Greetings by Harry live on after all

This folder full of little poems led me to another discovery about my dad: He mailed them to greeting-card companies, only to be rejected by all. Throughout his life, he seemed to think outside-the-box of ways to make extra cash through writing. (Click on photo to enlarge)

Harry crafted countless poems throughout his well-lived life,
On every theme conceivable, and (we think) without help from his wife.

Now, we’ve learned, he also tried to sell some rhymes to those,
Who made appealing greeting cards with sympathetic prose.

These poems date from ’58 through 1966,
They mention all occasions – no words of politics.
Apparently they never sold, but stayed inside his files,
He surely knew that one day we’d be reading them with smiles.

Enjoy these sample rhymes and photos from Harry’s greeting-card years.

Anniversary

It seems unkind and quite unfair,
That other fellas have their hair,
But even though I’m bald, it’s true,
I’ll still show them a thing or two.

For on my anniversary,
The other fellas envy me,
Because they know that this is true,
They may have hair – but I have you.

                    * * *

There are a million, million stars,
Throughout the sky above,
They shine on Jupiter and Mars,
And you and me, my love.

In all of space, with all of life,
The miracle, to me,
Is that we two are man and wife,
For all eternity.

                    * * *

Pandora had a little box,
Which opened up one day,
And out came all the troubles,
Which plague us all today.

But nothing ever worries me,
My troubles I’ll abide,
As long as you and I can be,
Together, side by side.

                    * * *

A picture’s worth a thousand words,
At least, they say it’s true,
But pictures can’t describe my thoughts,
No, only words will do.

Yes, only words can really say
How much you mean to me,
On this most fateful, magic day,
Our Anniversary.

Graduation

You’ve worked so long and hard, we know,
To reach this point in life,
And now it’s time for you to go
And face a world of strife.

Well, there are many roads to take,
To make your dreams come true,
Whichever you may choose, we pray
Good fortune follows you.

Fathers/Mothers Day

Each year there comes one happy day,
When Father reigns supreme,
And everyone will gladly say
That Daddy’s “on the beam.”

There’s just one thing, you will agree,
And this we have to say,
The bills for gifts we buy, you see,
Poor Daddy has to pay!

                    * * *

How many mothers have there been,
Since the beginning of time?
And how many children send their love,
With a letter, note or rhyme?

How many times do they toast her name,
With a kiss and cup of wine?
No matter how many, there never has been,
A wonderful mother like mine.

Separations

Each night before I go to sleep,
I write a line or two,
And then instead of counting sheep,
I think and dream of you.

And even though our parting is,
Just temporary, dear,
I miss you and I want you and,
Can’t wait till you are here.

                    * * *

I spend my days in wishing,
My dreams would all come true,
And then I spend each lonely night,
In dreaming, dear, of you.

Now ask me what I wish for,
And what my dreams all see,
The answer, dear, is simple,
To make you wish for me.

                    * * *

There is an ancient proverb,
That absence isn’t bad,
It makes the heart grow fonder,
And it makes reunions glad.

But just the same I’d rather,
Not find out if it’s true,
I’d much prefer, instead, my love,
To stay at home with you.

New Baby

So you had a small addition,
To your little family,
And now instead of two of you,
You both add up to three.

Well, our heartiest best wishes,
For the present – and what’s more,
For the future, just one question –
Would you like to try for four?


Valentines

Now I ask you, is it true?
Can I really count on you?
Will you promise faithfully
That my Valentine you’ll be?

                    * * *

The world is such a crazy place,
For members of the human race,
Won’t you make my world all right,
And be my Valentine tonight?

                    * * *

Once a year there comes a time,
When we convey our thoughts in rhyme,
And even a guy as shy as I,
Can “Love you till the day I die.”

Though I can’t speak the words, you see,
This card will do the job for me,
So darling, sweetheart, baby mine,
Won’t you be my Valentine?

                    * * *

I dreamed a dream the other night,
Subconsciously, you see,
That you were in my arms so tight,
And never looked at me.

Now you don’t have to look at me,
In order to be mine,
So look the other way – Just be,
My own sweet Valentine.

Birthday

Here’s a birthday wish, you see,
Designed for just one guy,
He’s the father of my children,
And the apple of my eye!

                    * * *

Birthdays come and birthdays go,
At least once every year,
And every time one passes by,
We celebrate and cheer.

But years are not important,
Besides, who’s counting, dear?
Let birthdays come and go like mad,
So long as you are near.

                    * * *

It seems so short a time ago,
When you were on my knee,
And when we stood together,
You were looking up to me.

Those days are gone forever, and
I can’t help feeling blue,
For you have quite outgrown me,
And I now look up to you!

                    * * *

There was a fairy princess once,
Who made good dreams come true,
She answered all my wishes when,
She blessed my life with you.

But now she’s gone, and in her place,
She left a princess, too,
I look into your smiling face –
The princess, dear, is you!

                    * * *

Some folks grin when they forget,
And never seem to get upset,
Instead they act so very clever,
Better late, they say, than never.

But me, I felt so mortified,
I simply cried and cried and cried,
So I confess, my card is late,
Because I just forgot the date.

                    * * *

Fashions change, and so do styles,
Mistakes are now shrugged off with smiles,
Apologies are now outdated,
So here’s your birthday wish – belated!
Happy Birthday!

                   * * * 

(I found this last one undated in a different file.)

 To My Wife, My Love

I didn’t find a Card this year,
To wish you Happy Birthday, dear.
But don’t you worry, don’t you fear,
I’m still in love with you, my dear.

The Cards I see do not appear,
To say the words that you should hear.
So let me make my feelings clear,
I love you more each passing year.

YELH

Copyright 2017, Elaine Blackman

Harry's blizzard ballad

My brother took this photo of our house in Silver Spring, MD. I believe it was the 1966 blizzard.

Who remembers the Blizzard of January 1966? (This news video might spark your memory.) As snow began falling, my dad left work at the Pentagon to drive a few staffers home in Virginia suburbs before heading back to Maryland. However, by the time they arrived at the first residence, conditions worsened, leaving four women plus Harry stranded in an apartment. 

We kids were home from school for a week or more (yay!), while our dad called daily with an update. Once the train was up and running, he traveled back to Maryland, but left his car snowed in. What I didn’t know until my recent discovery -- Harry wrote a poem about his little, winter adventure and attached it to the Feb 3, 1966, edition of the Current News, his Defense Department publication.
 

The Ballad of Harry and Four

Here and there the snow lay fallen,

Evening nigh and home was calling.

Work was finished, labors over,

They all began to run for cover.

On Saturday.

Ursula, Carol, Jean and Harry,

Hied to supper, stayed to tarry.

And onward, upward piled the snow,

So far as Jeannie’s could they go.

On Saturday.

There stayed Harry, Top Banana,

Urse, Carol, Jean and Anna!

Stayed the evening, spent the night,

The five of them – and all was right.

Till Sunday.

Sabbath came – true paradise,

With Harry center of all eyes.

The four fair maids and Harry rested,

Made helpless by the snow invested.

On Sunday.

There our Harry stayed and dreamed,

While the fair maids pampered, preened.

What mortal has the luck of me,

Who hasn’t dreamed this reverie?

On Sunday.

So passed the night; a new day dawned.

The dreamer’s dream was over.

There may be snow upon the ground,

But Harry was in clover.

Then came Monday.

Alas the news: the road is clear!

Elysium fields turn brown and sere.

Serene, we hope, our Harry slumbers,

Chaste not by virtue, but by numbers.

Seminars and such, also in rhyme

Occasionally my dad was away on other (pre-planned) work-related trips. He attended seminars, conferences, and speech-writing expeditions with the Secretary of Defense -- you know, the usual. And, what did I recently discover? Right! He documented each event with a poem. However, I'm not sure I found a poem for one particular seminar. You see, in November 2013, Harry and my husband were watching a TV program commemorating the 50th anniversary of President Kennedy's assassination. "I know that guy," said Harry, nonchalantly, pointing to the Dallas police chief in the 1963 video. He explained to my husband that shortly after the assassination, the pressure of the investigation got to the chief, so his department sent him to training for a few weeks. Harry and the chief were partnered as roommates. I imagine they had interesting talks!

Here's an example of a poem from a different seminar:


Executive Seminar Center
Kings Point, NY
February 1965 

Sunday, February 7

So the students came together,
On a grey and rainy day,
Summoned here despite the weather
Some from very far away!

Harry at a mid-'60s work-related event

So they hearkened and they listened
To DeVore and Beck (his boss),
Marked their words with eyes that glistened,
Some were at a total loss.

Gathered and recalled past glories,
Met and got acquainted, too,
Swapped some yarns and told some stories
Learned to know just who was who!

Monday, February 8 

First, the furnace clanged and pounded,
Through the night, before the dawn,
Then the bugle loudly sounded
Like a banshee on the lawn.

Came two speakers here to see us,
Tried to get their message through,
Coffee breaks were timed to free us,
But we grasped a thought or two.

Toured the campus, hit the club,
Found the bar and did some loops,
Then, confound it, here's the rub,

Presenting a retirement poem in 1975

Organized five working groups.

Tuesday, February 9

Now we know who runs the Center,
Who administers the works,
Not DeVore or Beck, his mentor,
They are just the working jerks.

Mrs. Lester, first name Mabel,
She heads up the Center staff,
Rose and Pamela, they're able,
They cut donuts up -- in half.

Listened to a rousing lecture,
On the people "in the know",
Made us think and then conjecture
What would happen if we "go".


The poem goes on to chronicle each day of the two-week seminar, plus a lengthy goodbye poem that mentions all attendees. Another of his "poetic journals" goes for three weeks! Now I understand yet another reason Harry was dubbed the Pentagon Poet Laureate.

Copyright 2016
Elaine Blackman

‘Season’s Greetings’ to DOD (the year was 1983)

Harry dishes out chili for a guest at one of his annual office Christmas parties. A co-worker made the chili each year, and I've been told it was the highlight of the party. Many in the Pentagon regularly attended, as well as out-of-towners.

Several people who follow this blog knew Harry from the Pentagon. So you folks may remember his annual Christmas parties -- and his "Season's Greetings" poems to the Department of Defense. He wrote the poem below three years before he retired from government. It was the same winter I brought my 13-month-old daughter to his office Christmas party. And, it was there she took her first steps without holding on! 

I’ve come across Harry’s “Season’s Greetings” poems from many other years, too; I selected 1983 because the sentiments are timeless.

SEASON'S GREETINGS

My friends, our greetings every year,
Are all designed to bring good cheer,
Replete with names of folks we know,
The ones who make the system go.
But friends, this year is somehow different,
Names alone are not sufficient.

Harry was crowned "Pentagon Poet Laureate"

We simply can’t remain serene,
Reflecting on the global scene,
Events in 1983 upset our equanimity.
So this year’s greetings are directed
At events and those affected,
With names deserving special mention
That we’ll bring to your attention.
First and foremost, let us pray,
For those who serve the U.S.A.,
Let’s support with all our means,
Our United States Marines.
P.X. Kelley and the rest
Are among our very best.
A memory we’ll always keep,

 And crowned again ...

Of those men murdered in their sleep.
With all our deepest sympathy
To members of each family.
Every sweetheart, wife and mother,
Every sister, father, brother.
Hold fast and firm to this belief,
Our nation shares your common grief
For those young men who gave their all
In answer to their country’s call.
And Army Ranger personnel,
Those who fought and those who fell.
Their purpose and their mission clear
To all but those who will not hear.
Our hearts go out to them and theirs,
Our thoughts, our tears, our daily prayers,

... And again

These men, our leading, forward edge,
Won’t be forgotten, this we pledge.
And those who criticize and carp
So righteously (without a harp),
Should bear in mind the attitude
Of students, and their gratitude,
So now’s the time to rally round
The only Commander-in-Chief in town!
To all our Navy personnel,
Who do their jobs so very well,
Our country owes a massive debt,
Though some don’t realize this yet.
On, above, beneath the sea,
They help to keep our nation free.
Away from home for so much time,
Throughout the world, in every clime,
And their appearance, anywhere,
Signifies our presence there.
To all our Air Force people, too,
With all the jobs they have to do,

Gen. Powell attended Harry's parties, too.

Those who fly as fast as sound,
Or tend the missiles underground,
We owe much more than we can pay,
So let’s remember that each day,
And hope for progress every year
In safeguarding our “high frontier.”
These armed forces all together,
Geared to go in any weather,
Ready, able, day or night,
Are a symbol of our might,
All on duty, constantly,
Deterring any enemy,
By their presence, they assure
That our country stays secure.
To all the leaders of these forces,
Those who are “official sources,”
Let’s not sell these people short,
They deserve our best support.
For the Navy’s John Lehman,
(The sharpest, you know)
And Admiral Watkins,
A great CNO,
The ships and the subs and the aircraft to meet
The needed improvements in strength of the fleet.
For the Army’s John Marsh
(He’s the best at this craft)
And General Wickham,
The new Chief of Staff.
The brigades and divisions, equipment and stuff,
With training sufficient to keep the troops tough.
For Verne Orr of the Air Force
(A quality guy),
And Gabriel, Charlie,

Advising Secretary Cap Weinberger?

The Chief of the Sky,
The weapons and systems to keep us apace
Of our mission to fight in the air and in space.
For JCS Chairman, General Vessey,
An organization not so messy,
With the power to make a hard decision,
And make his mark as a man of vision,
Persuasive and backed by rational reasons,
He is the Pentagon’s man for all seasons.
And last but not least,
For the DOD leaders,
From all of our viewers and writers and readers,
For Weinberger, Cap, and his Deputy, Thayer,
We offer a very fervent prayer,
May they both have the courage and wisdom and sense,
To know when to jump or to straddle the fence,
May they talk to the Congress, the public, the press,
And convince them which courses of action to bless,
May the policies that they both devise
Be cautiously bold and very wise,
And may they retain their honor and pride,
With the Forces of freedom at their side.
Now let’s turn our backs on ’83,
It taught us a little humility,
And let’s look forward to ’84,
Whatever the future has in store,
Of this we are certain as we can be,
That ours is still the land of the free,
Let’s pray that all hostilities cease,
And that God grant this world a measure of peace!

He didn't get fame from 'The Alphabet Game'

Harry and Jeanette posed during their 25th wedding anniversary party at home, August 1968. Two months later, Harry submitted the "verse-story" below for publication. I wonder what (or who) inspired him.

We’ve seen many examples of Harry's creative poems, as well as why he wrote them -- to tell stories both real and fiction, to persuade others, to stir imaginations, and just for fun. But did you know he wrote at least one for children? Neither did I, until I saw it in a stack of short stories in a musty old box. Harry sent "The Alphabet Game" to at least two publishers: Authors and Publishers’ Service in Flushing, NY, and Harper & Row in New York City. Here's his submission to the latter.


October 24, 1968

Dear Miss Nordstrom:

Enclosed is a short Verse-Story for your consideration and possible publication. I have tried it on several pre-school children and they were delighted with it. Suitably illustrated, I believe it would be quite appealing. Though I cannot provide the artwork myself, I have several ideas about illustrations.

Please let me know if you think it worth pursuing, or if you would be interested in receiving more such material for a juvenile audience.

Sincerely,

Harry M. Zubkoff

The Alphabet Game

Thousands and thousands of years ago,

Before you were born and started to grow,

When people lived in caves and hunted,

No one talked; they only grunted.

No one could read or write at all,

They just painted pictures upon the wall,

Until some people whose names we forget,

Invented a brand new alphabet.

First they invented the sounds, you see,

Like the sound of A and sound of E.

And three more sounds are I, O, U,

They call them letters, and vowels, too.

These five little letters you learn today,

Make every sound that you can say,

Just try them out, make sounds for a while,

But quietly please, soft sounds with a smile.

Then they had to shape each sound,

To make it flat or broad or round,

To make each sound into a word,

To understand it when it’s heard.

As they invented every letter,

Each sound got a little better.

And finally, when they were done,

They added up to twenty-one.

Now let’s review, for just a minute,

How many letters are there in it?

The total number’s twenty-six,

And they do all the sound-word tricks.

Repeat these letters after me,

B, C, D and F and G.

H, I, J, and then there’s K,

Now that’s enough for you today.

After K comes L and M,

Drop one leg and there’s the N,

Then P, Q, R, and S, T, and V,

W, and X, Y, Z.

We call those letters consonants,

Because they sit there on a fence,

They’re silent, they cannot be heard,

They only help to shape each word.

They wrap each vowel in a shell,

We call it learning how to spell,

So when you know them all by sight,

You, too, can learn to read and write.

So practice them and play some games,

With sounds and words and even names,

And maybe, when you have some time,

You might compose a little rhyme.

Like A, B, C, D, E, F, G,

H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P,

Q, R, S, T, U, and V,

W, and X, Y, Z.

Or, A, K, J, and W,

M, and N, and U, and Q.

Or maybe C, D, E, P, T,

Go on, it’s fun, just try and see.

I didn't see a rejection letter, but it looks like "The Alphabet Game" ended up in the soup.

Stay tuned; next week I'll post a writing that surprised me more than this one.

Copyright 2016
Elaine Blackman

Rhymes for the bosses, with words of wisdom in all

Before the computer era, my dad saved some of his drafts, like this one showing handwritten edits on the final poem on this page. I consider them a gift to future generations of our family. So, my advice to others: try to be kind when your parents want to keep so many boxes full of memorabilia each time they downsize their homes.

Most of Harry's family and friends knew nothing about his reputation as a poet throughout his 36-year career in the Defense Department. So here's a taste of why he was dubbed the "Pentagon Poet Laureate." I selected three bosses because I remember my dad talking about them.


To Harold Brown, Secretary of Defense, 1977 – 1981

Before he was Secretary of Defense, Harold Brown was Secretary of the Air Force. Harry must've written this poem when Brown left in 1969.

The Secretary’s role is not so easy to define,
He keeps the programmed forces and the budget all in line,
He formulates the policies, and analyzes trends,
In short, it’s not a job in which to make a lot of friends!

His mind must be receptive to a host of different things,
From the nuts and bolts, the details, to the systems’ functionings,
On which to base decisions that result in strategies,
In short, it isn’t hard to make a lot of enemies.

And yet, throughout your tenure, you have won our deep respect,
For pronouncements and decisions, both direct and circumspect,
You have helped to shape the nature of the future generation,
And in doing so have fully earned our deepest admiration.

But even more importantly, please bear this thought in mind,
You have left a goodly host of U.S. Air Force friends behind,
And somehow we look forward to a brighter future, when
You’ll return once more to government, and we will meet again.

Harry was right! In this letter, dated December 30, 1976, he welcomed back his boss:

Dear Dr. Brown:

When you left, almost eight years ago, you may recall that I wrote you a little farewell poem. It is only fitting, therefore, that I write a welcome-home poem now. So:

On behalf of those who populate the Pentagonic maze,
Who occupy the back rooms half the nights and all the days,
Let me welcome your return as the commander of our fort,
And assure you that you have both our respect and our support.

We'll be keeping you apprised of what's occurring in the press,
(A fact which might contribute to your quotient of distress.)
And throughout the coming crises that inevitably rise,
We will round up all the comments, both the foolish and the wise.

So don't lose your sense of humor and, whatever your desire,
We will help in any way we can to put out every fire,
And while formulating policies and solving problems, too,
Just remember, let your inner warmth, from time to time, shine through.

Five days later, Dr. Brown wrote this reply on a copy of the poem:
"Harry Z, Thanks for this superlative effort and the advice. It reminds me that though most of the work is oppressive many of the people here are nice! H.B."

______________________________

To Eugene M. Zuckert, Secretary of the Air Force, 1961 – 1965

When the man of the hour acceded to power,
And you were confirmed in this job,
You found a whole host of old friends and old ghosts,
In fact, you confronted a mob.

This place was a literal beehive of guys
Who remembered the old days of yore,
When they were one quarter of their present size,
That is, when you served here before.

They thought of the days when you wielded the whip,
When you cracked down on spenders galore,
When you helped form the structural shape of this ship,
When you crammed with the cream of the Corps.

Small wonder, old friend, that they welcomed you back
With a cheer and a sigh of relief,
For here was a pro in the business we know,
To steer the ship clear of the reef.

Your basic approach to the job as our coach,
Has confirmed our opinion of you. From

The day that you left to the day you returned
It is obvious, too, that you grew, some.

We hasten to say with a note of dismay
That each morning you’re not a slow starter,
And though we complain of the pain and the drain,
We all find ourselves working harder.

So let us conclude with sincere gratitude
And on one thing we all will say “Yes,”
We’ll never get sore while you’re minding the store
For you are our boy, we confess!

We’re glad that you’re here on birthday this year
And we hope that you always will be,
So each year on this day we can greet you this way
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, MR. Z.

______________________________

To John A. Lang, Jr.
Administrative Assistant to the Secretary of the Air Force, 1964 – 1972

The time has come to say good-bye, as come it must, at last,
And never did some seven years fly by so very fast,
So pause with me and see if we together can review,
The golden years of John A. Lang, and of his happy crew.

So many things have happened in so short a span of time,
That we can only capture but a few of them in rhyme,
For you have filled the passing years with so much work and fun,
And never did so many owe so much to anyone.

Now all of us remember who recruited you, you see,
Our former boss, the Secretary, known as Mr. Z.,
But tell use, did he twist your arm before you would agree?
Or did you volunteer to take this job quite willingly?

And all of us remember, for a year you wore two hats,
And set a pace of action that would kill us normal cats,
You also had both Frank and Ray, a pair of great execs,
And both of them, we have to say, wound up as total wrecks.

And all of us remember that in any given week,
You reluctantly accepted invitations that you speak,
No, there weren’t very many, just a million words or two,
Which we bound up in four volumes as a souvenir for you.

And all of us remember all the many jokes you told,
For sometimes we would hold our breath to hear how they unfold,
And some of us remember just as clear as yesterday,
The never-ending research to find something new to say.

And all of us remember every trip you had to take,
The times when you were gone we didn’t have to stay awake,
But you surely led Bill Richardson a very merry chase,
As you charged through every speaking trip like speeding through a race.

And all of us remember all those meetings with your staff,
When each dreary Monday morning would produce at least one laugh,
For you spent the time critiquing what we did the week before,
And with humor in predicting what the next one held in store.

And all of us remember in deciphering your scrawls,
With just a few, short scribbled words you’d have us climbing walls,
And the colorful expressions with a twinkle in your eye,
Can you repeat the one when you were called to testify?

And of us remember that when things did not go right,
When the prospects looked quite dismal and the future less than bright,
We could always count on you to turn a frown into a smile,
And to make us feel much better, if for just a little while.

And all of us remember, you reminded us each day,
That a love of flag and country is what made the U.S.A.,
We salute you as a gentleman who really loves this land,
For your patriotic fervor you deserve a hearty hand.

And all of us remember, when the flag becomes unfurled,
That the State of Carolina is the center of the world,
And to take it one step further, it was so ordained by Fate,
That the little town of Carthage be the center of that State.

Yes, all of us remember many things we cannot say,
For memories come flooding back when you are gone away,
But this we know and this we say, we’ll miss you very much,
And this we hope, and this we pray, that you will keep in touch!

Hundreds of people who knew Harry at the Pentagon received a poem at one time or another. (I know because I now have copies.) And, they probably saw his annual "Season's Greetings" poems to all in the Defense Department -- stay tuned; I'll post one down the road. And, did you know Harry submitted rhymes to greeting-card companies, Hallmark for one? I'll save those for later, too. Next week I'll get back to his "regular" writings.

Rhymes of freedom, fate, and friends

My father considered flying his greatest hobby -- until he couldn't fly anymore. At that point, he told someone in a letter, his love of Big Band music took over. Another hobby, he said, was editing a weekly newspaper. Did he consider poetry a hobby, too -- or a way of life? I don't have a backstory to any of the five poems below, so let's assume Harry wrote them simply for his own enjoyment. Or, do you think he penned a couple of them on behalf of someone else? 

Harry in the sky

Untitled (Undated)

If those who live and spend their lives on land

Could once, just once, with freedom soar the skies,

If they could see from high just where they stand,

And knowing this, lift up their sights, their eyes,

And draw direction from the truths above.

If they could feel the strength within their souls,

that powers men with God's sweet energy,

Then set their course without regard to shoals,

They'd know the dignity of being really free,

And soon the world would learn to trust -- and love.

 __________________________________________

Untitled (Undated)

I wonder if Harry ever presented this poem.

Now and then, from time to time,

I feel compelled to rhyme a rhyme,
The reason why, I do deplore,
Is GIRLS – parading past my door,
My door – and desk – and me – you see,
Front on a traffic artery,
And girls from near and far away,
Lead my quivering eyes astray.
(Especially those from down the hall –
They pass – and off my chair I fall!!)

Now those who pass with nose in air,
I follow – with a wicked stare,
And those who pass with eyes on floor,
My eyes pursue them out the door!!
But those who pause and glance inside,
With artful look and twinkling eye,

No, he's not looking at girls; he's relishing
his mother-in-law's chicken soup, 1960s

I cannot face – I shrink – I hide,
I size them up (just shoulder-high!)
(Especially those from down the way –
They know me off my chair each day!!)

There’s a saying, and it states,
All things come to he who waits,
So here I sit – so patiently,
And wait for girls to come to me.
The trouble is, there are so many,
All I want is one, most any,
In fact, I’ve picked her out already,
Whatta dish – now down, boy, steady!!
(One of those from down the street,
Knocks me off my chair and feet!!)

But just when all my dreams get started,
I’m told that soon we shall be parted,
Such is fortune, such is fate,
We never even made a date!
We had barely got acquainted,
She spoke to me – I almost fainted!!
Now she’s leaving, and what frets me,
I will die – while she forgets me.
(OH, that doll across the heather,
Now we’ll never get together!!)

__________________________________________  

Untitled (Undated)

At an office event, 1960s

A thousand thousand years ago,
Before we existed – it was long ago,
I dreamed a dream so vividly,
And the dream was all about a girl and me.
The sky was blue and the stars were high
And the girl, it was you and the guy was I!!!

I dreamed we walked by the sandy sea,
The girl who was you and the guy who was me,
And the blue-green sea and blue-green skies,
Were reflected so suitably within your eyes.
And we both held hands as we walked along,
And our hearts were young and love was strong.

But the All-Wise God looking down from above,
Decided that the Earth wasn’t ready for our love,
And he sadly laid us down to rest,
And our Souls were exalted and our love was blessed.
And we slept a deep and peaceful sleep,
For we had an appointment with the future to keep.

But the question is – is the future now,
Or is it a thousand thousand years from now?
Do we start once more and go on and on,
Were we destined to meet inside the Pentagon?
Or did Fate decree we should wait some more?
Does the future have another dream for us in store?

__________________________________________

Untitled (Undated)

Relaxing at home, 1980s

The time has come, I must confess,

When words with which I can express,
My feelings simply can’t be found.
They echo with an empty sound.

It’s difficult to say good-bye.
For I am not too old to cry,
And this I know, within my heart,
We two are growing far apart.

But life is joy and sadness, too,
And you must do what you must do,
And though we nevermore will meet,
My memories of you are sweet.

I wish the very best for you,
May all your fondest dreams come true.
I wish success for you, and more,
In finding what you’re searching for.

__________________________________________

Dozing with a friend, circa 1970. Was he dreaming up his next poem?

Friends (Undated)

A friend is not a casual acquaintance or a date,
And this is not a matter that is open to debate.
A friend is someone whom you like, to share your woes and joy,
And it doesn’t really matter if a friend’s a girl or boy.

A friend is someone whom you like, to share your blues and bliss,
To share a smile, a word, a look, a fond embrace or kiss.
A word, a look, a smile, a kiss, a touch, a fond embrace,
Each of these is precious at the proper time and place.

Indeed, a friend’s a precious thing, and also very rare,
Each person has so very few with whom these things he’ll share.
A friend is like a brother whom you fight for and defend,
No matter what he says or does, he’s yours until the end.

And friendships are quite strong, I think, not puny things or wrecks,
For friends are much like lovers, but of course, without the sex.
Now is it wrong or wicked, is it really very bad,
To confide in one another when you’re happy or you’re sad?

Well, if these words or thoughts or deeds do easily offend,
Then maybe you don’t understand the meaning of a friend,
You must accept, you cannot change the foibles of a friend,
But if you cannot stand me, then our friendship’s at an end.


In case you missed them, you can read more of Harry's poems in the previous two posts on this blog. Next week, we'll see why Pentagon officials hailed his poetry.

Once a poet, always a poet

I never asked my dad to name a favorite poem or a poet who inspired him. I have a hunch, though, that his poem-writing flowed without influence from the greats or anyone else. One thing's for sure -- once he started, he never stopped. Only in the past year have I learned the extent of his poetry -- about people he knew, places he went, events of the day, and just ordinary thoughts that drifted through his mind. Even when he wrote a Letter to the Editor, he did so in rhyme! Harry submitted the four poems below in the 1960s, each to a different publication.


Harry might have submitted this one to FLYING magazine, which still publishes.

On Zero Defects

Harry, smiling through the '60s

The question that I often hear,

I’ve asked myself the same.
Is Zero Defects’ meaning clear,
Or is it just a name?

Can this apply to us? I said,
Or should we pass it by?
Is this alive or is it dead?
I wonder – so said I.

I pondered it, by day and night,

And really thought it through,
And in the end I thought, they’re right.
This is the thing to do!

Harry and Jeanette, 1962

For none of us is perfect, see?
This thought occurred – in rhyme,
Not him, or her, or you, or me,
We’re not right all the time.

We make mistakes, we’re sometimes wrong.
We’re human, but, good grief,
This poor excuse won’t last for long,
Let’s turn a brand new leaf.

And leave us all get on the ball,
Let’s shift our gears to high.
And let’s support it, one and all,
Let’s do it right – let’s try.

_________________________________________ 

In August 1965, Harry wrote this letter to The Washington Post columnist Bill Gold.

Dear Bill:

Here is an unsolicited testimonial from your faithful reader and long-time admirer:

I start each morning, every day,

Circa 1965

With breakfast -- and the Post,

I read what pundits have to say,

Both here -- and coast to coast.

But first, a habit that is mine,

I carefully unfold

The paper, to The District Line,

And read each word by Gold!

Your column sets the tone each day,

And cheers me up no end,

It matters not what others say,

At least you've got one friend!

By the way, Bill, thanks for including my name in your birthday greetings (June 16). It's an honor to be in such distinguished company.

Sincerely,

Harry Zubkoff

P.S. The contribution is for your favorite charity.

 _________________________________________ 

In January 1966, Harry submitted this poem to Poet Lore, still in publication.

Harry in flight

The Brink of Space

Let sailors spin their wondrous tales,
Of ships and storms and shining seas,
Of winds from hurricanes and gales,
Of waves as high as redwood trees;
Let sailors spin their wondrous tales.

But when an airman’s contrails track the sky,
And leave his crinkled lines on God’s own face,
The magic stirs men’s minds and hearts – they sigh;
For mankind trembles on the brink of space.
Aye, mankind trembles on the brink of space.


I had to look up "contrails," did you?

 _________________________________________ 

Harry sent this Letter to the Editor to New York Daily News on September 20, 1968, the day they published an article titled "Wall Street Tickers Flip Over Sweater Girl Figure." Did you know -- "sweater girl" was a term made popular in 1940s and '50s Hollywood for shapely women wearing tight sweaters; it became synonymous with "pin-up girl" during WWII.

Dear Editor:

The attached story published in your newspaper has excited my imagination to the point where the only appropriate response could be the following poem:

Harry's copy of the original Daily News article

A Poem Maligning Sweaters

Now this has been the subject of
Much idle conversation,
And it could fill a lot of books,
That's no exaggeration.

So if what I'm about to say
Sounds somewhat idiotic,
It's because those lovely sweaters
Make me mentally neurotic!

For everywhere I look, it seems,
I see a lovely vision,
No wonder all the scientists

More 1960s photos

Invent atomic fission!

I sign in every morning,
All prepared to do my share,
Then for eight exciting hours
All I do is sit and stare!

Though I make an honest effort
To perform a job that's right,

I can't do any work at all
As long as I have sight.

I spend a whole day scheming,
Ah, fantastic plots and schemes,
Then at night I wake up screaming,
For I see them in my dreams!

Once I thought I was impartial,
I could look but never touch!
But really, now, I must admit
That this is much too much.

I used to be quite sane, you see,
But now I'm on the brink,
Indeed I'll go quite mad if
I allow myself to think.

I used to be quite virtuous,

The rejection letter

But now I'm on the verge;
These things arouse in me a
Certain predatory urge!

Every time I see them,
they contribute to my rage,
They're so easily encountered,
But not easy to engage!

After reading through this poem,
I am sure you will agree,
There is nothing worse than sweaters,
For creating misery!


I didn't find the original NY Daily News article online, but this article gives a brief explanation of the young woman's short-lived fame: The Bizarre Story of the Wall Street Sweater Girl. And here's the complete story of Francine Gottfried on Wikipedia.

Stay tuned for more poetry next week.

Harry the poet -- yes, he was that, too

How long do you save old letters and poems from others? (Or emails in today's world.) When I started this blog in May 2015, several of Harry's friends told me they would look for the poem he'd written in their honor, "if I can find it," they said. One of these friends was referring to a 61-year-old poem (shown below, to Alice). 

Sure enough, I found a copy of their poems in Harry's files. He saved them all -- poems he'd crafted for countless family and friends on a variety of occasions (birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, fundraisers), for submission to publications, and for folks in his workplace, where he was dubbed the "Pentagon Poet Laureate."

I discovered in Harry's keepsakes that he wrote poems as far back as 1945, so it’s likely he rhymed even before then. Below are six of the earlier poems; I’ll post others in the coming weeks -- but be forewarned, he saved hundreds.


This first one was in a pile of yellowed, delicate news clippings, in a folder with Army memorabilia.

September 1945 
USO Newsletter – G.I. Journal

Harry, winter 1945

POET’S CORNER
Written by Pvt. Harry Zubkoff

When I was a civilian,
And it seems so long ago
I always used to wonder
Where the soldiers used to go.

And then I used to wonder
If the folks who didn’t know
Were doing all they could
To help some G.I. Joe.

The average civilian

Original newsletter, fragile and torn

Is the same as I was then.
He really doesn’t understand
But he wonders now and then.

But there are some civilians,
A special kind I guess,
For whom I call on God above
To cherish and to bless.

They didn’t stand and wonder
The way some others do,
If a soldier had a place to go
Or anything to do.

Harry and Jeanette, November 1945

No, they arranged a place,
Where all G.I.s could go;
They arranged a darn good place
And called it USO.

So, I no longer wonder
The way I used to do,
If soldiers have a place to go
Or anything to do.

For whenever we’re in town
And have no place to go,
We know we’re always welcome
At the SA-USO.

And of one thing I’m certain,
This I surely know,
There’s a special kind of Heaven
For the FOLKS of USO!

_________________________________________

December 19, 1949 (Details unknown)
A Toast to All 
 
Oh, I'm working on a message,
That is full of hope and cheer,
But I can't get in the spirit,
Not without a glass of beer.

Mr. Noble says make merry,
For the Yuletide Season's here.

Harry with Jeanette and Earl, 1949

But as sure as my name's Harry,
How can I, without my beer!

I suppose I ought to wish him joy,
But how can I revere,
Anyone who won't allow a boy
To have a glass of beer!

Oh, I wish I had a nickel now,
for everybody here,
Who will celebrate this Friday,
But without a glass of beer!

Now if Mr. Noble's bosses

Are the kind of men I think,

First winter in Greenbelt, MD

They will celebrate this Friday too,
But not without a drink.

They will bring enough fine liquor
For a battleship to sink,
Then they'll lock their office doors and,
They will have themselves a drink.

They will make the rounds like gypsies,
And at everyone they'll wink,
Then they'll ship into their offices
And have another drink!

They will hang around the mistletoe
Like Romeos, they think,
Then with every kiss they manage,
They will need another drink.

They will put away enough, you know,
To fill a pair of floats,
I don't wish them any harm,
But may it stick inside their throats!

For while they're behind their office doors,
All dishing out good cheer,
We'll be celebrating Christmas dry,
Without one glass of "Beer"!!!!

 ________________________________________

Lament of Harry Z. (Undated, though likely the 1950s, long before I noticed that my father was a proponent of equal rights for women.)

The zaniest girls you'd ever see

Harry (far left) at an office celebration, 1950s

have organized to comfort me.
They fetch my coffee, milk or tea,
They smile so very prettily.

And when I'm blue, or seemingly,
They cheer me up so beamingly.
And when we're busy, flappily,
They follow orders snappily.

And when I think, so fleetingly,
They treat me so entreatingly,
And when I'm gazing ceilingly,
They hold my hand so feelingly.

And when I'm scared, so fearingly,
They soothe me, so endearingly,
And then, of course, occasionally,
They also do some work for me!

 ________________________________________

December 1954
Alice C. (Brown) Price

In each one's life there comes a time
To bid his friends farewell,
To leave a job, a place, a gang,
And tell them it's been swell.

It's not Alice, but here's Harry with associate, circa 1954

So now the time has come for you,
To say your sad good-byes,
And we won't look if one or two
Small tears get in your eyes.

We know you'd rather not depart
This citadel of strife,
And yet, you're eager now to start
A wonderful new life.

And if you miss us now and then,
Remember this - and smile,
We'll remember you, my dear,
At least a little while! ! ! !

So pass once more, your office door,
And walk on down the hall,
For always and forevermore,
We love you, one and all! ! ! ! !

Harry and Alice stayed in touch for life. 

________________________________________ 

Vintage photo of the pool in Greenbelt, MD

An article in memory of Harry, in the June 5, 2014 Greenbelt (MD) News Review, displayed the next poem. According to the article, “… vandalism by local youth was a recurring problem in Greenbelt’s early days and Zubkoff was particularly provoked by random acts of destruction. In addition to editorials bemoaning these occurrences, he expressed his ire and wit in columns,” such as this one in 1950.

Revenge

This is to advise a guy
In no uncertain terms,

Harry with Jeanette and Earl at the pool, 1950

That I will catch him, by and by,
And feed him to the worms.
For pranks are pranks, and jokes are jokes,
And boys are always boys,

But you will agree, won't you folks
That clotheslines aren’t toys?
Yet every time we look around
(It’s happened once or twice)
We find our clothesline on the ground,
I ask you, Is that nice?
I am sure that everyone in town
Will wish me all the best,
The day that I catch up with,
And eliminate this pest.
This I say and this I mean
And you can mark it down,
That someday I will catch the guy,
Who cuts my clothesline down!

 Does anyone know if they caught the bandit?

_________________________________________

This poem (actually two on the page, titled I and II) was one of many saved on thin carbon copy paper (who remembers that?)! Harry’s penciled note on the bottom of the paper says: Sat. Eve. Post 9/2/55

I

Harry and Jeanette in new Jewish Community 
Center in Greenbelt, 1955 (Photo by Mike Ratzkin)

I cannot see why it should be,

I cannot understand it,

Your constant use of clamjamfry,

Must be because you planned it.

How frequently, increasingly,

I find upon these pages,

Incessantly, distressingly,

No “wisdom of the ages.”

II

A pseudo-dialectologist

Appears with regularity,

A semi-semasiologist

Who deals in slangularity.
And magazinistic essayists

Who dabble allegorically,

Discursive dissertationists

Who write commontatorially.

While readers and semanticists,

Reject them categorically!

_________________________________________ 

Harry's talent for poetry rubbed off on some of us. Yes, I'd written many to him, as well as to others. So, too, his granddaughter, who says it was easier to write poems to eulogize her grandparents than to write the ordinary way. And, his grandson, who penned lyrics for his movie musical score, and so on. I think you'll agree when you've seen more, however, that Harry's poems are in a league of their own -- and some might blow your mind.