Monthly Archives: February 2007

A BEAVER TALE

A BEAVER TALE

The ranch hands found him
half grown and half starved
wandering through the hills
five miles from any real water

Rolled him up in a leather jacket
threw him in the back of the jeep
brought him home and set him loose
in that big slough north of the barn

And what an architect he turned out to be
building his house with cedar post beams
and mud and straw and sticks for walls
larger and homier than a sodbuster’s cabin

An aquatics engineer as well
every inch of his domain cobwebbed
with small rivulets to larger streams
to little rivers all running to his castle

Spill a cup of coffee anywhere in twenty acres
and he could sip it in his home

Mighty impressive and a good neighbor too
until the dry years came

At the edge of the slough was a dugout
where the cattle watered spring and fall
and mostly in winter when we chopped
a hole through thick ice and the cattle’s
weight pushed water to the surface

The beaver needed water too
and he knew what to do
dig a hole through the soft dirt bank
and steal his water from our tank

I watched the surface a long patient time
to see the Vee of his swimming
to shining brown of his head
and fill it with lead

My brother held him up, large as a small man

Life on the ranch is very simple, as was I
what interferes with living has to die
as a city boy might swat a fly

Had they gotten to me then
I could have gone to war

THE ACCIDENT

THE ACCIDENT

Summer job at eighteen
building roads for Ramsay and Bird
hauling hot blacktop to the spreaders

Driving with broken wipers
rainy afternoon, newly oiled approach
wheels slide and cramp into gravel
and then the big blue truck
leaping into the air

A quick, high flip
landing upside down – roof crushing the cab
then bouncing onto the wheels again

Within the truck, and I, time moves slow
as in the flow of unthinking rhythm
I raise my forearm to the roof

And, as it seems, the slow collapse
without impact or jarring of any kind
brings me, ever so slowly, flat against the seat

Crawling out I observe
the roof wrapped round the steering wheel
and crushed pancake flat down to the dash

I see a small safe area
where my cushioned movement placed me

I feel a mystic fearlessness, a change in me

That night I sit with the rest of the crew
older tougher truck driving men

We don’t talk about magic, or beauty
or God or the plastic possibilities of time
of the cosmic wonder of what has happened

We talk of luck and other wrecks
and booze and broads and baseball
and other trucker talk and drink a lot of beer

They getting up – me coming down

AFTER THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

AFTER THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

Antifreeze or whisky
too much or too little
and you’re in trouble

This is the scene
that you would see
if the swirling snow
would let you

A young man
in an old Fork truck
heading West at
three miles an hour

Driver’s window open
arm extended full length

Mittened hand holding
twelve volt spotlight
beam groping the ridge
along the gravelled lane

Two feet from death on one side
ten on the other, and happy

DRIVING ON THE TRACKS

DRIVING ON THE TRACKS

I think you are supposed
to take some air out
of the tires

It wasn’t something
that we thought about
gliding across the prairie night
with no one needing to steer
and lots of cold beer
and the throttle
(they had throttles then)
set at forty miles per hour

It is something we would
probably have thought about
going across the old wooden trestle
that and the freights that run at all hours

Except that we were too busy
holding back our friend in the back
almost as strong as the three of us
in his full blown panic

Trying to leap
over the front seat
to grab the quivering wheel
to save himself, and kill us all

NORTH OF THE MEDICINE LINE

NORTH OF THE MEDICINE LINE

Given the theory
with some evidence
that the natives of this land
had about the same tolerance
for alcohol as they had for smallpox
and because someone “knew better”
they were not allowed to buy it

If your husband, although a member
of a supposed superior European race
showed a weakness for the drink
and a strong tendency to spend
the grocery money on the demon rum

You’d just go to the proper authorities
have him knocked down one race
quickly added to the Indian list
and barred from every bar

And there we were
children of the tolerant Swiss
eating nigger toes at Christmas
(we think them Brazil nuts now)
all thinking it all perfectly natural

SONNET FOR THE ORDINARY

SONNET FOR THE ORDINARY

There is a loving way to make a bed
With pillows care set at the head
And a mother’s loving knead to give
Adds nourishment to help us live

We know that water crystals change
With words of love or hate about
From snowflake to a muddy mange
And we are water without doubt

A cheerful flipper at the greasy spoon
Feeds us better though the food be junk
Than Pierre at the Ritz with silver spoon
Serving Crèpes Suzette with Galic funk

And care enough within a poem
can provide another home

CLOUD PLOWED FIELDS

CLOUD PLOWED FIELDS

I hear that line at an Austin open mic.
and I want it – actually I want it back
this is my line, how did he find it first

In any case – I hear the line, and Bam!
I am back in a cloud scudding sun baking
Saskatchewan summerfallow summer

Black lands between the glowing gold
John Deere with its hard iron hooves
ripping up the roots and seeds
of the flowers no-one wanted
call them weeds

Sometimes cutting worms in half
I hear that they grow back

While the little poet sits
by the caragana hedge
choking on the flowers
no-one wanted

THE CAMEL AND THE MOOD MODIFYING MUNCHER

THE CAMEL AND THE MOOD MODIFYING MUNCHER

After a while
the mounting evidence
of mirrors and old family photos

And why am I the one
always wearing the fat suit

Why is it
that there is still
nothing that tastes as good
as it feels not to feel

Why the little camel
sent to bed without supper

Still insures against lack
with a hump on his front
not his back