Joyce Holland on poetry

By Joyce Holland

Is there a writer out there who hasn't tried his or her hand at poetry? We all know there is no money in the endeavor, but for those of us who give it a whirl, it's something we can't resist. I've tried it all, from jingles, to free verse, to serious Freudian blather, childish rhymes, and even a stab at Haiku. Although I've had more than a few published, and it's about as lucrative as writing a novel, I can't stop myself. I do it when the mood strikes me.

Let's face it, boaters are dreamers in the best sense of the word. We're escapists who make good on our fantasies. I may not have been on the water in a while, but my heart is sailing the far horizons with the rest of you. Poetry does exactly that for me. It sets me free to explore uncharted waters. When it doesn't sing, the words dribble to a halt and I back up and reach down until I find another way. It's tighter than prose that way, you're squeezed until you make music out of words.

I grew up with a father who loved Robert Service, he could recite many of the most famous ones. He also had a dirty version of Dangerous Dan McGrew that made us all cringe. It's recalling the joy on his face that inspired me to start writing poetry. I'm working on a book I call Ballads From the Flim Flam Saloon. I'm no Robert Service, but I do have a lot of fun trying to write like him. Here is the first ballad in the book, Long John Jones. It's been published twice.

LONG JOHN JONES

Long John Jones was a dangerous man,
mean clear through to his bones,
and the number of people who wanted John dead
could jam the Red River with stones.

John like to single out weaker men
and make them the butt of his wit.
Their fighting back only fired John up,
and once riled, he'd never quit.

When Long John Jones caught a bullet in the brain
not a soul in the valley cried.
Even the sheriff didn't bother check
to see at whose hand John had died.

Long John's presence wasn't missed by the town,
it was celebrated by most.
They thought themselves better off than before,
until they encountered John's ghost.

They say John appeared in the Flim Flam Saloon
one night in the middle of May.
and declared to the patrons surrounding the bar
that for his demise, someone would pay.

Now Charlie Malone was without a doubt
the smartest man in the county,
so the town folks talked it over that night
and offered Charlie, John's bounty.

If Charlie could manage to keep Long John Jones
from haunting the Flim Flam Saloon,
the people would pick up his bar tab for life.
The deadline was Friday, come noon.

For days Charlie fought with Long John Jones.
He threatened, cursed and cajoled.
Charlie knew that he had to win this fight,
'cause no bar tab for life was worth gold.

But at ten o'clock on the deadline day,
Charlie still sat at the bar.
Fighting and screaming would not do the trick,
or at least they hadn't so far.

So Charlie stopped and communed for a bit
with the bottle of Red on his right.
The solution, Charlie suddenly thought,
was with brains and not with a fight!

Charlie Malone downed his bottle of red
and called out to Long John Jones,
"If I tell you who did you in that night,
will you go back and rejoin your bones?"

"Malone, I swear on my mother's grave,"
Long John lied at his best.
"All I want is the name of the villain
who laid my body to rest."

Charlie took paper and wrote on it,
then folded it up real tight.
He stuffed it in the bottle of Red
and told John, "it's your right."

"The name of the man who drilled your head
is written on the note inside.
You must climb in the bottle, Long John Jones,
to learn at whose hand you died."

Long John rose like a tendril of smoke
and slithered down into the spout,
and Charlie Malone slammed home the cork
so Long John couldn't get out.

Charlie took the bottle holding Long John Jones
and threw it in the river that night.
Then he stood there laughing beneath the moon
'till the vessel drifted from sight.

So the next time you're walking on some distant shore,
should you chance on a bottle afloat,
be very careful if you look within
and happen to see, a note.

Long John Jones may just be inside,
and you soon may not be alone,
if you pull out the cork and read these words:
You were shot by Charlie Malone.

+++




Share on Facebook