‘The Last Detail’ and Other Poetry by Julian Woodruff

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The Last Detail

Two cocksure, loud–mouthed lads one day set out,
Intent on catching perch. “No,” Jim said, “trout.”
The hole they headed for neither one knew:
All for adventure, they sought someplace few
Of their acquaintances had been before.
“It’s just five hundred yards from Sandy Shore,”
Said Jake. “No way,” said Jim, eying a map.
“You’re all wet, Jake. That’s gotta be a gap
Of more like half a mile … but here’s the trail:
It winds along this creek, then through a dale,
And then we’re there.” “But hey, dude, check this out,”
Said Jake, sounding just like a senior scout.
“You see the hill beyond that rocky cleft?
We head right up it, veer off slightly left,
Then drop straight down and be there, just like that.”
“Says who?” asked Jim. “Your feeble brain’s gone flat.”
Insisted Jake, “Come on, we’ll save some time,
Plus get a decent workout from the climb.”
Jim shouted, “Exercise? Hey, man, it’s naps
That go with fishing. Run a dozen laps
If you want exercise.” Jim hit the creek
While Jake trudged forward toward the modest peak
Behind the rocks. “We’ll see who gets there first,”
He called. “Hey Jake, you know your gut will burst
Before you reach the top,” jeered Jim. Two hours
Elapsed before they met. There had been showers,
And both were drenched. “Well, this is it,” said Jake.
“Yeah … let’s explore a bit,” said Jim. “You flake!
This spot is perfect—quiet, lots of shade …”
Protested Jake. “It obviously was made
For us!“ “You think? Too many freakin’ flies!”
Was Jim’s reply. So, being none too wise,
They spent the next hour arguing. Then cool
Shade started to creep over glade and pool,
And the two fellows finally agreed
On something: both were willing to concede
They’d blown it. Starting home, they lost their way,
And blundered very near a soggy bay
Ringed all around with many quicksand bogs,
Hidden by reeds or under rotting logs.
As fate would have it, into one they fell,
And of the two there’s not much more to tell.
“Help, help!” cried Jake. “Don’t panic—that’s so wrong.
Be cool, like me—someone will come along
And haul us out,” gasped Jim. “That’s what you think!
Have you ever been right? We’re gonna sink!”
Was Jake’s dire verdict. Both could not be right
(To see that doesn’t take too much insight),
And as their last dispute went on and on,
The quicksand swallowed them, and they were gone.
We bring this tragic tale now to a close.
Its moral, as the reader may suppose,
Is: quarrels don’t provide a lot of fun;
They’re apt to be the pits more ways than one.

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Ozzie Mandias

on the Georgia Guidestone

I met a guy with Georgia on his mind,
who said there used to be some guidestones there
with lots of wise ideas on how to bind
us all, whether we’re woke or sorta square,
in one consistent mass of humankind.
Inscriptions were spelled out on certain slabs
of granite: all the stuff that we must learn
to see that earth is never up for grabs,
but well looked after. Overpopulation
was naturally the primary concern:
get rid of folks, or nix their copulation.
Some dudes went to an awful lotta trouble
to build this thing (it wasn’t a vacation);
now, for some reason, it’s a pile of rubble.

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Spare the Stick and Spoil the Spouse

No pebbles on the beach did Roamer find,
Nor shapely shells of an inviting hue,
Nor chains rust–laden—nothing of that kind.
No, this trip driftwood sticks would have to do.

Of these, though, there were specimens unnumbered.
Not mindful that a sack might come in handy,
He found himself more than a bit encumbered,
Uncertain how to transport his “eye candy,”

Straight, more or less, was each stick in the haul,
Well worn and bleached by breezes, sun, and sand
Yet each distinguished from the rest withal,
Some pitted, others knobby to the hand;

And one, milled smooth, the largest of the lot,
Cylindrical, the vestige of a pole,
Evoking little, one might well have thought;
Still, fortunate discovery from his stroll.

So rich and rare was Roamer’s seashore bounty
The pile of prizes he’d filched from the foam
Would do for all of San Mateo County—
A tidal wave of clutter in his home.

“Pitch all of them!” his wife cried. Oh, but no!
Such measures would negate their destiny.
No tossing them: their purpose was for show—
A fully visible repository.

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Julian D. Woodruff, who contributes poetry frequently to the Society of Classical Poets, writes poetry and short fiction for children and adults. He recently finished 2020-2021, a poetry collection. A selection of his work can be read at Parody Poetry, Lighten Up Online, Carmina Magazine, and Reedsy.