The Flip Side

The sins of all,
And the granite warrior
watching over the valley.



























Sign On


“There are two sides to every coin and two sides to every man.”
advertisement for “Have Gun, Will Travel: The Video Collection”


So it is with all of us.

Each one of us has a side of our personalities that we really don’t bring out all that often; one which is radically different from the one usually on public display.

That’s what this collection of 40 poems, most of which I’ve had published in various anthologies, is all about.

The other side of one person: a wacky sportswriter, former “wild man of the airwaves” disc jockey, and an overall clown.

I’m known around Posey County, Indiana (where I currently live and work) mainly for writing five pages of copy each week about the games people play: mainly the games played by teenagers and younger. I’m also known for imitating Fred Flintstone, a few obnoxious sports figures and fracturing the old soft shoe.

All my life I’ve been this sort of wild man; an overly emotional history geek who doesn’t always follow the crowd. At least that’s the side of my personality that gets out all the time.

Then you have “the flip side”.

The wacky sportswriter is also a struggling Christian trying to stumble his way toward Heaven.

The wild man of the airwaves is also a history geek who tries to understand the lessons of the past and apply them to the present, while appreciating some of the trappings of days gone by and lamenting the passing of some of the more pleasant aspects of Americana.










The class (or Church) clown is a sad, lonely bachelor still haunted by a youthful romance that died before it really had a chance to live.

You probably won’t find much in the way of profound thought here, but you might come away saying something else like “that’s the way I feel at times.”

You might get a few nerves touched, or have your memories of a special place or person rekindled.

You might shed a tear or two thinking of a person very special to you who has either passed out of your life, or has passed away altogether.

That’s how other people have felt in reading my work.

My first college journalism teacher looked at some of my earlier work and said they showed a sensitive side of my personality that I conceal too well.

I was a disc jockey for nine years. Deejays used to refer to the non-play side of a popular record as “the flip side,” the side that wasn’t a big hit. That didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t a good song, however.

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was the flip side of a Gene Autry holiday single, for instance.

This is that side of my personality.

This is the flip side.

Steve Joos





























All is well, except for two things:

In memory of Ginnie Mulkey
1921-2000

In memory of Jim Kohlmeyer
1944-2007































A public service announcement from WJCE

Albert Einstein, Woodrow Wilson, Vince Lombardi, Bobby Knight, Joyce Carol Oates, Stephen King, Patti Pratt.
What do these people have in common? They were all teachers. When you become a teacher, you have the power to shape young minds and maybe help make the world a better place. WJCE encourages you to reach for the power. Teach.
And to Mrs. Pratt, my personal favorite, thanks. The following is for you.

































WJCE-FM Radio


Sign on

Morning devotional

The backwoods southern church……………………..9

The cross in winter…………………………………..10

For Nancy……………………………………………11

News, weather, sports and farm report

To innocent children who have died too soon……….12

Melissa’s resting place……………………………….13

A portrait of winter…………………………………..14

An autumn afternoon…………………………………15

Baseball belongs………………………………………17

The proud green Deere……………………………….18

Morning drive the kids to school show

The bog……………………………………………….19

The road pointing somewhere………………………...20

The old toy gas station………………………………..21

The little girl on the bike………………………………22





On this day in history

Into the past…………………………………………...23

The granite warrior……………………………………24

Two Illinoisans………………………………………...25

A Gold Star home……………………………………..26

Questions for The Wall………………………………..27

The unknown soldier…………………………………..28

In the tomb of giants…………………………………...30

Night trains……………………………………………..32

Taking your calls from…

Think of Galena………………………………………...33

Petersburg………………………………………………34

Havana………………………………………………….35

Sad old town……………………………………………36

Love lines

Friday night at the piano bar……………………………37

The request……………………………………………..38

Little lovebirds………………………………………….39

To a pretty girl………………………………………….40

For Terry………………………………………………..41






To a beautiful blonde……………………………………42

Memories and questions………………………………...43
Did you like Patty Beck?………………………………..44

I still see her……………………………………………..45

Evening devotional and sign off

Three lights……………………………………………...46

Through a dirty window…………………………………47

For Holly………………………………………………...48

The lonely janitor………………………………………...49























The backwoods southern church


A white building
on a dusty country road,
A group of voices singing
without shame or reservation.

A Sunday morning, a breeze
penetrates the quiet.
It’s not elaborate,
the building has a basement
that’s almost natural.

But the Lord is there,
and Christian Love is there,
so the church is suitable,
the building is fine.

A lilac blooms through a
barbed-wire fence.










9







The cross in winter


It looked familiar from a distance;
the bright, silver light,
A beacon across the cold Illinois ground.
What is this? A light?

It is a light, a beacon,
a Cross among the lights of Christmas,
a light left by someone who’s forgotten his seasons.

A Cross, a symbol of Easter,
of the time when Christ was
slain to save a sin-sick world.
But now? When we celebrate the Lord’s birth?
Now, when we celebrate Christmas?

Why not?

For while we celebrate
Christmas as God’s gift of Love,
Easter is the gift of hope,
The Cross in winter outshone
Lights of the season.







10







For Nancy


She is slow,
she is halting,
and in a physical way
she is handicapped.

She can’t do what you and I do:
drive a car, ride a bike,
run a mile, sew a stitch,
have a job.

But she holds no grudges,
knows no hate,
hugs those who are kind,
loves those who are near

and we call her…
retarded.












11






To innocent children who have died too soon


My heart breaks to know
that your world ended too soon,
That one of us grownups was sick enough
to take you away.

That we don’t care,
that the world is a dangerous place
And people don’t want to make you safer
Or even let you live.

Your fingerprints should only be made
by a toy detective set,
While playing cops and robbers,

And make-believe bad men falling to
Your white plastic pistols
Should be the only gunplay at school.

I cry because it’s not that way,
I boil with rage at the selfishness
Of we adults.

We won’t let you be born and then
We who want you born turn a deaf ear
To your cries for help.

It wasn’t that way when I was your age.


12










Melissa’s resting place
(In memory of Melissa Rickard 1974-1992)

She eternally sleeps,
forever 17,
In the ground
beneath Poseyville.

Just a face in the crowd
who vanished too soon,
Just another girl at the game,
Just someone else.

Watching the boys on Friday night
or the girls on Thursday
Gone now, so sad
So young, so unfair.

A snowman arose by her stone,
then a heart,
Flowers, a cross,
A soft drink,
a cardboard cake.

A rose, a warning,
Buckle up, be safe
Wherever she is
does she know

How much we still love her?


13









A portrait of winter


The mill stands quietly in
the midst of a snow-covered field
Softening just enough to show a day
above freezing.

It’s still here on this bleak and
mournful day, with white-caked snow
on the spokes of the wheel and a
stream frozen, but starting to thaw.

A coal-black sky forms the backdrop
as a flock of birds escape the coming freeze.
Naked trees shiver in the winds and close in
around the solitary cobblestone mill.

Once this was a busy place, its stream
a staff of life for the pioneer farmers
who lived nearby; its wheels grinding grain,
cracking corn and providing food.

Now it waits for spring
and old men who were boys
then turn the wheels for
those who never knew it.

The mill sits silent for winter,
the sky darkens in early afternoon
and bone-chilling water is the only
sign of life.

14








An autumn afternoon


As I drive through the countryside,
The fall colors give off a muted glow,
A golden backdrop as the ground quietly
retires for another year

The sun seems sharper now,
as the silhouettes of trees
provide no cover for it.

The shadows are deeper now
as my car juts meteor-like
down a winding road.

Briefly I glance over the rolling hills,
As I scurry about my various tasks draw
me away from the wonder around my view.
The sun settling in, dodging in and out of view.

On rainy days, the leaves become matted
and form a golden carpet which sticks to
the soles of your shoes.

When they dry, the leaves crunch and crackle.
So many times the leaves dance in the wind
before falling, or skip across the ground in a
bright yellow whirlwind.

It’s a glorious time,
when God dresses the creation in its
Sunday best before putting it to sleep
for another year.


15







A time to be reborn,
or look at faded dreams.
A time to be surrounded by beauty
for one last comfortable time

The cloudless skies are sharper
and the weather is cooler, but brisk.
The rainy days seem to have more
sadness to them, more gloom, however.





















16








Baseball belongs


Baseball belongs
to another place, another time
another season, another rhyme
to radios and black and white,
Dizzy, Peewee and the like.

Of lazy days which just drift by
And ballparks where the sun
must shine, as the Babe hits them
high, far and gone.

To hot dogs, pop and beer
peanuts only found here,
Ballantine blasts for the Mick
The Man, Gibby and Falstaff.

Grainy pictures and memories
for 40-year-old, 60-year-old
little boys and Bleacher Bums
watching Pete and Mr. Cub.

The National pastime’s
past its time and as we
cry for what was sublime
For baseball belongs
to another time.




17






The proud green Deere

She’s just a tractor,
two tons of metal
and a sound which
pierced the air around
many a country home.

Oh, but she seems like more,
she seems like a queen, a giant,
a legend hulking across the land.
Every bit the pride of the farm.

Her ancestors opened the prairie.
A yellow and green jewel, an emerald,
the pride and joy of many a farm boy.
The solid servant standing like armor
in many a country shed.

And when the farm boys went to war,
she stayed to help plant and bring the
grain that fed them on their vital chore.

Mr. Deere, when you shined you mother’s needles,
did you ever think that you’d make just a tractor
that did all this?






18








The bog


An hour’s drive and a million miles
from the maddening crowd,
it sits in stillness.

A lush green woods where
foliage grows and closes in
on a dwindling country pond.

The bulrushes rustle,
while the milkweeds bob
silently on this late summer day.

The winds whisper
at the ferns and leaves
as a monster dragonfly
shoots across the water.

So near, yet so far
from the city this place sits.
In country heat where you
can hear the corn grow.

A peaceful bog,
an hour’s drive
and a million miles away.




19








The road pointing somewhere
(In memory of Jayne Johnson 1946-1987,
English teacher, Richwoods High School, Peoria, IL)

I looked up from my desk,
and saw a road.
I know where it leads.

It leads to places
I’ve been before,
and others beyond.
Places that I’ve never seen
That I’d like to.

They say they all become
the same, those faraway
little towns
look the same,
act the same,
sound the same.

I go back to what I’m
studying,
my different little tasks.
Other places look different
only when you’ve seen
the same ones too many
times.




20








The old toy gas station


It was a thin metal spread
of painted smiling faces, a clean place,
The best super service
for little toy cars
Gas, oil, grease rack and a roof
to park pulled by a tiny hand.

From the attic of boyhood joys
to a garage for everyone’s memories
it sits, with a ’56 Chevy and a
wall of uncle’s old license plates.

A toy-company oval filled in
for the flying horse or
Shells, or the Big Red M.

This busy place served
Tootsietoys and Tonka trucks
on carefree days.

It was outgrown and
went to the poor children.
Oh, the priceless toys
they gave away.





21








The little girl on the bike


The little girl peddles a three-wheeled bike around the block.
She doesn’t mind, she just peddles one way,
then back, no troubles at all.

Her hair flies behind her,
she huffs and peddles, and dreams.
Sometimes a cowgirl, or a bathing beauty.

You’d like to join her, sometimes when being
a grownup gets to be a hassle and the world goes crazy.

You’d like to join her.

















22





Into the past


It’s a sunny summer day,
In a high-tech world
As we enter our grandma’s world,
across the storm-drain creek.

There’s a player piano,
a little toy train,
an old wood-burner
from a farmhouse kitchen.

The cars that ruled the road,
a Packard sign beside them,
Where’d you see the new models?
In a very large barn.

Or maybe an old, large attic
In a place where just one step
takes you back
to a somewhat different time.










23







The granite warrior


He towers above the Rock River
A strong, majestic Blackhawk chief
Yes, a savage
But cast in stone.

A leader of a people,
fierce and proud
They held this valley
until their time to move.

He looks upon the green fields today
his people once called their own
Scanning the rich and fertile valley,
the gently flowing river.

He stood for his people
No matter what

He led his people
Savage, yet noble.

Remember if you can,
The sins of all.
And the granite warrior
watching over the valley.




24








Two Illinoisans


A century apart,
Two men,
Two towns
in Illinois

A bearded lawyer,
a small-town baker
The first the second’s ideal

A tall, gaunt President
when the land came apart
A white-maned Senator
a leader of Congress.

A century apart,
these statesmen,
A giant admired
by another.

These gallant men,
they don’t make them
like that anymore.






25










A Gold Star home


It was just a plain white Indiana farmhouse,
With a hallway and bedroom with pale wallpaper.
A bit of a darkened parlor and a soldier boy’s picture
Displayed prominently on one wall.

A farm kitchen with the real front door,
Inside, a rocking chair awaits pa and a
Pot-bellied hot stove awaits supper
Once ma gets off the phone.

Heard about our boys? Heard about them overseas?
What did you hear from Ernie today?
What did he write from the front?
Many boys never came back to these solid old farmhouses,
Many slept in the water off Omaha Beach,
Some slept in Italy, with their men
Gathered around them to say goodbye
Others slept on le Shima on the other side of the globe.

They all slept and back at home
A small gold star is all that’s left.







26











Questions for The Wall


As I look upon the faces
Of middle-aged young men
Who grew up half a world away
In a pastoral Asian chaos
Certain questions plague my mind.

Was it worth it?
Was going to that land so far away
Worth the pain?
Was it worth the sorrow
Of seeing young men fall?

Was it worth the madness
Of battle? Worth the horror?
Worth the grief you caught
When you came marching home?

Were you just meat for a grinder
Or did you send a message?
A message which later made
The other guy blink?
Please explain, forgive me,
I’m confused.






27












The unknown soldier


He came home without a name,
a mass of humanity known but to God,
a soldier without a face,
which he once had.

Who was he?
Did he play baseball
by the schoolyard,
on a warm summer’s day?

Or football?
Did he shoot basketballs
in a barn, a gym,
or the Salvation Army?

Where was he from?
Was he a Kansas farm boy?
a Brooklyn street kid?
a California beach boy?

An Indiana Hoosier?
a Wyoming Cowboy?
a Tennessee Volunteer?

Who was waiting for him?
Mom and Dad?
A sister, brother?
His grown-up buddies from the corner?
A girl?

Did they pray for him?
Did he know the Golden Rule?
Or why we celebrate Christmas?


28






What did he do?
Did he deliver the paper?
Pump gas?
Fry hamburgers?
mow grass?

Was he white?
black? brown?
Does it matter?
Hispanic or,
the first American?

To keep his country free,
and keep the torch bright,
he went, and fought and died.
A nameless hero, whose family…
never knew.

He sleeps now,
in anonymous valor,
eternally, with faceless men,
his unknown comrades past,
let’s pray that he’s the last.







29












In the tomb of giants


They silently rest among
The cornfields in green and white
Steel and fiberglass pyramids.

These one-time rulers of the rails
Which rambled from coast to coast
Carrying visitors and businessmen,
Grandmothers and fathers across the country

Taking cars to drivers, food to market,
Commerce to stately old cities
And the world to little places called
Chillicothe, Griffin, Union.

Like rockets or monsters,
These diesel and steam-powered titans
Roared through the land,
Their names like badges of honor

Rock Island, Santa Fe, Pennsylvania,
The roads to ride, their controls the dreams
Of little boys on a million Christmas mornings.

Illinois Central, Baltimore and Ohio,
Chesapeake and Ohio
Lumbering along, hauling freight
And softly cradling passengers like kittens.

These stainless-steel mummies
Carried the famous and family
To Pittsburgh, Chicago,
St. Louis and Bureau

30










Now they sleep, while generations
Too young to remember
Marvel at their size and power
As little boys stare still wide-eyed
Do the giants dream of the old days?
























31




Night trains


A freight train rumbles
in the night;
It moans across
the lonely tracks

The freight train passes
in endless clattering
Along the line,
under the trestle

Where do they go?
would you really know?
Rumbling through, always passing

Distant, yet close,
under the shine of the moon
Rising, plain, simple, stately,
Kings of the road.









32








Think of Galena


There it nestles,
in a valley,
village out of time

Famous for a drinking tanner,
failed, broken, unsuccessful
‘til his country called.

Called to pull together
land torn apart by slavery’s strife
and pulled together only by force of arms

From the town of lead mines,
to fields of battle he went,
Honest Abe could not spare him,
this bearded man, he moved.

Think of this man,
and his village
when you hear the Hymn,

Forget the divisions
of the years
that have gone since then.





33








Petersburg


Down by the Sangamon,
Where Lincoln worked
the flatboats,
Between New Salem and Springfield.

Grand old homes
from times past
look down from the hills
to the river.

Masters chronicled her sins,
The tragedies of Jennie M’Grew
and old Doc Meyers.
Just like in Lewistown.

Today it hosts city folks
who call this village their bedroom.

Yet driving or walking
the streets at night
Is that the voice
of the past we hear?

Or is it just the flow
of the Sangamon?




34











Havana
(In memory of Walter Furrer, 1910-1996
Clerk of Mason County, IL 1970-1986)

Where are you going?
Where have you been?
Town by the Illinois River.

Where are you going?
Where have you been?
Havana.

Your past was wild,
your present mild.
A place on the river,
pleasant and bleak,
wild and meek.

The rich man and the poor man,
The man who can’t read,
his next-door neighbor’s an M.D.
They live together here,
Where fancy cars pass heaps.

Is your past your future, Havana?
Do your stately manors represent
the grandeur of days gone by,
and the hope of days to come,
Havana?




35








Sad Old Town


They sit in the distance
Far from the highway
All alone
Sad old towns,
dying old towns

They once were bustling
They once were bright
Where farmers came
to see the big city

Nowadays they’re places
where the ghosts go to shop
A home for old ladies
and husbands who know
what was once

From the road you
see the faded signs
and rusty ovals
of another time

Now it looks like a
ghetto in the middle of the farm





36








Friday night at the piano bar


It’s Friday night and the piano girl
is playing out Cracklin’ Rose,
While in different parts of
Miss Taylor’s house
people are having a time.

A couple thinks about dancin’
some people laugh for a spell,
there may be some romancin’
what I’m thinking I’d rather not tell.

Everyone’s happy, or just good
at not being sad,
In a gilded era barroom
before times went bad.

And overlooking it all,
two groups of drinking dogs
joshing and joking,
are these also sad old dogs?









37







The request


Hush, stammer, “hi”,
Yes, what would you like?
Said I.

Play a love song for me,
from me to her, oh please,
Play a love song for me.

She’s my girl,
but I can’t say it,
I really like her,
I admit it.

Okay, young man,
I’ll follow your plan
for your girl and you

I’ll play a special
song for two.










38











Little lovebirds


Small hands that
hold each other,
being teased by
sisters and brothers

A sneaky kiss
by a two-legged mouse
a boy, a girl,
a game of house

Cartoon valentines, to little misses
“I think you’re cute,” and candy kisses,
A giggly glance,
little romance

It’s love, but
not bold,
at only seven
years old.










39










To a pretty girl


I see you in the hallway,
A chipper, pretty girl
you’re someone who I’d
like to kiss.

I’d like to love you
In each season
as they whirl,
please be my girl,
You’re someone who
I’d like to kiss.















40








For Terry


To someone who endured
me at my worst in the worst
year of my life
Please accept this long-delayed
word of apology

Sorry about being mean,
sorry about being selfish,
sorry about making you
turn your head with a dirty look.

Perhaps I should have been kinder
to you, you lovely yellow-haired thing,
but sixth grade nerds sometimes can’t see.
I wish I had been kinder.

You and your friends chased me
On the playground, as if I were…
Just who was Conrad, anyway?

I’m sorry, but I wish
I could go back, sit behind you,
complain, get you to turn her head
And then smooch!





41








To a beautiful blonde


I saw you again last Saturday,
Again and again
Bicycling on the street,
At the phone in the library,
in line at the Dairy Queen,
Again and again.

Don’t I ever forget,
a beautiful blonde
with a lot of spunk,
you chased me on the playground,
you called me on the phone.

Did I tell you that
I kissed you?
You didn’t know?
It was just a dream.

I won’t mention your name
there are too many others
with it, and they can’t understand,
I accidentally mentioned
you once.

You don’t suppose
I was thinking…





42







Memories and questions


So tell me about her

She was a sweet young girl
with short brown hair,
and wide blue eyes
The other little boys
thought she was a dog,
I called her a princess

Did she know?

Oh yes, she knew,
She knew when she blinked
at me behind the teacher’s back,
when she said that she was my friend
when I thought there were none.

Where did she go?

I wish I knew.
She was near,
but I was shy
Never could I say
what I should.

Why are you crying?

Crying? I’m not crying,
it’s just something
in my eye.


43






Did you like Patty Beck?


Did you like Patty Beck?
the saddest words
I’ve ever heard.

In long lost days
of adolescent ways
she was my dream.

An angel in burnt orange,
a puffy grin, a shy boy’s wink
the things we made the other kids think.

Did you like Patty Beck?
Funny it seems,
in lonely dreams,

Of love unfilled,
but never stilled,
Yes, I did.










44







I still see her


I still see her,
in the schoolyard,
running up the sidewalk
to the hopscotch squares

I still see her
honey-brown hair
bouncing as she
turns a double play

I still see her
feeding her rabbits,
while letting them run
along the schoolhouse

I still see her
quiet, erect, proper
but that sly little grin

Lending her colored pencils
Because somehow I always
seemed to forget mine

I still see her
in my dreams




45








Three lights


The cry room light shines in
across the darkened chapel.
Within the chapel empty benches
await the worshipers.

The pop machine light shines in
on the foyer or the gym.
An eerie glow that gives much
red, white and blue light while
proclaiming Pepsi.

The exit bulb light shines naked
over the big, long Sunday School room.
It shines a light that lights the room
from the foreboding exit to the rotting windowsills.

The lights make no noise,
but they’re there,
showing the path.
Small, but giving much light.

A Christian can be like that;
never a lot of noise, but there.
There, though, they may be
Shining the light all alone.




46








Through a dirty window

In front of the building
people pass, going north to south,
going home, going to work,
A bus belches, a walker talks.
In electric production of traffic,
the dirty windows are a mirror,
they overlook Mission Row north.

The little street is gutted with cars,
a traffic jam every hour.
The trees tap at aging dirty glass,
the building itself is ragged.

Wood is coming out all over,
locks don’t.
It was a fine building once,
this Citadel, but now…now
it’s not a very lovely place that was
‘Built to the Honor of God.’










47







For Holly
(in memory of Holly Hoerr, 1977-1980)

You were only here,
a little while,
before you had to leave.

It may seem wrong to the world,
but it was all God’s will,
to make you a little
flower
in His heavenly bouquet.

You said you’d give Jesus
a hug and a kiss,
when you got to Heaven.

Do us a favor,
hug and kiss Him for us,
please.












48






The lonely janitor


I hope the little girls
don’t mind if I play guess who
with their eyes,
and be nice on their birthday
and buy them cards
and kiss them if they don’t mind.

Some think me sick,
demented, strange,
lonely.

I never harm the little girls.
They’re sunbeams, yes they are.
They shine in my life,
My lonely janitor’s life.














49















You’ve been listening to WJCE-FM,

this is Steve Joos signing off.

Good night everybody.