Mary had a little lab
his coat was dirt and roll
and everywhere that Mary went
he wagged his smile behind her
Tag Archives: Childhood
OFF TO SCHOOL
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
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
EARLY MORNING, DECEMBER, CALGARY
EARLY MORNING, DECEMBER, CALGARY
The neighbors called
as neighbors will
To report that Roberta
age four
in the front yard
making a snowman
A reasonable thing to do
as quickly as possible
after seven inches
of new wet snow
And dressed adequately
for the task
High boots and warm mitts
and nothing else
WORKING WITH FATHER
WORKING WITH FATHER
In the short days of a long winter
we sort nuts, bolts, and washers
against the busy days of summer
Place them in well marded bins
accompanied always by his mentor’s
Never waste five dollars worth of time
looking for a five cent bolt
The 9/16th fine-threads do not go in
with the regular or coarse
When you’re four
it’s not hard to get up
at four to ride in the cattle
truck to the city with your dad
excitement keeps you awake all night
There are knots you need to know
reef, sheepshank, and the ever
popular bowline that can still
be undone even after looping
a red bull weighing a ton
Hook the twine around your
little finger just son, in a way
that I could never get,
three turns and knot
the gunny sack
in two seconds
flat
Heel that calf, or turn the herd
drive the truck at the perfect speed
to catch the combine
on the fly
There is a great deal of pleasure in
doing something right, when right
is the only way anything should
ever be done
But never far, even yet
from the red-black cloud
of doing it wrong
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
THE HAUNTING
THE HAUNTING
The banshees and banishees are
still flying around in my head
Even though the banishers
are elsewhere or dead
and can’t send me without supper
cold and lonely to my bed
Hunger was always lonely
and lonely hungry behind that door
it’s easy to get things mixed up
when you’re four
But I’m still
eating today when you send me away
and probably will until
I pluck the i from the banishee