2021 VOICES OF LINCOLN POETRY CONTEST
Poets wanted. The 17th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest begins in April, National Poetry Month. The contest theme is “If Life Were A Game Show, What Would Poets Say?” Both adult and young poets are encouraged to enter.
Contest Rules and Entry Form can be downloaded here or requested from Alan Lowe, Contest Coordinator, at slolowe@icloud.com.
College sports play a vital role at four-year colleges and universities. They create enthusiasm, both on and off campus, and can generate significant income for an institution.
Coaches are hired for their ability to win. But what if they don’t? They may be seen as providing a . . .
Lack Of Direction
I heard talking outside my cubicle. Then a male voice called to me over the top of the enclosure. Looking up, I saw my editor, Frank Warren, a retired pro basketball player, peering over the six-foot high cubicle wall.
“Well, Jillian, how’s the piece on Coldby College’s men’s basketball coach’s ‘last hurrah’ coming? His exit from the court last spring, when he announced this fall’s starting line-up, caused some heads to turn. Your article will memorialize the event.”
“Almost finished. Did some background research, interviewed the coach, and got the whole story—all thirty-three years of it.”
“Good. Get it to me by the end of the day. We have a deadline to meet.”
I looked back at the story on the computer screen that I, Jillian Ashe, wrote for Ardent Sports Magazine. The headline, in bold, capital letters read, “LACK OF DIRECTION.”
Coldby College, a small, private, coeducational institution, located in the little town of Middlebury, population 2,731, sits at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Northern California. The liberal arts college, named after George Winton Coldby, opened its doors in the fall of 1983.
Our story begins in the spring of 1984. Coldby had a dream. He envisioned building an institution that would give student-athletes the opportunity to focus on their studies, without the pressure to excel in their sport, a practice they were not likely to find at other colleges and universities.
Coldby had a special interest in basketball, as he had played in both high school and college. And so, as president of the college, backed by the members of its founding Board of Trustees, he conducted an extensive search for a basketball coach who could make his dream come true.
The search produced considerable interest. He received over fifty resumes for the position. However, one stood out from the others—that of Sebastian Jules Rule, a thirty-year-old, with a Ph.D. in Sports Psychology, who also had excelled as a point guard on his college team.
At the interview, Rule impressed Coldby and the Board with his emphasis on his athletes’ academic achievement at Roseville Academy, a private high school, to such a degree that the college hired him without giving serious consideration to any of the other candidates. It was not until after he accepted the position that Coldby and the Board realized the six years he coached at Roseville had produced just one winning team. However, every player graduated from the Academy and had been admitted to a four-year college or university.
Rule’s tenure as the coach of the men’s basketball team began in the fall of 1984, the second year of the college’s existence and the year in which he recruited the college’s first team that would debut in the fall of 1985. As the years went by, Rule’s teams more often than not struggled on the basketball court. In his thirty-three years, the team had six winning seasons, made it into the postseason twice, but never won a championship. However, as expected, 92% of his players graduated with Bachelor of Arts degrees, an amazing feat in light of the fact that graduation rates at other institutions didn’t exceed 65%.
During the latter years of Rule’s “dynasty,” the world began to change. In the summer of 2014, George Coldby became ill, struck by the latest flu bug going around. Early one evening in late August, when all signs seemed to indicate he would recover, Coldby took a turn for the worse. Rushed by ambulance to the hospital, doctors did all they could to save him. However, he died early the next morning.
At the funeral, three days later, Board President Jess Wishington whispered to Board member Jordana Wilkes, “Jordana, now that Coldby is gone, things have to change with the basketball team. The alumni are saying the team has had a lack of direction for the past thirty years.”
“You’re right, Jess,” murmured Jordana. The reason Rule is still here is because Coldby protected him. They both put academic success above winning.”
Another Board member, Marcus Garrish, overhearing the conversation, which had gotten louder, chimed in. “Yeah, we have to get Rule before the Board and give him an ultimatum.”
“What kind of an ultimatum are you referring to, Marcus?” queried Wishington.
“Win or else . . . That has to be the new direction for the program.”
Coldby had stepped down from the presidency of the college two years before his death. Martin Palmer, his Executive Vice President for Academic Affairs succeeded him. Palmer, a bit of a wimp, abided by the wishes and decisions of Coldby. Getting him to move the college’s basketball program in a different direction might not be easy. However, it had to be done.
On the Monday after the funeral, the telephone rang in Palmer’s office. He picked it up and groaned, “Hello, Martin Palmer here.”
“Marty,” the voice on the other end of the line echoed. “This is Jess Wishington.”
In a somewhat weak, raspy voice, Palmer replied, “Yes, Jess, what can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a bit of a situation that needs to be addressed, Marty. And it’s pretty urgent.”
“Situation. Urgent. What are you talking about?”
“Rule, the basketball team, and its losing ways. We need a winner. We need a leader to provide direction for a ‘winning team.’ So many years of losing has gotten out of hand. We need to give Rule an ultimatum. Win or move on—retire.”
“But all the kids graduate. Everyone gets a degree. That’s the way George wanted it. That was his dream.”
“Coldby’s gone, and his dream went with him. It’s 2014. College basketball is all about winning, and we’re not winning. Student and town turnout at games is pathetic. This has got to change.”
Wishington hung up, leaving Palmer a bit shaken. However, he did succeed in getting him to call a special Board meeting for Friday to let Sebastian Rule know the lack of a clear winning direction would no longer be tolerated.
When Friday arrived, the entire five-person Board ambled into the President’s Office at 10:00 a.m. sharp and sat down around his huge oval table. It seemed like hours passed, as Palmer and each member waited and fidgeted in anticipation of the coach’s arrival. At 10:15 a.m., Coach Rule came rumbling through the door.
He stared at the five Board members and President Palmer and blurted, “What the hell do you want from me? The phone message said we had to discuss changes in the basketball program. What changes are we talking about? And why the urgency? For heaven’s sake, we just laid George to rest.”
“Calm down, Sebastian. We do need to talk, and now is the right time,” Jess said.
“About what?”
“The lack of direction of the basketball program.”
“What the crap are you talking about? The direction has been clear for thirty years. Why do you have a bug up your ass now? Look at my graduation rates. My kids go on to make something of themselves. Stay off my back and let me do my job.”
“Sebastian, we’ve got to work together. Our fans have stopped coming to our games. We need to get them back, and winning is the answer. You’re no longer a one-man show. You answer to the Board and you’ll do what the Board asks you to do,” Jess snapped.
“Or what? You going to can me?”
Jess regained his composure and spoke in a slow, deliberate tone, “In respect to you and your years of service, Sebastian, we’ll give you three years to give us a consistent winner. If you can’t perform by the end of the 2016-2017 season, we will replace you with someone whose goals and direction fit those of the Board and the college.”
“That’s it? You’re giving me, Sebastian Rule, an ultimatum? You’ve got to be kidding.”
With a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, Rule, who never sat down during the meeting, glared at the Board members and President Palmer, who had remained silent throughout the inquisition. Without saying another word, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Three years passed and the team’s winning fortunes didn’t change. The college paper, the Centurion, cried out in the latest issue that the basketball program still suffered from a “lack of direction.” It became clear to all concerned—Sebastian Rule had to go.
Behind closed doors, in early-March, the Board made the decision to dismiss Coach Rule from his position. After notifying President Palmer, the college’s Human Relations Office made the final arrangements necessary to discharge the coach.
While this was happening, Coach Rule, not known for being stupid, knew the team’s dismal record the past three seasons meant his tenure at the college would soon end. But since he had not been advised that a decision had been made, he believed he might have one “last hurrah.”
Since the entire starting line-up would graduate in June, he alone would choose the replacements. So with little fanfare that spring, he recruited the new starting team, which would play next season, with or without him. In doing so, if it was direction his superiors wanted, it was direction they would get.
When he completed the recruiting process, Rule called President Palmer. The phone rang twice and Palmer answered, “Hello, this is Martin Palmer.”
“President Palmer,” Rule stated in a polite manner. “The starting line-up for Coldby College’s 2017-2018 basketball season has been chosen and you need to make the necessary plans to announce their selection.”
Palmer hesitated and then said, “Coach Rule, maybe this shouldn’t be done this year.”
“But President Palmer, the college’s tradition has been to introduce the newly recruited athletes to the student body, faculty, and staff at an assembly held in the college’s sports arena in mid-May, the year before they will join the team. It would be a mistake not to do this for next year.” The phone went silent.
Then to Rule’s surprise, Palmer replied, “Okay, I will make the arrangements.”
As the crowd entered the arena on Wednesday morning, May 11, the noise level was deafening. President Palmer moved to the podium and addressed the audience gathered before him. “Ladies and gentleman. Please, everybody, please be seated.”
The crowd sat and quieted down and President Palmer continued. “At this time, it is my pleasure to invite Coach Rule to the podium to introduce the young men who will represent Coldby College during its 2017-2018 “winning” basketball season.
Applause erupted throughout the arena, but when it quieted down, Coach Rule was nowhere to be seen. Bewildered, the crowd stared at the empty podium. Then Coach Rule, followed by two drummers, marched out of the corridor between the bleachers and stopped in the center of the arena. He bowed to the crowd and moved to the podium.
Removing the mic from its stand, he bellowed to the masses assembled, “It is my great honor to introduce the ‘new directions’ of the Coldby College basketball program. Please turn your attention to the bleacher corridor to my left.”
Heads turned toward the corridor and awaited the emergence of the young men who would transform the basketball team into winners. As the players started to enter, the crowd became wild with excitement.
The coach’s voice resonated throughout the arena, “And now, I give you the future starting line-up for Coldby College. At guard, 6’3” Jaden West. At guard, 6’4” Maxim East. At forward, 6’9” Kareem North. At forward 6’10,” Antonio South. And, last, but not least, at center, 7’1” Benjamin Compass.”
Then, as he had entered, Coach Rule disappeared down the bleacher corridor, never again to coach on campus, but certain he had left the college with no “lack of direction.”
Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
The road through life is not easy to navigate. We often struggle to find our way.
We draw on the past and envision the future, as we journey . . .
Toward The Light
People have mysteries,
tucked beneath the surface.
Hidden treasures known to them alone—
stories of times past, theirs to protect.
In the shadows, dreams remain hidden—
desires unfulfilled.
They walk a path meandering
through the unknown.
Darkness prevails,
cloaking answers they wish to find.
Promises made, but not always kept,
adrift in a sea of disappointments.
Signs pointing in many directions,
forcing decisions to be made.
Truth elusive, they seek their destiny,
and walk alone toward the light.
Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
Grandchildren are a special addition to a family. As a grandparent, they bring joy into your life.
When they are brothers, they can be quite similar, yet very different at the same time, as is the case with . . .
My Three Grandsons
Some call them a trio, while others say they are “three of a kind.”
We call them a blessing, one that is often hard to find.
The oldest brother is witty, bright, and engaging, too.
He is a challenge to be with, as he may know more than we do.
Pursuing his interests in communication and filmmaking,
He will be attending college next year—a remarkable undertaking.
The second boy is warm and caring, thoughtful and able.
A conversationalist, with a good sense of humor, he is someone you
enjoy having at the table.
An excellent student, with his first driver license in hand, he will go far.
He appreciates his wonderful girlfriend and excels at playing guitar.
The third, the youngest of the three, can take your breath away.
Smart and athletic, he has a promising future, most would say.
At twelve, he is unafraid of speaking about his weaknesses, so it seems.
He uses his courage and strengths to pursue his dreams.
We wish for such charm, passion, and ability to be part of our family.
But seldom does our wish come true in a “package of three.”
The brothers have earned the praise of their parents, grandparents,
and others, as well.
Our prayers have been answered, as the three, the marvelous trio, excel.
Their youth has been filled with exciting adventures and accomplishments galore.
Family and friends admire who they are and what they have done, as they look
on in awe.
A fantastic future awaits them as they make their way down life’s road.
Yes, they are a trio, “three of a kind,” a blessing to behold.
Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
Brothers share a common bond. As such, they try to support each other in good times and bad.
At times, the right thing to do may be to let your brother stand on his own two feet to address his problems. However, in doing so, you always maintain your . . .
Brotherly Love
I wondered
what my ten-year-old brother had done,
as he sat at the kitchen table
with tears in his eyes,
a pained expression on his face,
and his fists clenched.
He seemed to be muttering
something
under his breath.
As I stood in the doorway,
I thought about approaching him,
but the look on his face
frightened me,
so I froze,
and did nothing.
Then he started
to bang on the table,
with such force,
it rocked back and forth.
“They’re coming to get me,”
he screamed.
“This can’t be happening.
Stop it! Stop it! Now!”
I wanted to yell,
“Who is coming?”
But I didn’t have the courage
to do so.
I just remained
silent.
Then his eyes met mine.
I started to look away,
but knew
that wasn’t the right thing to do.
So I moved toward him,
put my hand on his shoulder,
and tried to comfort him.
He stared at me,
In a way
that made
my twelve-year-old body quiver.
I shook in fear,
expecting the worst.
But it didn’t happen,
as I thought it might.
He grasped my hand,
held it tight,
and pulled me toward him.
We embraced—
an expression of love
that made us
both feel good.
And then we parted,
without uttering a word.
I never asked him
what had traumatized him,
and he didn’t talk
about the incident.
Neither of us
told our parents
what had occurred.
We laid the episode
to rest
and went on with our lives.
Eight years passed.
I sat beside my parents
and watched my brother,
dressed in cap and gown,
as he walked to the stage
in the high school gymnasium
to receive his diploma.
He shook hands
with the principal,
who handed him
his treasured document,
and walked
off the stage.
As he came toward me,
he had tears in his eyes,
a pained expression on his face,
and his fists clenched
around his diploma.
He seemed to be muttering
something
under his breath.
Then he dropped the diploma
on the floor
and began to shake uncontrollably.
“They’re coming to get me,”
he screamed.
“This can’t be happening.
Stop it! Stop it! Now!”
The memory
of that day
eight years ago
returned
in the high school gymnasium.
“This can’t be happening,”
I moaned.
My parents sat stunned
at what had occurred.
They clasped hands
and said nothing.
My brother’s eyes
met mine,
as they had
at age ten—
pleading eyes,
begging for help.
I started
to move
in his direction.
but heard voices,
echoing in my head.
“You can’t help him.
And if you try,
you will never
see him again.”
“Never?”
“Yes. Never!”
Unable to move,
I whispered,
“I love you.”
Eight years later,
I began
my internship
at Monroe State Hospital
to become
a psychotherapist.
As I sat
next to my mentor,
a patient
entered the room.
Our eyes met,
and he murmured,
“I love you.”
Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
Our environment often wonders if it will survive. It questions whether or not the people occupying its precious domain will destroy it.
Confusion exists on land and water. Both nature and man wish for a time when all are . . .
No Longer Lost And Confused
Once a little raindrop floated
from the sky and landed
in the middle of a gentle pond.
It rested on its surface,
at peace with the world.
But then debris
tossed from the shore
and pollutants
coming from all directions
landed and vied for position,
creating putrid smells and turmoil
in this once tranquil body of water.
Shaken by this turn of events,
the little raindrop quivered,
and felt lost and confused.
The sky blackened and rumbled,
as if angered by the disorder
below in the rippling waters.
Distressed, the little raindrop
spun in circles around a lily pad,
and sought protection
from the eerie presence above,
while trying to avoid the pollution flowing,
without mercy, about it.
Tortured by the situation,
the little raindrop prayed for help
and the return of tranquility
to the water and land
surrounding its new home.
It wondered if people understood
what their carelessness and insensitivity
was doing to a once marvelous planet.
Would they be willing to change their ways
or was all hope lost?
But then, a wisp of light
filtered through the dark clouds.
bringing hope and the possibility for change.
Governments, leaders of private organizations,
and service clubs,
made efforts
to improve environmental conditions.
These entities promised aloud,
“Clean water, a basic human right,
would no longer be denied.
By 2030, the United Nations goal,
safe drinking water for everyone,
would be achieved.”
Organization members committed
to creating healthier communities
by supplying
clean water and sanitation facilities
to lessen pollution
and to prevent the spread
of infectious diseases.
And so, today,
a new glow upon the water
portends a brighter future.
No longer lost and confused,
the little raindrop breathed a sigh of relief
and believed it would one day
be at peace again.
Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
Newspaper publishers are moving in the direction of forcing us to read their papers online, by significantly reducing the size of the hard copy we have delivered. For some of us, this is not desirable. Computers are a part of our life, but not our whole life.
The paper I subscribe to has gone in
this direction. The
most recent change made caused me to respond, as seen in the email letter below.
To Sacramento Bee Management/Editorial Staff:
When I picked up the paper this morning, March 1, 2021, I saw three words at the bottom of the page, “To Our Readers.” The opening statement, “The Sacramento Bee is refreshing its comics and puzzles offerings beginning today," took me by surprise. Although I am not a puzzles aficionado, I do love the comics. Turning to the comics page made me ill. “Refreshing" is the wrong word. “Destroying" is more appropriate.
I am a poet and writer who spends many hours creating poems and stories to post on my blog. Therefore, at other times, I want to be away from the computer. I enjoy holding the newspaper in hand and reading it every morning. I hated it when you canceled the Saturday paper. I follow the comics diligently and enjoy how their creators make social commentary come alive in a way that has meaning in everyday life. The comics make a point about how people think, interact, and try to navigate the myriad of obstacles life places before them. In many respects, they are an educational tool that some readers might dismiss. But one needs to look below the surface to get the true meaning of what the creator is saying.
The comics have now gone from over one and a half pages to one page, reducing the number of individual strips from 33 to 18, and increasing the single box comics to twice the size. Doing this eliminated some of the very good strips, including “Jumpstart,” “Mutts,” Beetle Bailey,” “Blondie,” “Crankshaft,” “Frank and Ernest,” “Drabble,” “Grand Avenue,” “LuAnn,” "Hi & Lois,” “Marmaduke”, and “Dennis the Menace,” all of which make comments about life that touch both our minds and hearts.
As a reader of the Bee for over 24 years, I have become more and more disappointed with the content in recent years. There are still people in this world who enjoy reading the news, a decent sports section, and the comics, while holding the paper in hand and sharing its contents with other members of their household. The paper keeps getting less in the value and scope of its contents, while the cost keeps rising.
I encourage you to rethink what you call an effort to "refresh your newspaper," because you have not achieved what you set out to do.
Best regards,
Alan Lowe
Ph.D. in Educational Psychology/Counseling
Retired College Psychology Instructor,
Counselor, and Administrator
Poet and Writer
https://slolowe44.blogspot.com/
Please Note: In today’s paper, it indicated that changes would be made because of readers’ comments. One of the new comic strips included in the “refreshed version” was removed and replaced by “Jumpstart.” The number of strips did not increase.
I also received a reply to my letter from the Bee this afternoon. It attributed the recent changes in content focus to the need to address issues related to the pandemic. I agree that providing this information is important. However, the response did not clarify why other topics no longer appeared, causing the paper to get thinner, and why the Saturday issue was discontinued and the cost of the paper increased. Instead, it suggested I set up my access to the eEdition that will provide me with the Saturday experience I was looking for, additional comics and puzzles, as well as 40 pages of news, sports, and features. The response missed my point about preferring a hard copy edition that provided me with this information.
Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
