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Tag Archives: Creative Writing

OLD FARMER CHARLEY’S FATE

04 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by johnseekamp in Creative writing, Fiction, Lyrics for a song, Short Story, Writings

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Bad Luck, Creative Writing, Gone to the Here After, Nature, Old Farmer, One's Fate, Regrete, Remorse, Song lyrics, Sympathetic Story

Charley was the brother of my cousin’s only aunt,

He farmed across the river

On the land that he did plant,

One Spring he set to pray for rain

When March winds came and swirled,

But raindrops never fell,

Plowed fields went to hell,

Empty was the well…..then Charley left this world.

 

Charley was the father of my cousin’s cousin Ben,

And even though they were close

They’d argue here and then,

Now Ben wishes he could take back

Words that he said wrong,

But I guess it’s just too late,

The writing’s on the slate,

Just chalk it up to fate…..’cause poor ole Charley’s gone.

 

Charley was the uncle of my cousin Willie Ray,

Willie Ray had promised to visit

On that fateful day,

It was a two hour drive from Memphis,

Memphis, Tennessee,

But he changed his mind and slept,

The minute hands soon they crept,

He woke from his dreams and wept…..and now Charley’s soul is free.

 

Charley was the widower of my cousin’s aunt Louise,

She was his high school sweetheart

He called her his main squeeze,

They’d go for Sunday rides

In his beat up pickup truck,

But then he was alone,

Life rung a different tone,

The good times turned to stone…..and Charley’s heart gave way. Charley he went away. Yeah, old Charley went away.

 

by John Patrick Seekamp  c  2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A STORM JUST PASSED

13 Sunday Sep 2015

Posted by johnseekamp in Poems, Writings

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Clouds, Creative Writing, Mist, Onions, Poems, Storms, Sunsets

Orange coated dark clouds

all hovering in blue,

Hovering ‘bove fields

as the coming mist grew,

Mist upon onions once prevalent

but now few,

Onions and mist

in the set of sun’s due,

Growing under dark clouds

in the orange and the blue.

by John Patrick Seekamp         (August 11th, 2015)

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IN THE QUIET SLEEPY VILLAGE

13 Sunday Sep 2015

Posted by johnseekamp in Fiction, Humor, song parody, Writings

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Creative Writing, Humor, Parody, Poems, Song

In the quiet sleepy village,

Where the Romans came to pillage,

All the young men once so brave they ran away,

Only old folks mean and grumpy,

And young maidens fat and lumpy,

Made their minds up, “In this village we shall stay,

Yes right here in this village we shall stay!”

At first the Romans they were contented,

Yes their resolve it was unrelented,

As they sacked and divvied up all that they did find,

But then soon they were surrounded,

By old folks and maidens rounded,

A-G-G-G-H!….and so they too,

They left that village far behind,

Yes they also left that village far behind!

Now that made both the old folk and the maiden,

Feel so disappointed and unladen,

For they almost had men fearless and built strong,

Then soon the ruthless Huns and Vandals,

And the mighty Mongols in their sandals,

They also fled that place without a song,

Yes they too fled that place without a song!

You see, in that noiseless town of slumber,

Where the Romans came to plunder,

Not even one invading marauder stood a hoot,

So go away Julius Caesar,

Don’t come a callin’ Genghis either,

Just stay home…. forget adventure and all that loot,

Or once again you’ll find your sorry selves hot to scoot,

Yes all over you’ll find your sorry selves hot to scoot!

by John Patrick Seekamp      (January 15th, 2015)

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LUNKERS by Skiz Gazelle

12 Saturday Sep 2015

Posted by johnseekamp in Fiction, Short Story, Writings

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Tags

Creative Writing, human interest, trout fishing

THE CHICAGO METROPOLITAN GAZETTE

SUNDAY MAY 6, 1923

                                                 LUNKERS

by Skiz Gazelle

This one I call, ‘THE OLD BAMBOO.’

Upon reflection of one of my more recent fishing jaunts to the Catskills on the Beaverkill at Craigie Clair, I was reminded of the innocence of youth by what it was that a little but gallant eight year old tyke said, and then soon asked of me. The honest to goodness conversing started with a very serious facial expression, followed closely by some vigorous fidgeting. The boy’s name by the way was Jessup but as he told me, “Almost everyone around here calls me just ‘Jessie’.”

He began by saying, “Gee whiz, if you’re just who I think you might be, and I think maybe that you might just well be the guy from the newspapers, Mr. Skiz Gazelle, on account I heard tell this morning down in town that you were around these parts fishing and such.”

Well I nodded and then the boy Jessie smiled quickly, but then soon became serious once again.

“Then maybe since you are the guy who writes all those really swell fishing stories, and will even tell in the paper to whoever will read and listen just how to catch the very kind of fish that mostly all the people who go out after fish want very much to catch, how come you never ever fish with a bamboo fishing pole, or even use worms or a bobber, like my Grampy Effron and Uncle Cecil fish with? Because just in case you don’t know about such a pole they can catch lots of fish just the very way that you can. But remember, they just use worms and a bobber….and oh yeh a hook of course.”

“Sonny,” I said to him. “Wait a while.”

Then, with a smile, I walked proudly back to the fliver truck I rented, grabbing a long old pole I long before dubbed as ‘The Old Bamboo’. It had been given to me, with instructions to take very good care of it, by a former slave woman called Mamie Julep. It was at a time I had occasion to fish the mighty Potomac at Harper’s Ferry. She was a nice old black great great grandmother who unfortunately passed away just a few weeks after that. But that’s a whole other tale that I’ll gladly share in this column sometime soon. So anyway, with that very pole in hand, I walked still proudly back to the boy Jessie who by now was passing the time skipping stones across an eddy just below the smallest of the man made ripples on that stretch of the famed Beaverkill. His eyes lit up like two Chinese lanterns.

“You do have one,” he exclaimed. “And it’s just like Grampy Effron’s and Uncle Cecil’s!”

“Yup,” I responded. “And I’ve caught plenty of fish on It, and I call it ‘The Old Bamboo’.”

Then the boy Jessie walked closer to see it better.

“Gosh,” he said softly. “The Old Bamboo,”

Then he looked up at me squinting as the sun shined upon his face.

“Mr. Gazelle,” he said before a question. “If’n I ever get a bamboo fishing pole of my own can I call mine ‘The Old Bamboo’ just the same?”

“Jessie my boy,” I said, “There’s only one fishing pole, bamboo or other, that I know of called ‘The Old Bamboo’. This one. And as far as I’m concerned that’s the way it’ll always be.”

I watched as the boy named Jessup lowered his head. Then I crouched beside him. After a moment I extended my hands offering to him ‘The Old Bamboo’. He looked at it and then looked at me.

“Take very good care of it Jessie,” I said. “Take very good care of ‘The Old Bamboo’!”

“Golly, you mean it’s mine?” he asked.

“Yup indeed,” I said. “It’s yours.”

That bamboo fishing pole, the one that old Mamie Julep gave to me, was one of my favorite possessions. But I had had a good many days filled with fishing admiring and enjoying it. It was then time for me to let someone else have the chance to do the same. After all, old Mamie Julep was generous enough to me and so now I was passing that generosity on to the boy Jessie. It was worth all the fish I’ve ever caught just to see him beam up and smile as broad as a boy could ever smile. And I’m sure that looking down from heaven old Mamie Julep was also smiling broadly. I know I was. Of all the fishing trips and adventures I’ve endured and enjoyed over the years, out of all of them, this one, this one where upon I landed merely a small 14″ brown trout, and two even smaller 10″ brook trout and alas catching no lunkers, this trip to Craigie Clair meeting the boy Jessie and giving to him ‘The Old Bamboo’, my prized bamboo fishing pole, ranks in my book as a tie for my all time favorite outing. The other one, the one it tied….my trip to Harper’s Ferry on the Potomac. The one when I met that most generous old Mamie Julep. And so faithful readers that’s my story of ‘The Old Bamboo’.

(A fictional story written on September 12th, 2015 by John Patrick Seekamp of a made up 1920’s fishing columnist and his weekly column syndicated to most Sunday newspapers in the U.S. and other parts of the world!)

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A FICTIONAL LETTER FROM A DOUGHBOY (printed as a newspaper column)

17 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by johnseekamp in Writings

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Tags

Creative Writing, Fiction, Letters Home

________________________________________________

 __________THE MIDVILLE JUNCTION_GAZETTE___________

                              September      29th,      1918                               

Letter from

        “One of Our Boys”

               _________

Tommy Carlisle Relays His

     Tale from The Front

In a letter sent to our esteemed

postmaster Bill Carmoody, and ad-

dressing all members of this town,

Tommy Carlisle writes: “Greetings

to all of you unfortunate devils back

home in the states. I don’t mean to

rub it in but boy do we fellas over

here have it made. The accom-

modations everywhere here along

the western front are top notch.

Why, everyday we get to stroll along

the narrow streets and boardwalks,

through the mounded dunes of sand

just bustling with activity. Yes sir,

this part of France is sure plenty

exciting since we’ve been here. Of

course the German tourists do get

a little rowdy now and again, some

of ’em I guess you could say get

completely out of hand though.

But the rest of the boys and I, we

help out the Frenchys when it comes

time to putting those rowdies back in

their place. And of course the Brits

and Canadians are sure there to

lend a hand. Why they were takin’

care of business over yonder here

long before we doughboys showed up

with our ugly mugs. But you know,

maybe these Jerrys aren’t all bad—-

why they just keep sending us

presents. Sure, why they practically

drop ’em right in our laps, so

naturally we sorta feel obligated to

return the favor by droppin’ nice

little gifts as close to their laps

as we can!

I do have just a few complaints

though——MUD! MUD! MUD! You

see, when it rains over here, just

like back home, all the roads be-

come muddy. And the fields too.

It seems to be just about everyplace

we have to walk, sit, and sleep!

You can get tired of it real quick.

Why even the mud is tired of itself!

But I will say that once we made it

to the front, at least there’s the wood

planks and wood encased rooms to

keep some of us at least, somewhat

dry. But boy that trek from Calais to

here was brutal. It was 90% walkin’,

85% of which was walkin’ in the mud,

and 10% fightin’, 75% of which was

fightin’ laying on our bellies in the Mud!

Mud, mud, and more MUD! Oh—and

of course there’s always the blisters

on our feet. BIG BLISTERS! Blisters

the size of the circle you make when

you flash someone the O.K. sign with

your hand. And brother I won’t ever

wish blisters like these on anybody.

Well——except maybe the rowdiest

of the Jerrys. And speakin’ of the

Jerrys, here comes a whiz bang.

DUCK! Whew—that was a close

one. It landed about 150 feet from

where I’m sittin’. Knocked our cap-

tain right off his feet. He’s all right

thank heavens, and so are the rest

of us. Ah—–life on the FRONT! And

so getting back to my description of

the front, and life here, of course I

was making light of the harsh reali-

ties of this conflict. The fact is it’s

pretty tough and also pretty darn

(putting it politely) gruesome at

times as well. Those little gifts we

get from time to time are of course

artillery shells and boy I wasn’t kid-

ding when I said they practically

drop them in our laps. That whiz

bang we just got was one of ’em!

And the narrow streets and board-

walks through the dunes are of

course the trenches where we are

now in this no man’s land of dirt and

wire and wooden planks—-and MUD!

Mud, blisters, shellings, and

more mud. We all try to make the

best of this nasty, nasty business.

All of us do. We do a lot of praying,

believe you me. And God willing

everyone of us fightin’ boys will

make it back to our homes, safe

and sound.

In the meantime, for all of you

back there at home may the best

of luck be your fortune!

See all of you soon,

Yours truly,

Pvt. Tommy Carlisle.

p.s.  And the rest of the boys

pass on their regards as well!”

        by John Patrick Seekamp,

2014

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THE PERSISTENT INVENTOR

14 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by johnseekamp in Humor, Writings

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Nonsense

The Scientific Log Of Phillibert P. Phiffleflute the third

 

  Entry for Monday, July 7th, 1884———Day 1:

Prepared laboratory for experiment.

Mixed 7 granules of magnesium dioxide with 4 granules of potassium sulfate———-Nothing.

Disposed of chemicals, cleaned equipment, returned home.

 

  Entry for Tuesday, July 8th, 1884———Day 2:

Prepared laboratory for experiment.

Mixed 9 granules of manganese chloride with 6 granules of sodium nitrate———-Nothing.

Disposed of chemicals, cleaned equipment, returned home.

 

  Entry for Wednesday, July 9th, 1884———Day 3:

Prepared laboratory for experiment.

Mixed 5 granules of carbon silicate with 2 granules of sulfur chlorite———Nothing.

Disposed of chemicals, cleaned equipment, returned home.

 

  Entry for Thursday, July 10th, 1884———Day 4:

Prepared laboratory for experiment.

Mixed 1 granule of ammonium hydrate with 9 granules of hydrogen ammoniate———–Nothing.

Disposed of chemicals, cleaned equipment, returned home.

 

  Entry for Friday, July 11th, 1884———Day 5:

Prepared laboratory for experiment.

Mixed 3 granules of aluminum silicate with 10 granules of silver hydroselenide———-Nothing.

Disposed of chemicals, cleaned equipment, returned home.

 

  Entry for Saturday, July 12th, 1884———Day 6:

Felt frustrated. needed to relax. Mixed 1 teaspoon chamomile tea (in ball) with 1 cup hydrogen monoxide heated to 100 degrees Celsius , left it to steep———Ah, felt better.

Prepared laboratory for experiment.

Mixed 3 granules of ferric acetate with 2 granules of titanium dioxide———Nothing!

Became frustrated again, needed to relax, thought of better idea——–mixed 1 oz. of French brandy with  1 cup of hydrogen monoxide heated to 100 degrees Celsius———felt even better!

Mixed 12 granules of  sodium nitrate with 11 granules of sodium nitrate——–Nothing. Ahgggg!

Frustration!

Mixed 2 parts French brandy with 2 cubes hydrogen monoxide cooled to 0 degrees Celsius, felt okay——-then continued.

Mixed 25 different granules of some sort with 32 granules of ammonium whatever—–uhhhh! A puff!

All this work is  making me thirsty——-mixed 3 parts French brandy in a glass with a teaspoon of hydrogen monoxide, not heated at all——-back to work.

Mixed 56 parts ammonium something with—-ah—–whatever that fluffy stuff was—–ah, let’s see, oh yes—-43 parts of it anyway———Bang! Whoa! That was certainly loud! Must celebrate!

Mixed 3 parts Frenchy with—–with—-3 parts Frenchy and drank it all up. There! Now where was I? Oh–oh, I remember now. I was trying to make something. Okay. Okay.

I mixed up several—several handfuls of some sort with several handfuls of some sort and then——-where am I——why is everything so dreadfully white———-And say—-why do all the folks around here look like they’re floating——say—–now I remember. I DID IT!——-I ACTUALLY MADE SOMETHING THAT WORKED. JUMPING JOHOSAPHATS! Like my good ol’ grandpappy used to say, ‘Be persistent. Never give up. If you quit you’re finished!’ There—–I persisted. I didn’t give up. BUT BOY AM I FINISHED!!!!

____________________________________by John Patrick Seekamp,      2014

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A FICTIONAL NEWS STORY FROM THE COLD WAR

09 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by johnseekamp in East Germany, Fiction, Short Story, Writings

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Cold War Intrigue, Creative Writing, Fiction

                                                                                                                         

   EXTRA                                                                       NEW        YORK                                                   LATE CITY EDITION   

                                                                    METROPOLITAN               DISPATCH                                                                 

                                                          WEDNESDAY,           SEPTEMBER   17,          1958                                                            

                           

                            East  German  Defects  In  Holland 

                            Tunnel; Later Visits Mayor Wagner

                            State Department To Decide Fate

                                       

                                         By Hank Dulgarian

                       From the Metropolitan Dispatch Bureau

   NEW YORK, Sept. 17—–Gunthar  Rheinhardt, 33, of  Sangerhausen,

East Germany, here in the United States as part of a goodwill exchange

between  the two nations, declared his  intention  to defect  to the  West

yesterday  morning as  traffic  jammed in  the Holland Tunnel, the result

of a minor vehicular  accident. The international  incident  occurred  four

vehicals behind  the traffic accident at approximately 10:00a.m. Eastern

standard time near the halfway point between New York State and New

Jersey under the Hudson River.

Mr. Rheinhardt, a pianist, along with two unnamed East German musi-

cians, an unnamed East German security officer, and their host, Bernard

Bellinger, interim Executive Assistant to New York City mayor Robert F.

Wagner, Jr., were passengers in a private limousine traveling westward,

from Manhattan to Newark, to attend the opening of the ‘Berlin Club’, a

cultural exchange center, where Mr. Rheinhardt and his fellow musicians

were to perform; conversely, a trio of American musicians, representing

the U.S. in the program, were sent to Leipzig, East Germany to complete

the adversaries’ détente.

As the car the five men were traveling in braked for the accident, Mr.

Rheinhardt stated in English, “I want to defect. I want asylum.” Then, as

the vehicle came to a stop, Mr. Rheinhardt opened the back door nearest

him and stepped out, standing against the tunnel wall, arms folded. At that

moment the East German security officer stepped out and attempted to

wrestle Mr. Rheinhardt back into the limousine, but was intervened by Mr.

Bellinger who, with assistance from the limousine driver, reminded the East

German security officer that the situation was then a matter of international

concern, to be handled by the U.S. State Department.

As traffic resumed, Mr. Bellinger reassured Mr. Rheinhardt that he was,

“now in American hands until the matter could be addressed officially, and

according to protocol.” Then all four men returned to the limousine, where

upon it continued on to daylight on the New Jersey side, and then turned

around heading back into Manhatten, directly to City Hall. Mr. Bellinger

then escorted Mr. Rheinhardt to the mayor’s office, while the limousine de-

livered the East German security officer, and the two other East German

musicians, to the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, located on the

Upper East Side.

Mr. Rheinhardt was received by the mayor and his staff with open arms,

and was treated in accordance with international law, until the State De-

partment could take over the case. According to Mr. Bellinger, Mr. Rhein-

hardt seemed satisfied with his choice to defect, and was observed as

being relaxed, and relieved as he answered questions. Mr. Bellinger also

noted that Mr. Rheinhardt was overjoyed with the reception,  thanking

everyone there repeatedly.

It is not as of yet known by this reporter how well the East German

security officer or the two other East German musicians were received

and treated by the Soviets upon their return to communist control.

Later when asked why he defected, Mr. Rheinhardt told a senior State

Department official, “I want to play jazz music the way it was meant to

be played—the American way.”

                                                     by John Patrick Seekamp,     2012

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AS THE NIGHTINGALE SANG

06 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by johnseekamp in Poems, Writings

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Creative Writing, Poems, Thoughts

There were cats in the kitchen of the spinsters Worrell,

       There were frogs in the bucket of Deacon Sudbury’s well,

There by the noon bell in the sun at its high,

       Was a purring, and a croaking, and the nightingale’s cry,

Where the thorn plums, and the thistle downs, and the touch-me-nots grew,

        There in the thicket did the nightingale spew.

                                                                by John Patrick Seekamp, 2014

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I wish I’d been…

16 Sunday Feb 2014

Posted by johnseekamp in Writings

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Creative Writing, Poems, Thoughts

I wish I’d been, I wish I were, In other times to be,

What you yourself once said you were,

When you yourself were he,

When only matters mattered most,

And most peculiarly,

When all the world was fast asleep, across the lands, and oceans deep, and in the clouds where angels weep,

But alas we are but thee,

And now but now we see!

                                                                    by John Patrick Seekamp, 2014

I wrote this on Saturday night while trying to think of something to post. My first post!

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