two weeks of subbing for special education physical education at Jefferson Middle. Some cultures despise displaying pain and personal dismay in front of strangers. Except when I'm listening to poets reading poems, I am of that culture.
. . . . So it's over to my table and I read the latest Poetry magazine because I am too livid to write poetry. If I tried to write anything I'd probably push the pen through the paper.
. . . . .The parade of life around me touches me bittersweetly. Some polite niceties are exchanged as Mike and Maureen hit the trail.
. . . . . The hour seems to last half the afternoon, but I reap richly from Poetry magazine. When the heart is aflame, the mind seems to focus more smartly wherever it is pointed. When I get my second cup of cofffee, I ask Kate. "Do you know that the Illinois Times calendar deadline is the Friday before the next Thursday and that issue won't be out until a week and two days after your deadline?"
. . . . "If you call them today, you can probably get it into this Thursday's edition."
. . . . I return to my table. A fellow comes over . . . .
. . . . . "Say, Job, is this your office away from home?"
. . . . . "It could be," I say smiling. "Please fortgive me, but I don't remember your name."
. . . . . "I'm Vince Rohn from First United Methodist !"
. . . . "Gosh, I'm sorry Pastor Vince, I didn't recognize you out of your ministereial vestments! Must tell you my friend that I've become a bitter old fart since the FOR SALE sign went up at Fifth at Capitol. I'm really bummed ou8t over that! I expect to remain a bitter old fart for a long time because of that incomprehensible abandonment of downtown!"
. . . . I can't quote what Vince said because I had ceased to focus on a person I recognize as an accessory to a crime. NEVER have I seen such a rich, worthy outreach so blatantly hasten from the encroaching "pioneers." As John Paul Jones fictional poet might have said about this "I have not yet begun to write!"
. . . . . And 2:30 arrives. I stay an extra three minutes in case I'm running a little fast or Kate's clock is running a little slow.
. . . . Outside, the drizzle has abated. There's a $10 overtime parking ticket on my car. Yes, my jpresence was costly for the host: whatever coffee, two tasty tamales and some rice cost. When you figure my cost for being there -- 10 days of certain substitute teaching for takehome pay of about $85 per . . . . $850 . . . . deCLINED so I could be there . . . . . I can live with it, in a manner of speaking. I don't mention that as I exit. I don't mention anything as I depart. In one way, from one perspective, I haven't been therte since I arrived. But I will return next week because I believe in honoring the commitments I make, because I believe in poetry, and because circumstances may improve. You'd never know it to look at my car, but I am a poet with great expectations..


> > > > > and Illinois Times includes the news about Talking poetry in Thursday's edition. The news release talked about Tuesdays, that the next one was slated for September 19. The Times mentioned September 17th, a Sunday. I double-check the news release I rapidly revised after obtaining Kate's permission to do it myself. MY TYPO. In my rush Tuesday afternoon on arriving from Trout Lily, I mis-typed. And the calendar person didn't realize the 17th was Sunday and Tuesday (also stated in the release) was the 19th.

Talking Poetry at Trout Lily

Thanks to Kate Hawkes, owner of Trout Lily Cafe, 218 S. Sidth Street in lyrical downtown Springfield, there will be a new poetry discussion gathering called Talking Poetry, moderated by your struly. It takes place Tuesdays from 1:30 to 2:30 and you are invited to attend. We will discuss new poems we've written, catch up on the latest news of who's reading poetry and publishing poetry and look at P O E T R Y matters of interest. All it will cost you is a cup of fine Trout Lily Cafe coffee, tea or other tasty libation and maybe a cookie. . . okay, lunch if you're really hungry. Hungry poets will appreciate the fine fare from the Trout Lilly Cafe kitchen. And if you insist, I'll sell you one of my books of poetry. Until we take this show to Broadway, I'm paying my own way, so would it kill you to buy my poetry? I thinque perhapsly not. Join us for the fun if you can, and if you can't . . . . well that's okay too.

Patriot Song

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Patriot Song
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written 3:55 pm, Wednesday, July 18, 2006

. . . . . . Here's to the good of all citizens,
. . . . . . to laws justly made and enforced,
. . . . . . to everyone's not-faith and faith,
. . . . . . and neither state-endorsed.

. . . . . . A toast to our land's equal rights,
. . . . . . to the promise of freedom from hate,
. . . . . . to each person's inalienable freedom from love,
. . . . . . to the vigor of sincere debate.

. . . . . . Here's to each day, working hard,
. . . . . . satisfied and content at day's end,
. . . . . . to fullfilment of good deeds rewarded,
. . . . . . and the unwavering trust of a friend.

. . . . . . Here's to fruits harvested gladly
. . . . . . and the sweat of those sharing the toil.
. . . . . . to the cosmic perfume of the fragrance of peace
. . . . . . in the whiff of the rain-sweetened soil.

. . . . . . Here's to our forefather patriots' pen,
. . . . . . to the farmers' sharp sod-busting plow,
. . . . . . to the hope their grand eloquent vision,
. . . . . . will continue to nourish us now.

. . . . . . To the dream that our babies a borning
. . . . . . will learn living right, shunning wrong,
. . . . . . out of many, one nation in allegiance to truth
. . . . . . may we harmonize in freedom's song.

- - - - - I had intended to share this poem during Poets & Writers Linterary Forum's open mic at IMO's Pizza July 19, but decided not to drive out when a near-calamitous thunderstorm rolled through town about 5:30. So I'll recite it next time. And if you're not attending a witch burning or ice cream social (yes, we are a bi-polar nation) please join the fun August 2, 7p at 751 Durkin Drive, on Springfield's coolie cosmo -- better make that cooly cosmo -- west side.

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?