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A ONE PUMP JACK
Here is a poem that my cousin
Kris Hall
from New Jersey wrote for our race team.
It's not Christmas time, Dear Santa
But as I set up late tonight
After working on our race car
I pick up my pen to write.
As you well know on many evenings
We jack our baby off the floor
Repairing every dent and bad part
On our good old #24.
We stay up late a lot it seems now
But it’s not against our will
It’s just what's been required
To get us set for Shadyhill
It's not norm I'm filled with envy
But as I tune in and I see
All those NASCAR prima donna's
Being talked to on TV.
With their fancy cars and fire suits
To say what ill luck made them halt
As they thank sponsors and explain
How the crash was not their fault.
How the tires (which they have dozens)
Weren't just right for them all day
Causing them to pit too early
As the handling went away.
Thank you "Cheerios" and "Wheaties"
Thank you "Pepsi" or "No Bull"
"You want to be a minor sponsor?"
"We've got a fender not quite full."
There's no “AMS” or “Crown Brick"
Nor “Anchor Truck Wash" to be found
On those sleek and shiny racers
As they parade them all around.
The VFW Post in Lowell
You know, number 6 8 forty one
Would never garner much attention
In Winners Circle (when they won.)
I’d guess that “Edward Jones Investments”
Will probably never grace their side
Nor will “RaceStar Publications”
Likely ever take that ride.
Their tools weren't bought at K-Mart
And they don't stay at Motel 6
And there's hardly any problem
They don't have the part to fix.
If an axle breaks, they have one
They've 4 new motors in the truck
And with big dollars in their pockets
They seldom have to look towards luck.
They send the whole darn thing away now
To get designs put on with care
To assure great looks on TV
Or when they're hauling anywhere.
But we're not jealous I assure you
Although life can be a bitch
When you take the track with numbers
Cut and pasted on by Rich.
It's just once we'd like to have
Just one small item to our name
Just a simple luxury item
To which we can stake a claim.
So all we ask of you, Dear Santa
As you're filling up your sack
If you can see your way to do this
Bring us please a ‘One Pump Jack’.
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THE RACER’S PRAYER
Lord, I pray as I race today
Keep me safe along the way
Not only me but the others too
As they perform the jobs they do
I know God that in every race
I, the driver must set the pace
Let not my desire for more speed
Warp my judgment and turn into greed
From green to checkered guide me through
Giving me strength to know what to do
Remind me often in the race of life
How to go with all the strife
Help me accept the wins I may receive
And all the defeats most graciously
Ride with me, don’t allow me to lag
Guide me all the way to the checkered flag
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A
CHRISTMAS POEM for OUR SOLDIERS
The embers glowed softly,
and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room
and I cherished the sight.My wife was asleep, her head on
my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.The sparkling lights
in the tree I believe, Completed the magic that was Christmas
Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.The sound wasn’t
loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear..
Perhaps just a cough,
I didn’t quite know, Then the
sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door
just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark
of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me,
and my wife and my child.“What are you doing?”
I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow
from your sleeve,
You should be at home
on a cold Christmas Eve!”
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold
and the snow blown in drifts..To the window that danced
with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed and he said
“Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice.
I’m here every night.”
“It’s my duty to stand at the front
of the line,
That separates you from
the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here
like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ‘Pearl
on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas
‘Gram always remembers.”
My dad stood his watch
in the jungles of ‘Nam’,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.I’ve not seen
my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures,
he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully
pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue…
an American flag.
I can live through the cold
and the being alone,
Away from my family,
my house and my home.I can stand at my post
through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life
with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time
that this flag will not fall..”“So go back inside,”
he said,
“harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting
and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something
I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked,
“or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little
for all that you’ve done,
For being away
from your wife and your son.”Then his eye welled a
tear
that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us,
and never forget.
To fight for our rights
back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch,
no matter how long.
For when we come home,
either standing or dead,
To know you remember
we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and
with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you
as you mattered to us.”
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THE VICTORY LAP
THE FALLEN
RACER’S TRIBUTE
God, you saw fit to make me a racer
Racing around the track of life
I’m so glad I’m on this circuit
With my friends, my family and my wife
Though the track is sometimes slippery
And it’s not always real well lit
For the most part I’ve been competitive
And I’ve really enjoyed the trip
I didn’t think it would be perfect
Free from yellows, free from repair
But I’m circling that race track
Finding much enjoyment there
The white flag is waving
Life’s track is way too quick
Four turns and I’ll be finished
I’ll meet You in my pit
Now I have You as my crew chief
I’m racing on heaven’s track
I look forward to taking the checkered
And driving my Victory Lap
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I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
And then he stood at ease.
I looked at him in uniform;
so young, so tall, so proud.
With hair cut square and eyes alert,
he'd stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him
had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign soil;
how many mothers' tears?
How many pilots' planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?
No, freedom isn't free.
I heard the sound of Taps one night,
when everything was still.
I listened to the bugler play
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times
That Taps had meant 'Amen.'
When a flag had draped a coffin
of a brother or a friend.
I thought of all the children,
of the mothers and the wives,
of fathers, sons and husbands
With interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea.
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, freedom isn't free.
Enjoy Your Freedom and
God Bless Our Troops.
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A CHRISTMAS POEM
Twas the night before Christmas
He lived all alone
in a one bedroom house made of
plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney
with presents to give,
and to see just who
in this home did live.
I looked all about,
a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents,
not even a tree.
No stocking by mantle,
just boots filled with sand,
on the wall hung pictures
of far distant lands.
With medals and badges,
awards of all kinds,
a sober thought
came through my mind.
For this house was different,
it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier,
once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping,
silent, alone,
curled up on the floor
in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle,
the room is such disorder,
not how I pictured
a United States soldier.
Was this the hero
of whom I 'd just read?
Curled up on a poncho,
the floor for a bed?
I realized the families
that I saw this night,
owed their lives to these soldiers
who were willing to fight.
Soon round the world,
the children would play,
and grown-ups would celebrate
a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom
each month of the year,
because of the soldiers,
like the one lying here.
I couldn't help wonder
how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas eve
in a land far from home.
The very thought
brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees
and started to cry.
The soldier awakened
and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa don't cry,
this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom,
I don't ask for more,
My life is my God,
my country, my Corps."
The soldier rolled over
and drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it
I continued to weep.
I kept watch for hours,
so silent and still
and we both shivered
from the cold night's chill.
I didn't want to leave
on that cold, dark night,
this guardian of honor
so willing to fight.
Then the soldier rolled over,
with a voice soft and pure,
whispered, "Carry on Santa,
It's Christmas day, all is secure."
One look at my watch,
and I knew he was right.
"Merry Christmas my friend
and to all a good night."
This poem was written by a Marine stationed in
Okinawa, Japan.
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