Some of us heard the muse within us early on.  Some, like Buck, have heard her later in life.  Not being a poet, I have observed that productive poets seem to find personal enrichment and growth in their writing.  They become more verbally facile.  They see meaning and beauty in the significant and mundane things they encounter in their daily walk, and they record, in a beautiful manner, their observations.  It is as if they are writing a journal for themselves--words to express to themselves what they see, feel, and experience.  We onlookers, like voyeurs, glimpse these personal happenings, but, unlike voyeurs, we are enriched and better for having seen.

Here are some of the poems that I could find from our high school days.  Thanks to Barbara Laughlin South and Edna Harrison Blair, I now have a copy of "Ink Trails."  This was our literary magazine in which the artistic SHS wordsmiths of 1955-56 published short stories, poems and prose.  This gem will provide a number of additional poems for this page.  If you have toyed with writing poetry since high school, please send us a sample and it will appear here, too.

 

Our Currently Active Poets

Click on the links below to see samples of their work

 

 

Click here to read Peggy Wynne Taylor's poem, "Looking Back"

written for the 35th Reunion Banquet, 1991.

 

 

Click here to read Buck Locke poems

HIS LATEST:  Acadia National Park

 
 

Our High School Poets

Collected from Hi-Lites and Ink Trails

 

                           BLUE MONDAY

 

  When the clock begins to ring

 It's murder to my ears.

 I cover up the thing

 But still it grinds its gears.

 

          In a daze I sit upright

          And shake my sleepy head,

          'Cause to me it's still night,

          But I get out of bed.

 

                               I take a shower on this awful day

                               As soon as I am able;

                               And then I make my weary way

                               Up to the breakfast table.

 

                       I pour the sugar in my cream

                       And sprinkle salt upon my jam.

                       I'm eating in a dream.

                       You can see how wide awake I am.

 

             I shine my teeth and brush my shoes

             And after that I say,

             "I'll take a little snooze

             To help me start the day."

 

                    But alas, I see

                    I have no time to spare!

                    It's past the hour for me

                   To be on my way to THERE!!

 

            At last when I arrive

            In the depths of gray despair

            The clock in the office says eight-o-five.

            The others are already there!

 

       On all the faces I can see

        An awful look of gloom.

        In the face of this great misery

        I turn and leave the room.

 

     When all Fridays are so gay

     And spirits all are true

     Let me ask you if I may,

     Why are Mondays always 

     blue???

 

 

                                           by Robert Scogin

                                            The Hi-Lites, October 21, 1955

 

 

  

This poem appeared in the last issue of The Hi-Lites our senior year, and it was not attributed to the author.  Subsequently, I found it in "Ink Trails," where it was titled "Tuscaloosa Bound."  

 

 

 

 

'Tis a Tale Told Of A Tuneful Trip

 

The Glee Club went on a long, long trip.

The sun was shining, didn't rain a drip.

We wanted a superior for our singing.

All the way there the songs were ringing.

When we arrived at our destination

We pulled right into the station.

Unloaded quickly and ran for the shade,

Where we sat until plans for singing were made.

When time came, we marched to the stage

Stood quietly while the judge turned the page.

But soon our voices and the piano parted.

The judge said we flatted and to start again.

We all felt as though we'd committed a sin.

We marched off the stage in a state far from glee;

We were certain we would never get over a three.

Later the news came that vanished our blues--

Instead of a three we'd gotten a two!

We are proud of our leader who is Mr. Adair

For it was he who had all the problems to bear.

In spite of it all we had lots of fun,

But glad that it is all over and done.

 

                                                                                Carol Cahoon

                                                                               The Hi-Lites, April 27, 1956

 
This may have been written by Bill Rose, because it appeared immediately after a short article under his by-line.  The title of the article was, "Why I Should Be a Safe Driver."

 

The Life You Save May Be Your Mother's

     She didn't know he was approaching,

     Approaching in the dark, wet night.

     But looming in the distance she saw it

     A car recklessly speeding on the right.

     Nearer and nearer the juggernaut lurched;

     Her nervous foot stomped for the brake.

     This once in a lifetime her worn heel was caught;

     The careening metal splintered with a quake.

     The cold night air was filled with sirens,

     As warm, red life dripped to the ground.

     Cold and lifeless, she was carried away;

     Unknowingly, the drunken killer only frowned.

     Yes, he was driving on the wrong side of the road,

     At a speed equaled by no other.

     The throttle and the bottle don't mix, he found;

     For because of them, he had murdered his mother.

                                                                        Anonymous

                                                                        The Hi-Lites, April 27, 1956

   Although the author of this little ditty was not recorded, and since it says nothing specific that indicates a Sheffield High School setting, I would still bet it was done by Wayne Haskins or Butch Bradford, active Science Club members.  I could be wrong.

 

 

 

ODE TO A BALD-HEADED CHEMIST

                             Sing a song of Carbide

                             A beaker full of Zinc

                             Four and twenty test tubes

                             A-breaking in the sink.

                             And when they all were broken

                             The fumes rose in the air,

                             The student turned a ghastly green

                             And tore out all his hair.

                                              Anonymous

                                                             The Hi-Lites, December 2, 1955

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

A TOAST TO OUR BOYS

Oh, the fullback bows to the cheering crowd,

And the halves, and the quarter too,

And the praise ascends to the plucky ends,

Who fight for the Purple and Gold;

To none so great do I dedicate

This poor little verse of mine,

But here's to those in fighting rows

To the men who hold the line.

 

You watch the game and you'll all exclaim;

Just see that fellow run!

And you'll shout and roar when the struggle's o'er,

That the game was only won

By the fullbacks pluck in that splendid buck 

That carried him over the goal;

But you didn't see fit to think a bit

Of the man who made the hole.

 

Yes, the fullback has his need of thanks,

And the quarter did it all,

And the halves are praised and a voice is raised,

For the ends who took the ball;

Now take you cup and fill it up

To the brim with sparkling wine--

A toast to those in the fighting rows,

To the men who hold the line!       

 

                                         Anonymous

                                         The Hi-Lites, November 18, 1955

 

If it weren't for the reference to our school colors in Line 4, I would swear that this poem is a literary classic, dusted off and published in this issue of The Hi-Lites to honor the likes of Don Burleson, Wallace Driskell, Buck Locke, Jim Holland, Bobby Glover and Blackhawk Martin.  Just maybe, this was penned by one of us! (Ed. Note in 2006)

 

 

And, indeed, it is!  This ditty was published in a collection of poems about college called "In College Days."  The author of this one was W. F. Barron. (Found it in 2008)

    

CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

 

I've got the Christmas Spirit!

I caught it just last night

My toes is froze'

An' so's my nose,

But ev'ry thing's just right!

 

I've got the Christmas Spirit!

Even though I got no dough,

Spent my bucks

For presents; stuff--

But--

Ain't it pretty, the snow?

 

I've got the Christmas Spirit!

An' I hope you have it too--

It's red an' green--

Crystal-bright, New-snow clean;

Not a trace of blue!

 

I've got the Christmas Spirit!

It's bustin' out my ears!

I want to shout;

To yell it out--

Ain't felt like this in years.

 

I've got the Christmas Spirit!

I'm happy down inside.

FOR TWO WHOLE WEEKS,

THERE'S NO MORE SCHOOL

Ain't it wonderful,

YULETIDE????

                                          Gwen Ware

                                                         Ink Trails, 1956

 

Rain on a Tin Roof

 

Rain is a corps of drummers--

At first, a few

Hesitant taps,

A soft, uncertain sound.

A muffled beat comes next,

Slowly, slowly--

Now gaining in volume and momentum.

Louder, quicker,

Come the falms and five-stroke rolls:

More even

And sure

Now the long, continuous beat,

Unending, even,

Louder, louder--

Until every other sound

Is pushed

Into oblivion.

 

The rain is now a thundering sound,

Rolling, rolling--

Hours pass.

Slowly, slowly,

Softer, slower--

The sound diminishes

Until the roll once more

Is a muffled pattering--

And all

Is quiet.

A rainbow arches the sky.

 

                                                                --Gwen Ware

                                                                   Ink Trails, 1956

 

  

    

      

 

 

                The first  day you practice play

                Words spill forth in hilarious way,

 

                All tongues are tied as lines are tried

                When you flub part you want to hide.

 

                "When you use snout, wrong words come out.

                 For "Wish" you say "witch" and laughter does spout.

 

                So read play before practice day

                Then voice will crack in more dignified way.

 

 

                                                                   --Don Roper

                                                                       Ink Trails, 1956

 

I consider a profound thought articulately stated with imagery, repetition and emotion to be poetry, even though it may not rhyme or have a musical meter.  The following piece might not qualify as prose poetry to the purist, but read it and know that this high ethical sentiment came from one of "our men who held the line."  This finding in "Ink Trails" was quite eye-opening to the sensitivity of some of our high school "jocks."

MIXED EMOTIONS

Friday night, when we go running out on the field, I get a funny feeling, a feeling I just can't quite describe.  There are, on a good night, over a thousand people in the stadium, and they all have their eyes on us.  How we act during the game will form a lot of opinions of the high school kids or even the whole town.  Townspeople will judge the high school by our play, while the visitors will form their opinion of the whole town.  If we play a dirty game, our school and town receive a bad name. 

Yes sir, it's a funny feeling that goes with being a school's representative.

                                                   --Harold Chambers

                                                                             Ink Trails, 1956

 

    

And, then, we had our students who wrote of Death.  Today, in the shadow of Columbine, we probably would be hauled off to the school psychiatrist if we wrote some of the things we did back then:

 

MEMORY

 

                                A flag

                                Made of red, white

                                And blue drapes a casket.

                                A soldier has given his life.

                                I weep.

                                                               --Frances Crockett

 

 

QUESTION

 

                               Why do we live?

                               Is it to play,

                               To laugh,

                               To love,

                               To work,

                               Then die?

 

                               No, in our sojourn here on earth

                               We live to serve HIM in our play,

                               Our joy,

                               Our love

                               Our work,

                               Our death.

                                                   --Louis Buettner

                                                                       Ink Trails, 1956

 

 

A DREAM THAT'S REAL

 

     To have a free, clean mind

     No worries or cares,

     No doubt or fears,

     To be as free as the wind in the trees

     And the birds and the bees?

     This one thing I truly wish for.

 

     Oh! to stand on some high cliff

     Above the lapping waves of some mighty river.

     To feel the warm, gentle wind toss my hair

     About my face;

     To forget life and all her troubles and fears,

     Just to stand there and think and dream.

 

     Dream of a life of love and freedom,

     To be able to say and do what I feel.

     There are no ties holding me.

     Thank God, I can have this dream.

 

                                                                          --Barbara Bundy

                                                                             Ink Trails, 1956

 

   Does anyone remember Cornelia Burns being in our class?  This beautiful little poem, published in "Ink Trails, was attributed to her as a member of the Class of '56.

 

NOSTALGIA

 

                           I smelled the dancing daffodils,

                           And saw the rivers lying still;

                           I felt the rustling wind go by,

                           And pictured mountains towering high.

 

                           I walked the busy streets of town

                           And saw the bare deserted ground.

                           I heard the clang of mighty steel

                           And witnessed scurrying at the mill.

 

                           From clouds of black come choking fumes;

                           From city symphonies, harsh tunes.

                           Though in the city I must abide,

                           I long for open countryside.

 

                                                                                   --Cornelia Burns

                                                                Ink Trails, 1956

 

 

 

           LINES TO MYSELF

 

          Although you're reluctant to face the day,

          Don't look so dejected and blue:

          Just remember this as you go your way;

          The day must face you too.

 

                                                        --Joanne McMoran

                                                                               Ink Trails, 1956

 

  

 

                   SENIOR MEDITATION

 

                              Oh school

                              I love thee so.

                              Just listen to me shout;

                              But all I want from you, dear school,

                              Is out.

 

                                                                             --Charles Bradford

                                                                                 Ink Trails, 1956