TALE OF THE JILTED LOVER

The Tale of the Jilted Lover is a ballad about an event that took place in the early 1900s in the rural area of Holland, near the Belgium border. There is a Flemish rendition of this ballad that my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. Some of the details I can’t recall, but the circumstances, the motive and the subsequent calamitous conclusion are all true.

TALE OF THE JILTED LOVER

Big Josh was a bear of a man
Who earned his hire from farmer Stan.
He rose early with the morning dawn
And toiled till the day was far gone.

Josh idolized his sweetheart Suzanne.
He’d marry her. That was his plan.
She was so pretty and well endowed
That men would ogle, then were cowed.

One day, farmer Stan held a feast.
Even invited some who were least.
He said:”Josh come and bring a friend
To this very happy event.”

And Josh did come and brought Suzanne.
All took note, especially Dan.
Dan was the farmer’s only son.
His turn would come the farm to run.

Soon Josh wished he had not attended.
He even felt quite offended.
Dan had asked Suzanne for a dance
And ignored Josh, without a glance.

Their dance turned into two and more.
They drew closer as the evening wore.
Josh was about to burst his spleen,
But did not dare to make a scene.

Suzanne laid her head on Dan’s shoulder
He smooched a kiss and grew bolder.
Josh rushed into the dark of night.
“How did I get into such plight?”

“If I go back and make a scene
I’ll lose my job, and that right clean.
At first chance I’ll talk to Suzanne
And sort out this mess, if I can.”

Josh rose early with the morning dawn
And toiled till the day was far gone.
He heard from Suzanne no more.
Till a letter was brought to his door.

With quivering lips he read the script.
It was Suzanne’s. His stomach flipped.
What news was she to bring him now?
Was it good or bad? He wiped his brow.

“Dear Josh. You are such a good man.
You’d do for me the best you can.
Alas, your future looks not bright.
Your daily struggles give me fright.
Another suitor has come my way
With promise clipped to his bouquet.
I’ll be mistress of an estate.
Such destiny needs no debate.
I’ll remember you, always,
With fondness, as we part our ways.
Sorry. You deserve a better fate.
Suzanna, your long time school mate.”

“Is that what’s come down to? School mate?
We’d talked about our wedding date.
Suzanne…True love can not be bought!”
He sank down. He was that distraught.

The days went by. Despair took hold.
Then unrequited love grew cold.,
Flared again to hate, vengeance hot.
He’d kill both lovers on the spot.

He took a rusty ax from the shed.
Hid it stealthily under his bed.
At eve he honed the sharpest edge.
“I’ll do them in. That is my pledge.”

“That cheating wench deserves to die.
So does that woman-thieving guy.
My life is ruined beyond repair.
My anguish I can no longer bear.”

The time of the dreadful deed drew near.
The sky was black. Thunder struck fear.
A carriage groaned under heavy strain.
As strong winds swooped the driving rain.

The carriage traversed a country lane.
Suzanne peered through its window pane.
“Dan, this weather is getting worse.”
He slapped the reins, muttered a curse.

In the bush, drenched from head to foot
Crouched big Josh, like a spring-bent root.
The obedient steed plodded on
Until the carriage to the bush was drawn.

Swiftly Josh jumped up, took firm hold
Of the horse, swerved, the carriage rolled.
Deftly he cut the creature loose
Who ran for home without excuse.

Shrieks were heard. He uttered no word.
In he leaped, with vision blurred.
With his ax he slashed and hacked.
All grew silent. His nerves had cracked.

Word did spread. A rumpled man had fled
The scene, where much blood had been shed.
The man incoherent and deranged
Was placed in a padded cell, so arranged.

The local bard wrote a plaintive song
How a good man can still do wrong.
There is no stronger emotion
Then love lost, after so much devotion.

VP -Aug.26, 2007 All rights reserved

THE BALD MAN AND THE FLY

Sometimes it takes a half a life time to discover that most of our tiffs and fights are not worth the trouble. Most of these don’t accomplish anything. Both combatants think they are right and few are inclined to give ground. In the long run our misery far outweighs the importance of most issues. The ancients already understood this quite well. Aesop wrote his story of the Bald Man and the Fly to illustrate that point. Here is my own version which I have set to rhyme.

THE BALD MAN AND THE FLY

Morus was an ill tempered guy.
Who learned a lesson from a fly.
Though impossible that might seem
It was not inspired by a dream.

Always upset by the slightest thing
He’d even spasm when his wife did sing.
True. She couldn’t carry a tune.
Still no reason for conjugal ruin.

He would rant and rave to no end.
His wife in turn would take her stand.
He’d huff and puff like big bad wolf
As if that, would anything solve.

One day Morus again did puff.
Then stormed out of the house in a huff.
On the step he sat, all alone.
Pitied himself, fumed and groaned.

‘What’s that, buzzing around my head?
Scat, or I’ll smack. And you’ll be splat.
Nervy thing. Now you want to sting?
Smack! Ouch! That made my ears ring.

He had smacked himself on the head..
He was bald without a speck of fat.
It stung both hand and bald head.
The fly still buzzed and was not dead.

The fly enjoyed the sweaty dome
Where nothing stopped to freely roam.
Again, again, he landed there
To sting the dome that was so bare.

Furiously Morus smacked some more
Until both hand and head were sore.
He suddenly became a wiser man.
“I’m worse off than I first began.”

“ You only hurt yourself, that’s clear
When much inclined to interfere.
Dislikes are better to ignore
Then wage great battle with constant war.”

VP Feb. 15, 2008 All rights reserved
Inspired by Aesop’s Fable “The Bald Man and the Fly”

DOUBTING THOMAS

I live in the country side and, as the village peasant that I am, I am in the habit of turning my eyes to the sky to greet the early morning sun, that is, if it’s there. As others already have mentioned, these days the sky has taken on some strange hues at times. Perhaps you have noticed too. If not, make it a habit and see whether you notice someting amiss. And, of course, I’m not peddling anything (Can’t even make money here). You draw your own conclusions. I am just setting down my own observations about what I have seen, heard and read.

DOUBTING THOMAS

Thomas came for a morning chat
In the sun on the porch we sat.
We talked of old times and things new
Until our eyes to a strange sky drew.

What dudes are fouling up God’s sky?
Tracing trails as they fly up high?
Silently, stealthily, they streak
Portents of a future, growing bleak.

They’re merely contrails, my dear friend.
They’ll soon be gone. So be content.
Conspiracy of the internet
Where tall tales to you are fed.

Chem trails are tall tales you say?
Like WMDs of yesterday!!
Disproof sold as conspiracy.
A twisted lie now plain to see.

See those planes, flying overhead?
Those plumes, how they slowly spread?
Parallel streaks of eight or ten?
Then crisscrossed, like a grid, again.

That’s not your commercial overflight.
Something about that grid ain’t just right.
See how those trails together drift?
They hang together and do not lift.

The sunny sky turned to a misty haze.
The spread out trails had hid sun’s rays.
The foggy soup remained that day.
Thomas, will that sway, your preset way?

In minutes contrails vanish.
Chem trails, instead, longtime brandish.
Throughout the day they will prevail,
Causing slow death as we inhale.

In that soupy mist, some insist,
Particles exist, we can’t resist.
Aluminum, barium, bromide,
From which skin and lungs can not hide.

Are those chem trails spread, for our best?
Reductions of sunlight passed the test.
Who needs the healing sunshine’s warmth?
Not I, nor the world’s crops that mourned.

Welcome all, to our brave new world,
Where poisons float and bombs are hurled.
While fluff is shown on TV’s tube.
A deadly game is played, e’er so crude.

Where are the bright skies of my youth,
With billowy clouds? Tell the truth.
Ye are mum, ye Rulers of God’s earth!
Rule and trample, till earth yields dearth!

My friend Thomas was still confused.
He received his facts from world press news.
What he saw with his very own eyes
Was less convincing than printed lies.

VP – April 10, 2008 All right reserved

ODD FELLOW AND OLD YELLOW

Here is a little fun ditty I wrote some time ago. I laugh. You laugh. But as you will see, the odd fellow was not amused, nor was the dog.

ODD MAN AND OLD YELLOW

Once there was an odd fellow,
with a dog he called old yellow.
Old yellow could never sit still,
For the flea he just could not kill.

The flea made his home in old yellow.
It chagrined the odd old fellow.
The flea bit the poor old dog’s tail,
Giving vent to one awful dog’s wail.

The odd man was deprived of his rest,
As old yellow made search for the pest.
Old yellow gave chase to his own tail,
Running in circles to no avail.

Then the flea jumped on the dog’s head,
Driving old yellow to jump on the bed.
The odd fellow jumped on the floor,
Shouting, “I want to hear no more.”

The odd man grabbed his old slipper,
And whacked the dog on the sniffer.
Old yellow crawled under the bed.
Nothing more was heard or was said.

VP July 25, 2006 All rights reserved

CHURCHGOING HYPOCRITE

One hears it so often. The Church is full of hypocrites! That’s such a facile statement. There is nothing easier than to throw stones. Not only that. I wouldn’t want to give out a quarter for every hypocrite outside the Church. There are more than a few out there as well. I would be broke for sure.

We all can do with a little criticism. No one is perfect. But to avoid Church purely because of the hypocrites there is to misunderstand the purpose of the Church. Through the services of the Church people strive to become a better people and have a more meaningful relationship with God.

Here is my view on it.

CHURCH-GOING HYPOCRITE

Went to church this Sunday morning
As I am accustomed to do,
Not because of ought or warning
Just so good to me might accrue.

Some say, church is for hypocrites.
It’s a statement that makes me wince.
That some are so, is quite legit.
I well know. You need not convince.

I too am one, that falls far short
Of the standards the Lord has set.
Cling to my sins, fail to abort,
The habits that are so inbred.

Do not think, I am worse than you.
We’re all cut from the same old cloth.
No one’s as good, as he thinks he is.
Evil lurked among the good we sought.

Who then is the greater hypocrite?
The one who seeks to make amends?
Or he who casts the stone and will not quit,
And uses others’s weakness as defence?

The Church is not for perfect saints.
Such entered heaven with God’s speed.
It’s there for those beset with taints.
It’s a hospice for poor souls in need.

So aware of my sinful state,
I do attend the House of God,
With hope that He will clean my slate,
Assisted by the preacher’s prod.

Will you join me then, next Sunday morn?
Let’s both seek the good that is taught.
In time a new man will be born,
Which helps us live, as we truly ought.

VP           Oct. 2, 2007   All rights reserved

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB

When I read Aesop’s Fables I see a remarkable similarity in his view of humanity and what we experience today. In his fable of The Wolf and the Lamb the victim presented evidence and logic to convince the predator of her innocence. Nothing dissuaded him. His accusations were no more than a ruse for the eventual kill. Today we see similar happenings in the political arena , be it the victimization of dissidents or innocent people, merely caught in the dragnet of the Middle East wars. Helpful evidence is disallowed, logic is twisted and nothing can counter the predetermined sentence of guilt. Stalin’s mock trials of the 1930s fit the case. So may those of the tortured victims of rendition and Guantanamo Bay. I set Aesop’s fable to rhyme. Hopefully we all see the connection and understand its import for our day.

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB

Little lambkin stood at a pool,
Unaware of a world, e’er so cruel.
She liked to look at her reflection.
Alas, she was without protection.

A wolf came for a drink of water.
From afar he already saw her.
He had eaten more than enough.
A little lamb chop he still could stuff.

The wolf transfixed, looked at that lamb.
He thought it tastier than beef or ham.
Yet, to appease a nagging guilt
The scales of justice had to be tilt.

Slowly, closer to the lamb he crept
The poor thing saw him, suddenly wept.
With fear and trembling her body shook.
He thought:” She’s so tender. I need not cook.”

“Dear lambkin. I feel quite offended.
Your innocence is so pretended.
Last year you called my father a killer
Even though he is our family’s pillar.”

“No, Mr. Wolf. How can that even be?
I am two months old. At most, just three.”
“If not you, then it was your brother.
I’m so sure it wasn’t any other.”

Mr. Wolf. My brother is deaf and dumb.
A simple tune, he can’t even hum.”
“Hmm!! Yes. Now I know what it was!
You stole and ate my meat. That’s my fuss.”

“No, no. Mr. Wolf. How can that be?
I only drink milk at my mother’s knee.
I’m just a baby. Can’t you see?
I’m two months old. At most, just three.”

“Lambkin. Enough of your excuses.
It’s your thefts and lies that accuse you.
Justice demands extreme solution.
It’s swift death by execution.”

The wolf then pounced upon the lamb.
And cruelly tore her from stern to stem.
He ate her all, except her tips
And then laid down and licked his lips.

He felt smug and more than justified.
“She wouldn’t have died, had she not lied.
Her tragic fate was much deserved.
Lambkin, too bad, I was well served.”

The moral is: Any excuse will do
For those who unworthy goals pursue.
The truth gets twisted, the tables turned.
The decent soul gets taken, if not burned.

VP              March 4, 2008 -All rights reserved

Based on Aesop’s Fable “The Wolf and the Lamb”

NO MORE WARS

There is much disenchantment with the wars in the Middle East. Some of this discontent is based on miscalculated strategies, rather than with the travesty of war itself. Nonetheless, many people have become aware that the aggressions found their justification on widely publicized lies. Many more people have come to realize how horrific wars are. Both victims and perpetrators suffer, immediately and in the long term. For the conscientious person there is only one stance he should take. He must oppose wars, all wars. What war hopes to achieve can be done better through thoughtful negotiation and mutually beneficial trade and commerce. NO MORE WARS Refrain: No more wars, no more pain, no more shame. Never again will I feel the same. All around, destruction, violent change. Let good deeds, instead of evil, range. Watch those planes, high up in the sky. They swiftly to their targets fly. From thousand feet they drop their bombs Upon innocents without qualms. Screams are rent from searing pain. Search is made for the maimed and slain. Women, children ,the aged, lie there With horrific wounds and deathly stare. Soldiers break through reinforced door, Intent on settling wrathful score. Buddies, killed by a roadside bomb, Are painfully missed, but are gone. In a corner, writhing in awful pain, Lies a man in sorrow, he can’t contain. His wife and children, they are dead. Now he faces troops, with much dread. With rifle butts smashed on his head They cuss with words that can’ t be said. “Dog, who killed our men on that road? We’ll squeeze your neck, you slimy toad.” “I’m a teacher. How would I know? Let me mourn. I’ve been brought so low.” They kicked, and shot him full of lead. And felt content that he was dead. The blackened smoke trails in the sky. Symbol of death, to those drawn nigh. Burned out homes, a silent witness To dubious war’s dirty business. We’ve been baited too long by lies Camouflaged in patriot guise. Surging truth has opened our eyes. No longer will we fall for lies. Refrain No more wars. No more pain. No more shame. Never again will I feel the same. All around, destruction, violent change. Let good deeds, instead of evil, range. VP March 24, 2008 -All rights reserved

THE GREAT MEN OF EARTH

The war in the Middle East has surpassed the Second World War in time. It has become almost as devastating as well. Almost 4,000 young Americans have died. Many more have been wounded, many of these with lifelong handicaps. It has been estimated that more than a million Iraqi people also have died, among them many women and children. The cost of this war has surpassed a half a trillion dollars. The long term cost may reach 3 trillion or more. A question must be asked. In view of those tremendous losses what then is the point of waging war? It seems that profits are being made, at least by a privileged clique. For one, the military industrial complex profits. So do those who control and own the world’s natural resources. Here I have tried to put in words some of my feelings about that business of war. For some it is a business where they stand to make obscene amounts of profit.
The Great Men of Earth

O how the great men of earth,
Received their money’s worth.
Sending our sons to war,
Profiting billions more.

Our sons invading distant lands,
chasing foes across the sands.
Corpulent barons pumping oil,
Gathering all the world’s spoil,

Compliant generals plot attacks,
Raining bombs on people’s backs.
Great men rubbing hands together,
For them, there is no finer weather.

Scanning horizon far and wide,
Our sons, intent to fight with might.
Coming upon the fallen foes,
Discover innocents in death’s throes.

Sons, running, stalking through the streets,
See no more than vanished feet.
Suddenly hit by great explosion,
Leave burnt bodies, great commotion.

Sons are packed in flag-draped caskets,
Lost limbs? False ones sure to mask it.
Mother weeping: He joined in haste.
Father seething: What terrible waste.

Sons reflecting. What have we done?
What destruction! Call that fun?
What loss! What suffering! We are pained.
For all our courage, nothing gained.

Mere collateral damage done!
True democracy will be won!
Such democracy is a sham.
This fight is fought, for the earth’s great men.

Theo. J. de Koning – March 25, 2006

SAGA OF THE CHILD POTATO PICKERS

Childhood memories remain with us always. Some of these we share with other people. Others are uniquely our own. Here is a poem that relates my family experiences shortly after world war 11. My sisters and I still vividly recall these even though they happened some 60 years ago. In spite of the aches and pains at the time we were happy to share a vital part in the wellbeing of our family. In the midst of poverty we experienced a sense of self worth that defies explanation.

EARLY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
(Saga of the child potato pickers)

Was the eldest of siblings, seven,
A scrawny lad, barely eleven.
Who by fate was poverty- born,
Had felt already the wealthy’s scorn.

War was dangerous, food was scarce,
Giving survival troubling cares.
Father’s paltry wage was not enough,
Children must help. Life was so tough.

Farmer came to my mother’s door,
Saying: Give me three kids, or more.
Need more workers in my field.
This year’s potatoes bear much yield.

I will pay them twelve cents per hour,
They must work through sun and shower.
And work at least nine hours or more
Those potatoes must go in store.

Mother uncertain, losing poise,
Then consented. She had no choice.
They will work, but don’t be rough.
They’re children. Know when it’s enough.

Woman, there’s no need for worry.
Summer will be gone in a hurry.
Besides, idleness is the devil’s tool.
Keep them busy, or you’re just a fool.

Son, of your sisters take good care.
Of lunch they too must get good share.
Watch out for them. Make sure you see,
That they drink enough of their tea.

Listen kids, this is what you do,
One basket each to two of you.
Sticks in the ground every thirty feet.
Pick up all potatoes until you meet.

Once you’re done, I’ll dig some more.
Those potatoes must go in store.
Keep picking spuds, and that real fast. Summer is here, and that won’t last.

Backs bent low felt the stinging sun.
We picked potatoes on the run,
We picked, stick to stick, row on row.
Whew! How much further can we go?

Our legs too long – or arms too short?
Our aching backs couldn’t find support.
With our noses close to the ground,
We picked , picked spuds, till none were found.

Needed relief for aching back.
Couldn’t stretch for the boss gave flack.
You think I pay you for nothing?
Keep picking till it’s time for quitting.

The endless day did finally end.
We washed up, ate, and were content.
We went to bed and fell asleep.
Too tired to ask God our soul to keep.

Early morning came all too soon.
Children get up! It’ll soon be noon!
Got up as tired as the night before,
To start the day to pick some more.

Backs bent low felt pouring rain.
We picked the spuds, ignored the pain.
We picked stick to stick, row on row.
We’re soaked! Boss, when can we go?

You can’t quit now. Pick some more.
Those potatoes must go in store.
Want to get paid? Keep on working!
Don’t give every excuse for shirking.

The endless week did finally end.
We got paid and we were content.
Our aches and pains were still much there,
But felt our pay for work quite fair.

Mother dear, can you close your eyes?
We want to give you big surprise.
Hold up your apron big and wide.
In dropped our pay like a mighty tide.

It felt good to help mom and dad.
Together, we overcame the bad.
In the end, summer’s work was done.
We were content that good had won.

Theo. J. de Koning – June 21 2006 All rights reserved

OUR CAT THE CARPENTER

Shortly after we were married we worked one summer in a Saskatchewan hamlet.Sometimes we still reminisce about our experiences there. One such experience is set out in the poem here below. We still have fond memories about our carpenter cat. In his own way he could be affectionate, but he was definitely an outdoors cat. As things turned out we were all winners.He had good care while he had a chance to grow up. We had an interesting friend we thoroughly enjoyed, in spite of the mishaps that occurred at the beginning.

OUR CAT THE CARPENTER

My good wife wanted a little pet.
Said: “Why don’t we get ourselves a cat?
So much better than a fish, ferret or frog.
Nor do I fancy sleeping, with a barking dog.

One day to a farmer friend we went.
To my wife she was a true God sent.
Her mouser barn cat, had a baby litter.
My ecstatic wife slid into joyous dither.

“Come here, dear. Look at those cute kittens.
That one, on her feet, has white mittens.
Over there, that one, on her chest has a star.
Even from here, you see how different they are.”

“They are so cute. Look, how they scamper.
I must take one home, just to pamper.
Let’s take the grey one, with white on her head.
She is feisty and will make an excellent pet.”

Home we went with a bundle of joy,
Never crossed our minds, “she” could annoy.
“She” turned out to be a most perky fellow.
We found out, nothing he did was ever mellow.

Kittens, it’s said, are easy to train.
Our efforts were largely in vain.
A few piddles here and some odd jobs there,
Grew our patience thin from exhaustive wear.

We bought him a fancy litter box.
Was he dumb, or clever, like a fox?
He did his piddles here and odd jobs there,
And left the box pristine, as if he did not dare.

Since it was summer, I threw him out.
He happily roamed the streets about.
When supper time came, he would stand at the door.
We fed him again, as we had done before.

Such an arrangement turned out quite well.
The house smelled fresh and the box looked swell.
Tom, our carpenter cat, did his jobs elsewhere.
We had reached that stage, where we didn’t worry or care.

Sadly, one day Tom did not come home.
Already we’d spent some evenings alone.
Some said, they had seen him in a farmer’s yard
Chasing birds and rodents as the newly assigned guard.

We felt betrayed. We questioned as well.
Changing jobs is lawful, as far as we can tell.
Changing affections, that’s a more serious thing.
That he had seen a feline lady, did much sting.

Much older, and a lot wiser now,
We’ve learned to cope, without pets somehow.
Cats, and toms in particular, need to roam
In the great outdoors, and make the old barn their home.

Theo. J. de Koning March 15, 2007 -All rights reserved