The Corner

The following is my first of five poems of twenty-eight I’ll write for all members of my Carter County High School class of 1974. I’m writing in alphabetical order. One must write when the faculties still exist. The poems are entirely from my memory, and I take all credit or criticism for which I might incur. I would include the “Class Prophecy” which I found online, but talk about snarky. Hence, I will not include it.

‘Pseudo-Sonnets’ For My Class of 1974

I will write, of class of seventy four,

Alphabetical, twenty eight of us,

A blurred memory as guide, days of yore,

Hatchets buried long ago, with heart songs, trust.

These in form of a Shakespeare sonnet soar,

But hardly, it’s only my practice thus,

But do my best I pledge, fair shakes, not bore,

Real poets may scoff, but fear not, no fuss.

Class with gallant talent ceiling to floor,

Fine Carter County kids, we would discuss,

Nineteen seventies lives, what’s in store,

We, Americans all, unique each, gold dust.

This Sunday my homework set, get to work,

Hope for distant smiles, these are my perks.

Jan Beach (Bickle) (1955-2009)

She was quiet then, as some of us were,

From Mill Iron country northeast of town,

In class Jan would be polite and not stir,

Or disrupt as some, an anti-class-clown.

She rode the Mill Iron bus, no detour,

She worked hard on their place, and without frown,

My mom rode the same bus back, mind a blur,

Homer drove kids west then east, the grass brown.

The ponderosa green, scented, pine not fir,

And Jan and Wayne rode that bus, gravel sounds,

I did not know Jan, even through hour,

Upon hour in class, somehow profound.

Jan’s life to North Dakota, so was I,

Talked under ninety-four reunion sky.

Wayne Beach

Wayne, a friendly guy, we knew he worked hard,

On their farm, he did not play sports, could not,

Because of duty at home, where he starred,

With Kelly and Keith, these, the same mail slot.

I recall they were hunters, the old guard,

Most of us boys hunted, they were sure shots,

Wayne was strong and nice, reserved, no blowhard,

Not known well, but on the rope, fellow knots.

Remember gym class and dodgeballing jarred,

I see Wayne shirtless, among the brave lot,

No cower of the speeding ball’s bombard,

I see his smile, an enjoyment brought.

Wayne went in the Navy, and likes mules,

Hope he’s fine, bathed in life’s pristine pools.

Dale Boggs

Dale I knew well, downstairs, at their hotel,

Charmer without peer, athletic grace,

His “Johnny Carson”, I enjoyed him tell,

And girls made friends with me, for Dale’s face.

I didn’t care, Dale was “Carson”, not to quell,

Had lots of fun joking around his place,

Yet a friendship with depth, our teenage knell,

I, shy around girls, him in the race.

He told of my missing, but was no spell,

He, big league dater — me in outer space,

All those times, we alike but, too repelled,

Perfect friends but a myth, both — same birthplace.

See him on Facebook now, the wry smile,

“Here’s Johnny” comes to me, man of style.

Don Burch

Don, a country neighbor along the road,

We’d lived near each other, ever since birth,

Don was a cowboy, not my garden hoed,

Quick with his wit, laughing, following mirth.

Classmate confidence standard, always bode,

Where he might walk in boots and hat on earth,

Our circles were apart, not of same code,

We then stayed in our own lanes, in our berths.

The cowboy hippie thing, back then it showed,

A separateness felt, for what it is worth,

Yet strong bonds were still in place, they unbowed,

Carter County kinship exists but first.

Don and I skied once, a fun time, it was,

After high school, no difference, just cause.

Mark Burch (1955-2011)

Smile radiates warmth, always a handshake,

Mark brightened many an hour, the same,

One handed chin-ups, to me an earthquake,

His endurance in track, fast and untamed.

He a giver, handing to, not to take,

We liked a girl, without proclaim,

He was once her boyfriend, I a heartache,

But elusive love eludes, snuffed flame.

Mark was in himself a flame to awake,

With his smile a quilt, when winter came,

His freckles walked out front, nothing was fake,

Distinct classmate who always brought his game.

Similar demons can be found scattered,

Some came to my door, and windows shattered.

Next week Erwin Curry, Barnett Dean, Chip Dye, John Emerson and Jack Frye.

— Erwin Curry, CCHS Class of 1974