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
MY MAYDAY MAYPOLE BIRTHDAY
May children dance
laughter wraps with ribbons
spring opens heart
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
Then South across the lake to catch
the water’s mood foretelling wind or calm
Sometimes
sees in morning
mirages of cutbanks 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
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
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 into 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
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
MEMORY
What I remember most is
the earlier the memory
the more space to store it
THE DAY DREAMER AT TWELVE
I dream too much the teacher says
he doesn’t like to see
anything that handwriting
can’t bring down to a D
FOR IUDITA
(a child of the survivors)
Artists without hands
hold the brush with their feet
Without hands or feet
hold the brush in their teeth
As for me and my friend
all that remains is the navel
And small circles
in the center of
the canvas
REED BETWEEN THE LIONS
My mother’s will was always
stronger than my won’t
My father’s won’t was always
stronger than my will
Caretaker soft or Cowboy strong
How quick I learned to change my face
to face the faces that I faced
And’
I can still spin that mirror now so you
can see the face you want to see
But neither you nor I will know
which one is me