The Spirit of Hastings By Jim Gandolf

The Spirit of Hastings

Poem 

By: Jim Gandolf 

©️09302026WMA

Born of the Michigan soil, quiet and strong,

Where the roar of the engines belonged all along.

A craftsman of speed with a steadying hand,

He took on the fastest across all the land.

Through the brickyard of Indy, where history lies,

Under treacherous heat and turbulent skies,

In Seventy-Three, through the darkness and rain,

He earned him a victory heavy with pain.

Through hardship and heartbreaks that tests every man,

He stayed true to the passion where it all began.

Then Eighty-Two called for a duel at the end

Sixteen feet of margin, a race to defend.

Down the main straightaway, wheel-to-wheel to the line,

A masterpiece etched in the passage of time.

Two titles at Indy, a legend supreme,

A blue-collar hero who lived out the dream.

Though the checkers have fallen and silent the track,

The roar of his courage will never look back.

For those who were there and who watched him drive by,

The spirit of Johncock will never quite die.

Jim Gandolf 

A fan of GJ. #20

Beyond the Whispers By Jim Gandolf

Beyond the Whispers 

Poem 

By Jim Gandolf 

©️09242026WMA

Beneath the North Shore pines where shadows lean,

A house stands watching on the lake’s edge, green.

They whispered of a witch behind the door,

A creature born of rumors and old lore,

Who kept her secrets hidden in the trees,

Her name swept up in Milwaukee's chill breeze.

Yet where the myth proclaimed a darker soul,

Was just a quiet hearth that art made whole.

No wicked spells were cast upon the land

Just gentle beauty shaped by human hand.

Intricate sculptures framed the garden grass,

Reflecting light like sun upon clear glass,

And vibrant artwork spoke of life and care,

Breathed softly into the Lake Michigan air.

I met her on a day now years gone by,

Under the arch of an open, pale-blue sky.

No black-draped specter from a campfire tale,

Just a kind spirit where the waters sail

A lover of the earth, of honest food,

Who found in natural things a grounded mood.

Where others saw a legend wrapped in fear,

I found a quiet truth standing clear.

We spoke as time slowed down along the shore,

And all the hollow stories mattered no more.

The rhythm of the waves against the sand

Brought a serene comfort across the land.

A perfect atmosphere, soft and deep,

Where restless minds could finally fall asleep.

In her peaceful yard, beside the rising foam,

I found a moment that felt like home.

Jim Gandolf

Summer 1983 By Jim Gandolf

             Summer 1983 

   The Tale of The Westside of 

                   Nap Town

          Poem By Jim Gandolf

                 ©️09102026

We navigated Naptown by instinct and sun,

Lost on the West Side, nowhere to be,

When time moved slow and the days were won

Between Lafayette Square and Eagle Creek.

Those warm summer afternoons needed no phone

No endless texts, no glowing screens.

We just knew the spots where the crowd had grown,

Bound by the rhythm of being teens.

We’d roll into the Square, meet the whole crew,

Footsteps echoing light and loud.

Fresh Colorado hiking boots, brand new,

Leaving dark rubber scuff marks to make us proud.

A warm Hot Sam’s pretzel, salty and twist,

An Orange Julius, frosty and sweet,

Simple luxuries top of the list,

Fueling our wander through West Side streets.

Then off to the water when the heat got high,

Eagle Creek shore with the sand in our toes,

Renting a canoe under the Indiana sky,

Tipping it over as the laughter rose.

Drenched in the lake, we learned on the spot

A funny truth that the water reveals:

A soda can sinks right down to the plot,

While a beer can floats till the dynamic steals.

We were lost on the West Side, free in the haze,

No maps in our pockets, no place we had to be,

Just Naptown youth in those golden days,

Etched in the water, the mall, and the memory.

Jim Gandolf