It was all of ten years ago, now. I was combing the internet for good sites where I could share my writing. There wasn’t much out there then, and there were certainly no sites that could compare to Netpoets. I didn’t have any allegiances at that time, so I was frequenting a couple of sites where writers could post their works. One or two were pretty good, and one was designated as a “slam” site. The title was well deserved.

I found negligible talent there, and a LOT of offensive critique. The pseudo-poet slammers couldn’t handle well-written poetry. Heaven forbid a poet should use rhyme… and meter? I doubt they had any idea what iambic meant. Am I being too harsh? Likely not. They didn’t understand it, so they criticized – brutally.

I began to see a pattern of aggressive behaviors that was clearly my cue to exit the melee. As it happened, Netpoets was simultaneously growing into its own, though operating on an “invitation only” basis. My visits to the slamming poet jam brought my attention to one very talented poet. His problem amongst the slammers was that he used meter and rhyme in his work. Michael Mack, aka “Balladeer,” was that poet. His pseudonym was perfect, as was his poetry. Needless to say, I tossed him a poetic life preserver and reeled him into the Netpoets fold.

Michael’s quick wit was obvious to me from the start. He said, ”I’m from Missouri – Show me your site!” He truly did grow up in Missouri, in a tiny town with only about a hundred other people. Of course, there was little to do in a town of that size in the 40’s and 50’s. Michael was reading and writing poetry by the age of five, and writing his own ballads not much later. .

While the Air Force took Mike to Europe and the Far East for several years, his wanderlust prevailed. Mike played professional baseball in Venezuela for seven years, while writing all of his own material for his own daily radio program. Writing has always been the focus of Mike’s life. He’s written two plays, each running for approximately six months, and he’s always continued to write poetry and short stories. One of his best, “Treblinka,” was published in book form and selected by the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial Library to be put on display.

Having been settled in the Fort Lauderdale area for many years now, Michael has lectured on poetry in the local universities and continues to read his ballads to local interest groups. I had the pleasure of attending a poetry reading “contest” in Fort Lauderdale with him a few years back, and I wasn’t a bit surprised when he took first place. He has his works all committed to memory, and can readily recite a variety of his poetry.

His poem, “Small Pain in My Chest,” was read at the funeral of the first Blackhawk helicopter pilot shot down in Iraq, with over 5000 in attendance. This piece is also currently included as required reading in the high school literature textbooks used throughout China.

Michael Mack’s first compilation of poetry was published a few years ago, entitled Balladeer. He is now a member of the Florida State Poetry Association, and a past-president of the South Florida Poetry Institute. He continues to give readings and teach poetry appreciation at the county outreach centers. In 1980, Mike was runner-up to Dr, Edmund Skellings for the selection of Poet Laureate of Florida. He’s no “runner-up” to our 12,500 Netpoets members. We know he deserves first place.

Thanks to the world-wide exposure afforded by our site Passions In Poetry, Mike has received thousands of letters and comments supporting his work, for which he is very grateful.

Small Pain in My Chest
A Ballad by Michael Mack

“I wonder if you’d help me, sir”, he smiled as best he could.
“A sip of water on this morn would surely do me good.
We fought all day and fought all night with scarcely any rest -
A sip of water for I have a small pain in my chest.”

As I looked at him, I could see the large stain on his shirt
All reddish-brown from his warm blood mixed in with Asian dirt.
“Not much”, said he. “I count myself more lucky than the rest.
They’re all gone while I just have a small pain in my chest.”

“Must be fatigue”, he weakIy smiled. “I must be getting old.
I see the sun is shining bright and yet I’m feeling cold.
We climbed the hill, two hundred strong, but as we cleared the crest,
The night exploded and I felt this small pain in my chest.”

“I looked around to get some aid – the only things I found
Were big, deep craters in the earth – bodies on the ground.
I kept an firing at them, sir. I tried to do my best,
But finally sat down with this small pain in my chest.”

“I’m grateful, sir”, he whispered, as I handed my canteen
And smiled a smile that was, I think, the brightest that I’ve seen.
“Seems silly that a man my size so full of vim and zest,
Could find himself defeated by a small pain in his chest.”

“What would my wife be thinking of her man so strong and grown,
If she could see me sitting here, too weak to stand alone?
Could my mother have imagined, as she held me to her breast,
That I’d be sitting HERE one day with this pain in my chest?”

“Can it be getting dark so soon?” He winced up at the sun.
“It’s growing dim and I thought that the day had just begun.
I think, before I travel on, I’ll get a little rest ……….
And, quietly, the boy died from that small pain in his chest.

I don’t recall what happened then. I think I must have cried;
I put my arms around him and I pulled him to my side
And, as I held him to me, I could feel our wounds were pressed
The large one in my heart against the small one in his chest.

More of Michael’s great works can be found in the Piptalk Forums.