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
SURVIVAL
There are wolves
everywhere and closer
Your parents are busy flailing
at the snarling snouts and dripping fangs
Busy wrapping their own
and each other’s bloody wounds
While you curl up, cold and lonely
in the bottom of the sleigh
thinking, I’ll die if someone
doesn’t pick me up and hold me soon
A CAUTION AGAINST TOO MUCH CHURCH TOO SOON
Brother Wally at age three or four
sitting on the tracks as the train approaches
wanting to find out what it’s like to be an angel
The last minute rescue
granting him some fame and slack
when he went back to being
the little devil he had been the day before
It was a cold and muddy Sunday
Our little caravan of Christians
children, parents and student minister
stuck in the spring mud a mile from church
Me and city cousin Wayne
the chosen ones at age seven
chosen to walk
to the nearest neighbour
while the others wait in the cars
The neighbor’s not home
but his Cockshutt 40 tractor is
Some combination of farm boy bravado
and reluctance to slog
back to the cars in defeat
comes out as “I can drive a tractor!”
One foot each on the clutch
and a good deal of grinding
gets us into low gear
and off at about two miles per
The student minister meets us
two thirds of the way back
As our leader
in all things spiritual
and practical
he decrees that we are going
far too slow
and selects another gear
(probably at random, he’s from the city too)
The one he picks is the fastest
known in these parts as “Road Gear”
and we quickly accelerate to thirty
which causes the preacher to panic
(or remember that he forgot his bible)
and leap off
leaving us to wrestle the big red monster
now wildly careening from rut to rut
and rocketing toward the mired cars
and fearful families
Wrenching the wheel to the right
at the last possible moment
we narrowly avoid death and destruction
and stall to a stop in the water-filled ditch
amidst the prayers of the congregation
EARLY MORNING, DECEMBER, CALGARY
The neighbors called
as neighbors will
To report 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
In the short days of a long winter
we sort nuts, bolts, and washers
against the busy days of summer
Place them in well-marked 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
The difficulty
in taking things apart to see why they tick
can often be
in putting them back together again
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
GROWING INTO IT
Remember all those hand-me-ups
all at least two sizes too big
mother bought for you
You look like a clown but don’t dare frown
it’s frugal and wise so don’t roll your eyes
“Be careful, be careful please”
but you’re all elbows and knees
Before they half fit they all look like shit
so it’s back to the store to try it once more
and your behind is behind two sizes again
Childhood patterns are hard to break
Growing out of school, marriage, and every
job I’ve ever had before I really got it
before I was even big enough to fit
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