Poet Laureate

Here's our Poet Laureate reading from his work!

Kay

Sallie and Pat

Pictures from Sunday

More from Jeff

"the" bookclub (minus Kay)

More from Jeff

Great photos from Jeff Rogart

The Highlight of the Reunion

was Jeff Hohman's poetry reading. He summed up how we all were feeling.

Limericks for Jeff Hohman

written by others

AN ASSORTMENT OF LIMERICKS WRITTEN BY OTHERS UPON THE DEPARTURE OF JEFF HOHMAN

In the hallways of seven-five-o-five

There strode a man dressed so ‘live

In braces and saddles

(Not whips, chains and paddles)

It’s funny he hadn’t more wives.

Mike Henjy

To a man, we’re sorry you’re leaving

Though our poetry may be deceiving

We’re glad to have known you

To have heckled and groaned you

Our resumes you may soon be seeing

Unattributed

Jeff Hohman thinks he’s a punster

His humor is like Herman Munster

Now I’ve heard his rhymes

Not one’s worth a dime

You can put him and the rhymes in the dumpster

Lee Borgen

There once was a man, quite a yeoman

From that distinguished group, “House of Hohman.”

Who with great hype and ceaseless babble

Made promotionally aware our 775 piece rabble

Until he voiced, “Its time to go, man.”

Tim Higgins

Jeff is continually choking

On his words concerning his smoking

Jeff make up you mind

And get off your behind

Or one day young man, you’ll be croaking.

Unattributed

There was a young woman named Gracie

Who fell in love with a fellow quite racy

One weekend they went

Off to make it permanent

And now he’s not racy, he cracy.

Unattributed

There was a young man who went to Breck

While developing OTB was a wreck

He was never around

No where to be found

Now thanks to Jeff we’re all a wreck.

Julie Arthur

A young fellow with rueful veracity

Said he hadn’t much alcoholic capacity

So at lunch he would down

All the Heinecken in town

And that’s what I call perspicacity.

Unattributed

There was a young man we call Hoh-ses

Dressed in madras to the tips of his toeses

He thinks plaids just divine

But we wince and think I’m

Oh so glad that his fetish’s not roses.

Unattributed

There was a pub rep came from Dell

We hear he had books for to sell

But with Jeff, sad to say,

It took over a day

Bowling beat out the books, oh well.

Katie Kane

There was a young man know for punning

Definitely not for his cunning

In suspenders and bow tie

And his head held high

He left B. Dalton running.

Shelley Hurley

There was a young man from B. Dalton

Who’dress was really revolton

Somebody please tell that guy

That he’s hurtin’ my eyes

Saddle shoes and suspenders – how joltin’.

Unattributed

Month upon month Jeff attempts

Of the storefront to make some sense

This merchandise plan

Is the bane of this man

But not as much as the man to the merchants.

Unattributed

A bespectacled gent they call ho-man

When under great stress

Would say, “Oh, man –“

“That book will be late,

The ad out of date –

Those buyers they really do blow man, man.”

Jeff Capshew

Jeff Hohman thinks hockey is in

On skates he’ll go into a spin

But he’s getting quite old

At hockey less bold

Now he pushes the puck with his chin.

Lee Borgen

2 Poems for Kay from Jeff Hohman

A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO KAY AT EIGHTY

Five years ago, for Kay’s seventy-fifth

A poem was written for no cash or spiff.

Party plans, however, poofed up in smoke

And the shattered poet’s verses went unspoke.

The day has now come to read those verses of yore

But, alas, the aging poet can’t find them anymore.

He tucked them away in the debris of his life

And, despite frantic searching by he and his wife,

The couplets and quips and knee-slapping jokes

Are lost. And so, to you, the partying folks,

This brief piece of poetic, unscanning drivel,

That seems so terse, quaint and trivial,

Is all that he has with which to wish

Kay a birthday greeting at a dinner delish.

Kay! Kay! Kay! You have now reached eighty.

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! Kudos to Katie.

A poet’s ps to add to that line:

The author’s most pleased to be a friend of thine

For getting on towards thirty-three annum;

Its hard to believe, even harder to fathom.

Happy Birthday, Kay, with love from old friend Jeff,

Who hopes that the grade for this poem isn’t F.

(Hold it! Hold it! I’ll make a mad dash

Up to the attic and in a head-crashing flash

Here’s the old poem, the yellowed verses;

Two poems to read, double the curses.)

2/9/03

KAY SEXTON

LITERARY LIFE

Where to begin when writing of Kay?

So many facets, so much to say.

We could start with her books or her wit –

Or, better yet, let’s go back a bit.

Is ’71, a cold January,

To B. Dalton I came, extremely wary.

Behind a desk most centrally placed,

Sat our Ms. Sexton, the chaos she graced.

Customers were first, the staff came next;

For Kay “policy” was an unread text.

Marlyss and Ken, Helen and Lucy,

Dan and Jeff, she wasn’t real choosy.

We’d take long breaks, and talk ‘bout books,

Smoke Mary Jane and catch odd looks.

Store number One was a great place to grow,

But then they called Kay to the old G. O.

It was there at the heart of the company web

That Kay reached her apex and suffered no ebb.

She was the corp shrink, our company guru,

She had enough balls to tell anyone “screw you.”

She stood fast and hard ‘gainst many a big wig

For their opinions she cared nary a fig.

Ned Dayton and Albright, Pisner and Macke,

To a man they were so damn tacky.

Followed by Floyd, Fontaine, Sells and Swenson,

Kay’s earned every damned penny of her pension.

The publishers, too, ate her words as if meat,

And swallowed every bit of the old ‘green sheet.”

That tatty rag of misspellings and more,

Had become legend, true publishing lore.

The word went out as the gospel truth;

It even spoke well of old Dr. Ruth.

Thousands and thousands of tomes it did hype

And only the buyers had an occasional gripe.

For once-in-a-while, every week or so,

Kay would tout a book to which the buyer’d said “no!”

Then we’d have a little inner office scuffle

And the feather’s of Kay we’d try not to ruffle.

Her sofa, you see, was a vital haven

To escape those moments when we felt too craven,

So business beset we forgot why we cared

About books beyond everything, that’s what we shared.

You see, for us, it was books before all;

Books gave us meaning, to us they did call.

And then, as the days of B. Dalton were waning,

And we felt the corporate leaders needed caning,

We left at a trickle which grew to a flood

That sapped all the joy, drained all the blood

From the heart of the company, from the soul of the crew,

Until it was finally sold to you know who.

Then Kay retired and stayed at the lake.

Her own kind of salon out there she did make.

From out of the city we’d all come for lunch

To sip on a coke with beer nuts to munch.

The chili was steaming, the bread sticks were hot,

The desserts they were eaten, the diets forgot.

The conversations ranged over topics diverse-

Occasionally straying into regions perverse.

We’d gab and we’d gossip on the odd and ironic,

But for all of the visitors it was just the right tonic

To straighten a head, to iron a wrinkle,

Square up an angle, and give us a twinkle.

So lift up a glass, we’ll propose this toast,

Following this most gentle a roast.

Kay, we’re your friends, we’re your family, too,

We can’t help but wish, Happy Birthday to you!

2/10/98

Last of Donna's Photos

More from Donna's camera

Donna Pierson's photos

Pictures from Betty Jorgenson

NEW POEM FOR OLD B. DALTON

by Jeff Hohman, in honor of the reunion

At the behest of Dorothy and the organizing crew

The retired poet laureate has one more verse to spew.

For this festive occasion, for this gathering sublime,

He’ll trot out his thesaurus and nurse out one more rhyme.

Over the years numerous poems were writ

That were lacking in class, common sense and wit.

The poet was dumbfounded and deeply disturbed

That upon hearing these barbarics none were perturbed.

Again and again he was tugged, bullied and purred,

To force his mind into birthing another odic turd.

So here it is then, your prayer has been answered,

Its for you to decide if the committee has erred.

Farewells were inked for Albright and Darr,

Vincent Bell and Tom Haworth would also star.

Then Barefoot and Adamson both took the brunt

Of poetic attempts too forthright and blunt.

Then after he’d gone, but before B. Dalton been sold

An obit he wrote and of our glories it told.

There were poems he wished he had a chance to write

Like a farewell to Dick F, that would have been right.

At Floyd Hall he would loved to have taken a jab,

But with Jeff at the movies he did take a stab.

Edwards and Crabb were sparred the poet’s lance

But not because they didn’t deserve it perchance.

Baxter and Rogart, Becker and Wattson,

Pegan and Kopp, Gracie H. and Thorsen.

Oh! Its so painful. Too many targets, not enough verse.

This poet will be writing right up to the hearse.

More parties, more beer, more drunken reflection.

Curses! Curses, I’ve verses to add to the collection.

Come with me my muse, we’ve much work to do,

The poems of the past we’ll post on the blog for you.

Bye.

6/24/08

Pictures from Terry Mackin

Here are some reunion photos that Terry took.

Jeff Rogart, Becky Norine and Mike and Terry Hejny.

Please email me any photos you took and I'll post them, or feel free to post them yourself.