EAGLES
I watched them glide and wondered
do the eagles see the air
I know of course that I can
when there’s enough moisture there
But I was thinking about something extra
Like how a dog can hear high notes
And I can feel you from anywhere
When there’s enough moisture there
WAVES OF MEMORY
I was sailing into waves of memory
as I drove to my boyhood home
To find that some heavy breakers
had turned to light light foam
Here I walked for miles in freedom
and my home was warm and real
And here my good dog saved me
from a coyote’s tender meal
Here all my innocence was known
And most of it shattered too
As I remembered what people said
and then what they might do
I thought that I could face those waves
with the things that I now know
But I was more than a little surprised
by the strength of the undertow
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE – THE LEGEND
About a hundred and fifty or two hundred years ago, in what is now south west Saskatchewan, a band of Cree camping on the shore of a prairie lake were surrounded by a much larger band of Blackfoot warriors.
In order to save the lives of the young and strong, they slipped out under cover of darkness while the old and infirm stayed behind to keep the fires burning and keep up the appearance of an occupied camp.
When the Blackfoot attacked the next morning they were furious at having been tricked in this way and massacred all of the remaining inhabitants of the camp including all the old wives.
This unusual and powerful occurrence is remembered to this day in the name of the lake
I grew up and ranched along its shores.
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE – THE POEM
I have eaten the beef
that ate the grass
that grew on your unmarked graves
And the sadness I sing, I sing for you
for all sadness is one sadness
all pain one pain
and all treachery one treachery
Many have eaten of the buffalo and the beef
They wake in the night
and do not know why they are sad
The Legend
The Poem
GROWING STONES
Each spring on our farm
the old father sun turned up his warmth and
charm
melting the frost deep in the heart of the mother
earth
The
egg babies
thereby created
rose to the surface
to play in the open air
mischievous miscreants all
waiting to jamb diskers and drills
and if they get a little grain to hide in
ambush swathers, combines, and oil pans of
grain trucks
so we had to gather them into
school bus stone boats and wagons and haul
them off to places where they could be with their
older brothers and sisters on the reform school
rock pile
there is still some hope
that someday they can learn to be pillars of the
community
PREMONITION
Carl Walenda used to say
He only felt alive
when walking the high wire
everything else was just waiting
Some rodeo cowboys feel the same way
for eight seconds on a good day
One day in South America
Carl Walenda checked his tie downs
something he never did
He went up on the wire anyway
and he fell
After all those years of butterflies
it’s hard to tell
which is the black one
TRAIN DAY
Once a week, once a week
they came from all around, all around
and swelled, and swelled, the size of our young
town
And the chugging grew, and the chugging grew
and the chugging grew, and the whistle blew
and all was new, and the children knew
But now the lines are down, all down
old folks and old dogs in the town
not a child nor a pup, nor a pup
and not one elevator up
DANCES WITH HORSES
And what is the poem of Rusty
who slips at full gallop and picks up all
four feet and sets them down sure on the next
dry spot
Of Lady still so afraid of wire she can buck
fourteen hours tired
if a four inch chunk should strike a hoof
And the dance of the wild mare in the corral
who kicks and one foot goes by on each side of
your head
And of the colt separated from mother’s flank
by a gunny sack in the face and a quick gate,
who turns a tight arc and comes back at you, and
you see it in the eyes and duck and he sails over
taking out the top rail
And you hear that your father gave you the first
compliment you’ve
ever heard of by turning to the man beside him
and saying
“The damned fool will get himself killed someday”
TURTLE BOOTS
I bought a pair of boots one time
made from an old sea turtle’s hide
The prettiest boots you ever saw
but a little bit tight along the side
I figured it would only take a while
to break these babies in just right
and in the meantime at least I’d have
the pleasure of taking them off at night
Now a hundred years don’t seem long
to an old sea turtle, or his next of kin
but it appeared it was gonna take that long
to break those miserable damn boots in
I tried everything to ease that constant pain
I soaked ‘em, I oiled ‘em, I bent ‘em, I boiled ‘em
If anyone had suggestions, no matter how wild
I got out those boots and sure enough tried ‘em
But those son of a guns just continued to pinch
I couldn’t get them to move 1/16th of an inch
wild thoughts of destruction started filling my day
but the boots were too pretty I’d just give them away
I gave them to my younger brother first
by logic his feet should be smaller you see
but after a month or so he gave them back and said
he just couldn’t accept all that charity
So I gave them away to friend after friend
but I guess gratitude ain’t what it used to be
and the results were always the same in the end
I got those turtle boots back, but I mostly lost
the friend
and every time I got them back
I’d put them on and wear them a while
and never could figure how one pair of boots
could cause so much pain and still have so much
style
But I gave them at last to a chiropractor down in
Texas
and I didn’t get ‘em back, so I expect he’s got ‘em
beat
because if he can’t adjust those boots
he can always adjust his feet
BUFFALO CHIPS
Lily pads floating
on the sea of prairie grass
Heat for the tepees
or the homesteaders cabin
Nothing wasted in the West
And every boy knew
that a good sharp stick or a pointy toed shoe
would let you know
if one was just right, or still a little too new
And I’m here to tell you, that compared to a
good dry chip
meeting a West wind’s invitation
A Frisbee is a weak and poor, plastic imitation
REQUIEM
“There is nothing sad about an empty shell.”
Antoine de Saint-Exupery The Little Prince
My
poetry
is the shell
I leave you now.
It’s spiralled substance
all I’ve known of life and love.
See how it winds, and ever opens
stained with all the colors of my growth
and every gift and every touch of all of you and more
Hold it to your ear
you may hear the ocean