How Much For That Old Pair of Shoes?


Verse 1

How much for that old pair of Shoes?

He fumbled around for some change.

They’re not for sale, my friend, said she.

Well why are they there for all to see?

I’m trying to rearrange.

Verse 2

He wiggled his barefoot toes

And wiped his runny nose.

Rearrange what, the fellow inquired,

Those raggedy shoes are about to expire,

They’d go just fine with my clothes.

Verse 3

I see what you mean, said she,

I’ll give you these shoes for free.

Could I have some socks and maybe a shirt,

And a pail of water to shed some dirt?

I’m really a sight to see,

Verse 4

You’re not so bad, but yes.

I can even give you a vest,

There’s a pond nearby, you can take a bath

Here’s a towel to dry and my name is Cath.

He wanted to look his best.

Verse 5

Freddy’s my name, he said

But you can call me Fred.

On return he looked great.. Let’s celebrate,

We can get married, I’ll be your mate.

And she rearranged his head.

By Lee Broom


Personal Quirks and Fancies (part one of Robbie)


This captive child, missed by no-one, caught his last glimpse of sunlight six months before his third birthday. Unable, to have ever seen his captor he had two unassailable weapons. One was his faith; the other his uncanny knack for research. From whence came this belief in Life, Love or Eternal Strength was not obvious, even to the most inquisitive; his parents were not in the habit of talking about spiritual matters. They did not pray before meals or utter brief homilies of “Thank God” as was the expression in those days whenever Fate smiled and chased the Clouds away.

But he seemed dauntless; it was as though he had not yet been introduced to Fear. That’s what I mean by faith; He appeared to rely on no-one. If a surprise event arose in his young life for which he had no solution, he simply stopped everything, focused inward and began to use his limited knowledge of related events and he thought; and he thought. And soon, at the slightest appearance of a possible solution he would spring into action, his spontaneity revealing a sharp contrast in personal quirks and fancies and within minutes, conditions would begin to change.

He was soon to learn a new skill; He would find it absolutely necessary to learn how to exercise patience. Given more choices he would surely have chosen any other; he was an impetuous lad.

Patience to Young Robbie meant spending whatever few minutes were required to discover a method for solving each new problem soon after its arrival. This newest challenge however, would require more than a minute or two; much more than a minute or two. Or three.

Today was June 12. The year was 1945. This was Robbie’s sixth birthday. He had been living with the aforementioned problem for over half his life. Though Robbie was being held captive, his conditions supported his inquisitive mind. He never saw his captor. A maid brought his meals, his quarters supplied him with all the amenities of a comfortable studio apartment with a library and a radio, writing implements and a tutor whose job it was to encourage Robbie in the skills of research and who brought the morning paper. Leon was his tutor’s name. Leon’s daily instructions for Robbie were limited to the most basic fundamentals of phonics and were occasionally sprinkled with German and Yiddish. On the round-topped dining table inlaid with parquetry, where Robbie was eating the blueberry pancakes brought to him a few minutes earlier by Maid Greta, there was now a newspaper and a birthday cake with six candles. There was no gift sitting there with a big bow. There was no Birthday card, no birthday greeting leaving the lips of either caretaker.

The Dallas Morning News front page banner bore headlines encouraging the readers to update their knowledge of the economic and social changes taking place in America as soldiers who had left home as little more than teenagers were returning now as men who had lost their naiveté on the killing fields of Europe and of the Pacific.

Robbie wondered what it would be like to endure the dangers of war.

He toyed with some of his ideas for escape, mentally checking his inventory of clues to the identity of his captor or captors. His hearing was sharp and had increased its acuity over the years as he listened to the sounds outside his door. Sounds which two years ago were muffled bits of rubbish were now as distinct as the sound of “Call for Philip Morris” shouted by the bellhop on the Sunday radio commercial sponsoring the Jack Benny Show on NBC Radio,

Every day he could hear the instructions coming from a male voice. By now he believed the owner of this voice to be in his mid-Thirties, at least six feet tall, a native of Germany and that the studio in which he lived took but a fraction of the floor-space contained in this three-story building. Naturally it was reasonable to assume that there was probably a large household staff in spite of an absence of hard evidence attesting to that possibility.

Every day Robbie planned his escape. This would be the year. This would be the month. Today was not the day, but soon…….

By Lee Broom

How It Works


How to quit procrastinating:   Make more decisions.

How to become less critical of ourselves and others: Smile more.

How to quit expecting great things from others: Offer more.

How to quit praying for that which seems to be missing in my life: Accept the Gift which was already given, Love, Knowledge-when-needed & Forgiveness.

Accept the Love and Pass it On.

By Lee Broom
From: Leadership. A Love Story

Down in the Dumps. reposted from “Amo” 4/19/2012.




What do you do when there’s nothing to do?

Is this the in-between place?

Are you neither afraid nor even in love;

Is this your Who Am I face?

Are you counting the tiles on the bathroom wall

As you pick your nose and examine your toes?

Is this the way the story goes?

When you take a moment to dump waste?

When you waste a moment to dump?

Are you down in the dumps

Or ready to hump

To kick some butt

Or take your lumps

Can you wipe the past from your lazy ass

And do your bump and grind?

Scoop the melon from the rind?

As you rise from your behind?

Accept the Love and pass it along.

Forget the “buts” you’ve been sitting on.

Rise up my friend, enjoy the Dawn

Forget your past as The Put-Upon.

(“Wake up Jacob. Day’s a breakin’. The cow’s in the barnyard and the rooster’s a crowin’. “  Horace Dixie Broom.)

By Lee Broom

The Victim


“We shall be friends to those
heartbroken and in sorrow.
We shall share their sorrow.” ~Rumi

There is always one more victim

When rescued no longer alone.

Though the victim is finally rescued

The rescuer’s work is not done

The rescuer also a victim

Has been so all along.

They both become better victims.

Their lives become as One.

With Steps to become better victims

Their lives are no longer their own.

Their lives are no longer their own.

Their lives have become as One.


By Lee Broom. From Leadership. A Love Story.

The Importance of Frank and Nako.


At the peak of my ten-K days I had two jogging buddies who accompanied me on evening runs. In earlier days I ran alone at dawn, usually five to ten miles, depending on my schedule. I lightened the load when I acquired these small companions.

These pals of mine were Frank and Nako.

Frank, a black toy poodle who never had to worry about getting a sissy-cut, was named after St Francis of Assisi. He was stoically silent when I rescued him from the pound and completely unaware of my presence. This curly-headed little critter seemed to be much more interested in the huge, dark, big-dog stool near the back of his cell. It had apparently been contributed by a previous tenant. I was informed by the doggie warden that when this little guy was first discovered running the streets of Phoenix, he was wearing a mute collar. He was arrested and interred and sentenced to death in a gas chamber unless someone adopted him before his ninety day appointment with the county canine killer arrived.

“If you don’t mind” I implored, “would you bring him around and introduce us, please?”

Instant friends, I took Frank home to present as a birthday present to Terri. But Frank eventually became my jog dog as Terri’s enthusiasm for the evening ritual began to wane. I kept my pal on a leash at first, until he knew the way. As his behavior became more predictable I released the tether allowing him to run leashless, gradually increasing his free time.

One evening as Frank and Terri and I started across a busy intersection we heard a strange cat sound from about a hundred feet to our rear.  Meow ow ow ow, Meow ow ow ow. It was Nako (Japanese for cat). Nako was Terri’s pet. Offensively independent, this strange animal and I were becoming very attached to each other.  The three of us turned to investigate. Each long meow which sounded more like a howl was interrupted every time one of Nako’s paws hit the pavement. Meow ow ow ow.

She was apparently stating her refusal to be left behind and demanding to be part of the team. Very assertive, this kitty; she never experienced the tethered restraint but she would soon demonstrate that she knew exactly what to do.  We waited for her to join us.

A year or so later we sold our Phoenix home and moved to Scottsdale. On our first evening in our new environment, Terri and I left Frank and Nako locked in the back yard after having jogged next to us daily for more than two years. This was our first evening in our new home and Terry had resumed our evening habit. Being in a strange neighborhood and respectful of the new pet control rules contained in the CC & R’s we decided to go it alone this first evening. Five minutes from home we heard this heart-rending doggie howl that just had to be Frank. We ran back home and opened the gate and in one and three-quarter seconds I had a wiggly armful of doggie as Frank leaped through the air like a refugee from an acrobatic dog act with a weekend Gypsy Circus. Nako greeted Terri by rubbing against her legs, purring like a buzz saw and we all enjoyed a brief reunion. Frank was no longer mute. His voiced approval and disapproval of every family event took some getting used to.

A year later Nako and Frank and I were jogging on the Scottsdale Country Club golf course, late at night; Terri who was no longer part of the team and homesick for a previous way of life had returned to familiar climes.

As we ran geysers suddenly erupted and Nako was blasted by the full force of a stream of water meant to arc over a twenty-foot span. Nako was only a foot from the sprinkler head when it struck and was knocked five feet through the air. She hit the ground running and disappeared, never to return. Or so I thought.

Some months later I was entertaining former  team-member Terri, who was asking me about our Big City Kitty. As I was telling her the story we heard a familiar sound.

Meow ow ow ow, Meow ow ow ow.

I miss them. I really do. I jog on a treadmill. I live in a condo. Maybe an iguana.

Who, Not What (by Zippety Zot) Repost from Amo Apr 27 2012



The WHAT of life is found ‘neath the neck.

The WHO resides in the head.

What I want to know by zippety zot

Is Who is this in my bed?

The body’s familiar, it has two legs.

But who’s at the other end?

A woman it seems, she’s not a horse.

So what path down was I led?

This must be a dream, of course that is so.

Another one’s coming and

Off I shall go

I’m going

I’m going

I’m gone.



Singin' the bleus.