OFF TO SCHOOL
They sent me off to school today
round-roofed lunchpail packed
with all five stages of grief
Four layer sandwich of
denial
anger
bargaining
and depression
and an apple of acceptance
I don’t think I’ll eat the apple
Tag Archives: Childhood
CHILDREN HAVE
CHILDREN HAVE
Children have a great sense of smell
Maybe that’s why
their diapers make them cry
their first
breast sends them
on a lifelong quest
and a cinnamon bun
can stop us all in the mall
On a farm there’s hay
before it goes into the cow
and hay when it comes out
The pungency of pig, the foul of fowl
Rain before the first drop falls
and the whip of lightning after it cracks
Smoke on dad’s clothes from the prairie fire
snuff from the round box cutting his shirt
The dog, even wet, not diminished in love
If lost in a blizzard, or in the dark
it is always best to let go of the reins
so the horse’s nose can point you home
Lost in the world at four a.m.
twice blessed if yours can do the same
ONCE MORE ROUND THE MAYPOLE
ONCE MORE ROUND THE MAYPOLE
In leisure he revisits
things seen but never noticed in his youth
though they lay but a short arms length away
Cow with ingrown horn
then a saw-wire from repair
now metaphor for defense gone wrong
The deep snow forts of play
two Fahrenheit degrees away
from smother and a crying mother
Frost on a winter window
a forest of trees of finest lace
meant too cold to go outside today
now the music of the spheres in form
Best not to be a poet young
very little would get done
BALL LIGHTNING
BALL LIGHTNING
In the front door out the back
A ball of lightning through the barn
in the story dad would tell
I wonder now if the light was white
and if it made a sizzling sound
as some who’ve seen one have described
All happened in a blink I guess, and gone,
like this, and all the questions that I didn’t ask
PSYCHOTHERAPY or A SIX YEAR OLD LEARNS ABOUT CLOCKS
PSYCHOTHERAPY or A SIX YEAR OLD LEARNS ABOUT CLOCKS
The difficulty
in taking things apart to see why they tick
can often be
in putting them back together again
HI HO HI HO
HI HO HI HO
Work
I sometimes think about it, but not too hard
Like, shouldn’t there be a different word
for doing what we love or hate, for money
Like how I got to drive big trucks at eighteen
that I dreamed about at eight
and they paid me
Like playing cowboy and riding the range
where the deer and the antelope play
and getting paid
Building buildings bigger than Lego
and getting paid
Maybe work is about being serious
but I seriously question that too
I mean, what can be more joyous and serious
than a child adding one last block to his tower
or me, as I write this poem, and look up
to see it is 1:25 in the morning
MOTHER’S POEM
MOTHER’S POEM
The kitchen has always been the center
of the universe of any farm or ranch
She feeds their sleepy forms in morning
clothes them for the cold or warm
and prays them safe from harm
Looks out her window to the East
where barn shadows and rolling hills
greet them as they start their day
Men in firm direction to their work
children scattering to play
The South across the lake to catch
the water’s mood foretelling wind or calm
Sometimes
sees in morning
mirages of cut banks rising
like mountains along the Eastern shore
Or more directly to the South
forms of her old neighbour’s homes
rising and shimmering
like memories of her youth
Seasons spiral out and in from this center
crocus and buttercups in the greening grass
cactus flowers and the joy of newborn calves
The growing season of the grain
and golden glory of a well stooked field
The shortening of days into winter
and the ever present stars
joined by the dance
of Northern
lights
Within each season she has watched
the play of seasons of each day
men return from roundup
children from their play
While she waits always at the center
to warm and love and feed
and safely tuck away
LIFEBUOY
LIFEBUOY
I never have learned to swear very well
which just goes to show
that training will tell
That there is much to be said for good homes
and payoffs for stern discipline and hope
It’s not that I don’t know the words
but they all still taste like soap
HOME MADE ICE CREAM
HOME MADE ICE CREAM
When I was five we lived on a ranch
still forty miles and forty years
away from electric power
We only got to eat ice cream
when hail lay deep enough on the ground
to be scooped in the old hand mixer
Many a hot evening in August and July
five of us sat on those hard ranch steps
looking out at the Western sky
Watching the black clouds and the grey
building and rolling our way
Silently praying our protestant hail Marys
four for and Dad against
WHAT A BOY LOOKS UP TO
WHAT A BOY LOOKS UP TO
Del Dube; thin cowhand in the rafters
helping Dad to build the shed
Torn jeans and old bent boots
too full of holes for walking
but good enough to ride
Stepping light
from beam to beam
held up by air and cowboy pride
and a young boy’s adoration