Poems

In my lifetime, I have recorded important moments of family and business experiences in poetry.
As the first poem suggests, readers should not look for grand themes or
expect life-altering messages in what I write.
These are simple rhymes from a family man shared with you only to bring a smile or a memory.

My Rhymes

The rhymes I write aren't erudite.
            Don't look between the lines
For lofty purpose in the verse, 'cause
            It's not there to find.

The words, you see, are memories
            This author chose to store
In tight confines of clever rhymes
            To last forever more.

If you're inclined to pique your mind,
            Read poems by Blake or Poe.
If mine you start, read with your heart.
            Thank you,
E. A. Coe

 

 

 

My Rhymes

The Grand Slam

“What Dad doesn’t remember his kid’s first flawed little-league homerun. No world series finish
was ever so epic and few sports moments before or after so special!”

At the top of the fifth,
  With the score tied at ten, 
The bases were loaded,
  But no runs yet in.
Two men were out,
  And the next batter due
Was the littlest boy
  On the young ballteam's crew.

The fans became quiet
  As the hitter stepped up, 
And the coach yelled support
  When the kid took a cut.
"Good swing there, Stick",
 (But his voice sounded hollow).
When the count went 3-2,
  The coach couldn't swallow.

The next pitch to catcher
  Did not make the mitt,
But was batted past shortstop
  To left, for a hit.
Two runners scored
  As the ball was recovered.
A bad throw to home
  Then led to another.
The hitter had gone 
  To third base by then, 
And a late throw from catcher
  Allowed him to come in.
The three foot ten hero
  Was mobbed by his team,
As the coach, from a distance,
  Enjoyed the whole scene.

When the crowd had dispersed,
  And the noise finally died,
The coach found his way
  To the young hitter's side.
Offering his hand,
  The coach said, "Not bad."
And flashing a smile,
  The boy said, "Thanks... Dad."

 

The Grand Slam

The Victory Smile

“I have seen many heroic and amazing performances in countless Olympic Games in my lifetime. None will ever compare to this gymnastics routine I witnessed as a young father.“

Her first gymnastics' meet it was.
	I won't forget the date.
Just three weeks prior to Christmas,
	She was three months shy of eight.

On floor, vault, bars and beam that day,
	Would all the girls compete.
I hoped she was more calm than me
	As I looked for a seat.

Her team began the meet with Floor.
	It started right on time.
I watched the first five girls perform;
	The sixth one up was mine.

A smart salute... "My lord, she's cute!"
	I heard somebody say.
Now on the mat, she, soundless, waits
	To hear her music play.

Someone shouts encouragement,
	And she gives not a glance,
But, like a sculpted statue, she
	Maintains a practiced stance.

The music starts.  I hold my breath.
	The air is thick it seems.
And, for me, the world has stopped
	To watch this first routine.

She moves with practiced confidence,
	Her first steps crisp and clean,
Unfazed by those who watch her
	From the stands or on her team.

I watch this tiny princess now,
	So polished on the floor,
Each movement made with style and grace
	To match the music's score.

My heart soars with each leap she makes,
	And dips with every roll.
My stomach's doing somersaults
	Which I cannot control.

Her exercise is near the end,
	Her face now free of care.
She executes the final moves
	With skillful strength and flair.

She tumbles to her final bow,
	Theatric by design.
The music stops.  The crowd stands up!
	She knows that she's done fine.

I might have held the tears in then,
	At least a little while,
If, when she turned her face to me,
	I hadn't seen that smile.

The smile, unlike her floor routine,
	Was slightly flawed, you see.
It lacked one baby front tooth, which
	Had come out recently.

That precious imperfection
	In that moment, in that gym,
Triggered an emotion which
	My face could not defend.

I can't explain the reason, and
	It matters not to me.
Pride, perhaps, or simply joy,
	To share that victory.

Life can't hold many moments
	That can match that one for me.
It's safely stored forever, now,
	Within my memory.

The Victory Smile

The Youngest One

“As a toddler, when he was in the room no window was safe, no vase was too high, and no remote existed which couldn’t be disassembled. A total joy!“

So proud I am of my first son.
	My girl's as sweet as any come.
For laughs, though, it's my youngest one
	Who entertains the family.

He doesn't like that he was last
	To join our group, and for the past
Three years has tried to catch up fast.
	Dear God, I wish he wouldn't.

An imp who meets me at the door,
	And pulls me down onto the floor,
And with disarming smile implores,
	"Hey Dad, why don't we wrestle?"

In soccer shoes and baseball hat,
	A numbered shirt that doesn't match,
I love it when he says, "Lets bat!"
	Of course, I can't refuse him.

When he colors on the wall,
	Or breaks a window with a ball,
My anger leaves me when he calls,
	"Sorry, Dad... I love you!"

Mischief? Yes, a rascal true,
	But with a spirit given few,
A muscled boy with not a clue
	Of what is meant by 'gentle'.

Embracing life with energy
	That has no bounds, it seems to me.
From dawn 'til dusk he tends to be
	A constant moving target.

But, finally, at the end of day,
	As in his bed he, soundless, lays,
I watch... and to myself then say,
	"E A, you sure are lucky!"

The Youngest One

Better Than Beans

“We’ve all been there as Dads. It could have been beans, or carrots, or brussel sprouts … but we got out-maneuvered by our precious child”

Said the Dad to his girl
	At the table one night,
"Eat your beans now, my sweet,
 	There're only four bites.
And if you do this
	You'll be pretty and strong.
You'll be smarter than most,
	And your legs will grow long."

"You're joking me, Dad,"
	She said with a laugh.
"Beans can't do that.
	How 'bout I eat half?"
"Now, Sweet," said the Dad,
	"I wouldn't joke you.
What I've said about beans
	Is actually true!"

Doubting, she asked, "Dad,
	Do you like stringbeans?"
"Better," he said,
	"Than most anything."
"Now, Daddy," she said,
	"I think that I know
Something that's better."
	And the Dad then said, "Oh?"

"It's better than beans!"
	The little girl said.
Then she placed a big kiss
	On her father's gray head.
He gave her a hug,
	And she smiled with delight.
"Was that better than beans, Dad?"
	He said, "You're darn right!"

Better Than Beans

 

The Truth About Santa

“Sometimes it takes a child to make us understand the great mysteries of life.”

It was just a few weeks prior to Christmas
	When my wife said, "I think it's now time
To talk to your son about Santa.
	Hope your answers are better than mine!"

Well, the thought of the talk made me nervous,
	And I hoped I might postpone the task,
If my boy, maybe, taking no chances
	Might allow one more Christmas to pass.

In case, though, I practiced my story, 
	So gentle, yet forthright and true,
And mentally rehearsed it's message
	To relate if my son gave the cue.

It seemed as though Christmas might go by
	With my speech undelivered, but then,
As I kissed him one night, my son asked me
	To answer a question for him.

"Is there a Santa?" he asked me.
	"Some kids say he's just make believe."
I opened my mouth, full of answers,
	The truth on the youth to bequeath.

But before I could start, he said, "Hold it!
	I'd like to tell you what I think,
And if it's not right, you correct me."
	"That's fine, Son," I said with a wink.

So the boy said, "No person's named Santa.
	He's a thought that just lives in your heart,
But this thought makes you happy at Christmas."
	(And I said to myself, then, "Nice start.")

"But since you can't see things like thoughts though,
	Adults have created a man
Who acts like the feeling of Santa
	So even young kids understand."

He took a big breath when he finished,
	And he questioned me, then, anxiously.
"Is some of that right so far, Daddy,
	Or do you have more to tell me?"

His words made my eyes brim with teardrops.
	It was dark, though, and he couldn't tell,
But my voice cracked a bit when I answered,
	"Not really... you've covered it well."

Now, Christmas that winter was special
	For all, but for me, most, because
That year I'd been finally enlightened
	On the truth about old Santa Claus
 
 

Truth About Santa

On The Death Of A Pet

“In a family, pets can be nearly as important as people. Explaining the cycles of life to a child can also be demanding.“

The words, I found hard to deliver, 
	"Topper, our pet, passed away."
The lips of my young listener quivered,
	And I watched his face wilt with dismay.

A twelve year old cat is quite ancient,
	But a four year old heart's still so young.
I held the sad child, being patient,
	And hoping the right words would come.

Life, at times, seems unrelenting, 
	When you're young... or even old.
Stories can have happy endings,
	But real life can't be controlled.

Our trail's a gauntlet of passions.
	Up peaks and down valleys we go,
With the strength of our 'highs' partly fashioned
	By the relative depths of our 'lows'.

"No, son, there's nothing can save us
	The grief that we feel, but I'll say
That the memories old Topper gave us
	Are worth all our sorrow today."

On The Death of a Pet

When The Grass Grows Under The Swing Again

“The next two poems are sort of bookends representing a phase of family life. The first of the two recounts a day when a father realizes that time with his kids is limited and vital. The second of the two occurs when that special era of having children in the household has ended.“

While walking behind
  That mower of mine
And planning the day's work ahead,
  I came on a spot
'Neath the swing I'd just bought
  Where the grass was decidedly dead.

Concern creased my brow
  At this scar that I found
As I quickly deduced it's reason.
  The continuous pound
Of small feet on this ground
  Would doom further growth for the season.

My fleeting regret
  Was, in seconds, met
By a thought that brought even more pain.
  The empty spot here
Would, in just a few years,
  Be healthy and growing again.

The lesson was learned.
  To the house I returned,
And put the old mower away.
  New plans were made;
I stopped work to play
  With my kids for the rest of the day.

When The Grass Grows Under The Swing Again

Painting The Door

With a bucket of outdoor white paint in my grip,
	I stand by the graying door,
Thinking that, now,
The hoop should come down,
	Since it seldom gets used anymore.

But the round, dirty marks that surround the old net
	Make me think of past contests held here,
By this door that's been scarred
Near the back of the yard,
	...And I pause, as a vision comes clear.

I hear, now, the slap of a ball on the road,
	And the jangle it makes on the rim,
And the whish of the ball,
Through the net when it falls,
	The team's shouts when they see it go in.

I see the kids' breath in the cold winter air,
	And their coats on the ground in a stack,
While past happy cheeks,
Sweat drops to their feet...
	Then, of a sudden, I'm back.

Most of the team has left for new courts,
	And I stand alone here on mine,
Remembering awhile,
With both tears and a smile,
	Of a precious, and God-given, time.

I look at the marks on my old door once more,
	And begin putting paint tools away.
The neighbors, I guess,
Will talk, nonetheless,
	I can't paint that door.  Not today.

Painting The Door

My Mailbox

Where my box stands in this country
	Matters not so much to me.
It can be beside a mansion
	Or a tent down by the sea.

The one thing that's important
	Until my days are through,
Is, wherever my mailbox is,
	Your mail's delivered too.

His Graduation

When you reach out to take your diploma
	Don’t look at your mother or me
The sight of us might make you worry
	And concern yourself some, needlessly

For our pride will most likely spill over
	And it could look to you much like tears
But the truth is, our hearts will be happy
	With memories of eighteen great years

We hate that this means you’ll soon leave us
	For a life somewhere else, but we know
You have all the tools you’ll be needing
	For success now, wherever you go

Oh, we’ll all miss your face at our table
	Much more than you probably conceive
But your place in this family stays constant
	And the love doesn’t change when you leave

Today, celebrate a good finish
	But it’s also a good start that we cheer
Be proud and savor the moment
	You’ve worked hard and well to get here

My hope at this era’s conclusion
	As you set out to start the next one
Is … you’ve had the fun with your father
	That your father has had with his son!
The one thing that's important Until my days are through, 
Is, wherever my mailbox is, Your mail's delivered too.

The Gentle Thief

“Parents find out, as I did, you don’t lose your children when they go off to college, the military, or their first job. You begin to lose them when they learn to drive and you usually lose them to a girlfriend or boyfriend”

A weekend day would find us
	On the ball field, he and I,
Just playing catch and laughing
	There, beneath a cloudless sky.
I jealously protected 
	Every moment of that time.
I didn't see her coming
	Though, and couldn't read her mind.

Her smile was white as ivory,
	A dimple on each end.
Her green eyes danced with mischief
	Every time she looked at him.
Two hearts in their bosoms
	Were impacted by this sight.
Mine dropped just a little,
	His gave in without a fight.

Now, summer days can find us 
	On the front steps, he and I.
We wait there for her Chevy;
	When it comes, I breathe a sigh,
And feel a hint of envy
	For this girl who drives away
On past the empty ball field
	Where my son and I would play.

She stole a bit of time which
	I had owned not long ago.
I've felt the thrill that they feel,
	And it's their turn, now, I know.
So, Gentle Thief, God Bless You.
	May your passion never dull.
But guard your new possession
	For, of thieves, the night is full!

The Gentle Thief

The Newest One

The youngest one met
The newest one yet
	At a school in the south of our state
They started as friends
And we hoped for when
	He’d make her his permanent mate

She can dance, bowl, and ski
And likes sports just like he
	It must have been Fate when he met her
She’s got wit, charm and style
Lights the room with her smile
	We don’t think they come any better

We thought he might wait
‘Til it was too late
	But his sister helped take care of that
With a ring bought and paid
And his plan then OK’d
	By her Dad, he finished his pact

When she answers “I do”
The hearts in our pew
               Will rejoice and collectively swell
A wife she’ll become
In our family for one
               But a sister and daughter as well

We hope they might take
The chance to now make
	Some grandkids for us if we’re lucky
One child or two
And maybe a few
	… Or perhaps just another cute puppy

Hold My Hand

“When the kids have grown up and are gone, we have a natural instinct to reorganize. We want to clean out closets and garages … but sometimes we have to be careful about what gets thrown away.“

A crisp morning sky held the sun, coming up
	When he stepped to the porch with his mug.
She was coming back in, and reached for the cup
	Gladly given, along with a hug

The driveway was full of tables with things.
	The garage bays were equally packed.
Furniture covered with scratches and dings
	Joined the volumes of books neatly stacked.

Said he, “It’s just junk, so who’ll want to pay?”
 	“You might be surprised!” said the wife
“If we have to,” she said, “we’ll just give it away,
	Then at least we won’t store it for life.”

He laughed as he gazed, and mentally surveyed,                   
	The stuff they had kept through the years
But his eyes narrowed in on something that made
	The smile on his face disappear.

On a box of worn balls, lay an old Rawlings mitt
	Well weathered by past summer days.
He picked the glove up with the hand it still fit
	And remembered its many great plays

The glove saw some time as a personal tool
	But its best service came after that
On the vacant grass lot near the back of the school
	Where his kids learned to field and to bat
	
Nope, he decided, the Rawlings stays here
	From the garage sale, he took it away.
When his wife asked him why, he smiled and said, “Dear
	We can’t let this glove go today!” 
	
“Someday,” he said, “our kids will have kids
	And they’ll want to learn baseball I bet.
They’re gonna’ need me… and I’m gonna’ need this.
	The Rawling’s not finished quite yet!”

The Rawlings

The Rawlings

“Is there anything more special in life than having a grandchild who wants to hold your hand on a walk? I haven’t found many.”

Hold my hand, dear grandson
    Let’s take a little walk
I’ll show you things; we’ll have some fun
    And after, we can talk

I’ll clear the path of bad stuff
    That may get in the way
We’ll feel the sun and smell the breeze
    And celebrate this day

We have more trails than time now
    That I can go with you
So let’s do just as many as
    The years allow us to!

I’ll go with you now, Grandad
    And thanks for taking me
This world’s alive through my young eyes
    With much for me to see

I know that you seem happy
    When I feel that way too
So maybe these short walks of ours
    Are also good for you

I hope that you’ll go with me
    As long as you still can
And when we walk together
    Please Grandad … hold my hand

The Rawlings

He Used To Play Third Base

“Same emotions occur when my ballplayer who turned into a Dad has twins.“

He used to play third like nobody else,
	A star on each youth team he played.
He’d run down pop flies and dive for ground balls
	Making plays that left teammates amazed.

Is this the same boy in this hospital room
	With two baby girls on his lap?
When did he turn in his cleats and his glove
	For pink baby covers and caps?

When did he learn how to cradle a child
	And change soiled diapers and such?
When did his voice get so quiet and soft
	And his hands get so gentle to touch?

His beautiful wife from the hospital bed
	Smiles at me, then, and gives me a wink.
She’s read my old mind and is most qualified
	To answer my questions, I think.

Since she married him she’s been able to watch
	The big transformation that’s come.
She’s proud of her man, but no prouder than me
	And his mother that he is our son.

My granddaughter twins are two lucky gals!
	Every new year that God will now add
They’ll be safe from the bad things that live in this world
	‘Cuz the third baseman now is their Dad.

#8

“Baseball has been a part of my family’s life since my first son was old enough to lift a glove. I coached both boys at various times in their baseball careers, and also my daughter for a memorable year of rec-league softball. The picture below was taken on my last day of organized baseball…unless I get to someday coach some grandkids.”

This picture that’s been on my mantle so long
	Depicting a season’s last game
Has meaning to me that others can’t see
	With those boys and those uniform stains
	
The guy with white hair and smiling is me
	On the right is my oldest son
The middle one there, with a uniform on
	Number 8, is my youngest one

He’d played a great game just prior to this shot
	His team became repeat state champs      
But what in this picture means much more to me
	Is the dirt on his shirt and his pants

For today I can see that the way he played then
	Was a clue about things still to come			
Diving for balls and sliding head first
	Would be how he played life, not just fun

Not pictured here is his last time at bat
	Or the sound of the fans’ long, loud, howl
When his long drive to left went over the fence
	Clear out of the park… but just foul

Today #8 hit another one out
	As he walked his new bride down the aisle
His family and friends are cheering the two
	And I step away with a smile

And glance at this photo I’ve kept all these years
	Remembering the game and just how
Proud of this boy I was way back then
	Who’s a man I’m still more proud of now

						E. A. Coe

#8

Her Wedding

“And then the kids start getting married. As parents, we worry, and don’t want them to leave. We still feel responsible … but they enter a new life. That life is only partially without us … because we’re still there in places they don’t know and cannot yet understand.“

Dear girl, you wrote a note to say
	In words so sweet to me
That on this very special day
	Your own ship puts to sea

No more you’ll travel on my boat?
	I guess that might be so
There’s something, though, while on that note
	I think you need to know

I’ve snuck aboard your ship … so bold!
	If needed, where I’ll be
Is deep within the vessel’s hold
	That extra anchor’s me!

Walking Together

“A wonderful young man by the name of Don Simmons was my right-hand person in my earliest business venture. He died all too soon, and his family requested something almost impossible for me to emotionally handle: give the eulogy. I composed this poem as a part of it … and I still refer to it at this later stage of my own life.”

I met him on the path one day
	When our two routes converged.
We walked together for a ways,
	And in awhile I urged
Him to continue on with me,
 	To find where my road went.
He thought a moment carefully,
	Then nodded his consent.

The pact formed when we both shook hands
	Proved good for both of us.
Partnership success came, and
	A friendship forged in trust.
He'd help me when at times I fell.
	I did the same for him,
As down the path we raced, pell mell,
	Ambitious, happy friends.

And, then, one summer day in June
	He said he'd have to go...
Not right away, but fairly soon,
	Just when, he didn't know.
Neither of us liked this news,
	But after that day, he
Would treat the hours like gifts to use...
	A gift he left with me.

The pain of his sad loss will pass,
	I know, eventually.
Our friendship, though, will always last
	Safe, in my memory.
And now, I'll travel without him,
	But not, I think, forever.
For up the path we'll meet again
	And, laughing, walk together.

Sage’s Rainbow

 

When I thought about getting family and friends to help illustrate my simple poetry for a book we might someday publish, my sweet little niece, Sage, presented me a drawing she wanted to be included. It was a rainbow. I didn’t have a poem about Rainbows … so I wrote one for her.“

The rain has just stopped and look over there!
	Above the green mountain, so high
It’s a bow full of colors that starts on the ground
 	And arches on up to the sky

Fools and young children believe an old myth
	About rainbows, that’s often been told
And go racing cross fields towards the end of the arch
	In a desperate search to find gold

This treasure, my child, has never been found
	But that doesn’t mean it’s not there
Any can find it who know where to look
	So, with you, Dear, this secret, I’ll share

The end of the rainbow isn’t a place
	But rather a moment in time
And the gold that is found isn’t metal you touch
	But a memory that’s left in your mind

Sage's Rainbow