Here's our Poet Laureate reading from his work!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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!
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
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
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
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.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Missing pictures
My camera battery died and I didn't get pictures of Bette Fenton, Laurie Lykken, Ruth Block, Terry Mackin or Shelley and Chuck McFall. If you've got some, please upload them!
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