DUTCH GIRLS AT THE CENTER
Two pretty girls
about four and six
pick up glasses in the smoking room
They are having a good time
chatting back and forth to each other
Unlike my children at play
this seems such an adult language
Like playing grownup in their
grandfather’s coat and shoes
SAYINGS FROM OLD RANCH KITCHEN
“Clean off your plate
there are starving people in China”
“Take the last food from the bowls
we’ll have a nice day tomorrow”
I never put it together this way
but the people in China
must have always had a nice day
BIG BOYS
The deep sadness
The red anger space
The hang on tight we
Might end up in the next county passion
All hidden behind the great wall of control
That terrible land where I locked
the little boy who could cry
And if I open the door to one of these
will they come bursting out
And with what years
of build up force behind them
I know big boys don’t cry
I don’t remember why
would they die
SWEARING OFF
The story was told by my old friend Bill
about a time when he was four
well maybe a little less, maybe a little more
Seems he’d been rubbin’ up against some boys in town
and learned some language that made his momma frown
His folks tried about everything from soap on down
but the lessons they were pouring in just wouldn’t stay down
Finally they said, now Billy my boy
the decision we’re makin’ gives us no joy
Because generally we like you , and you’re pretty good
with your chores
but there’s no room on this ranch for language like yours
So, though it’s sure to make us grieve
we’ve packed your bag, and you’ll have to leave
They peeked through the curtains as he walked down the lane
with Dad remindin’ Mom that some lessons have pain
Billy stood at the road for 20 minutes or more
then slowly trudged back and knocked on the door
They slipped from the window and opened it slow
he said
“where in the hell am I supposed to go?”
THE COPENHAGEN KID
I didn’t kill a b’ar when I was only three
but I did start to chew before I was two
They say Copenhagen cowboys have a tendency to lie a bit
usually it’s how young they started and how far they can spit
Now I ain’t got many silver buckles to brag about
but this is for sure and without a doubt
I’ve got the record when it comes to snuff
for the earliest, and shortest, addiction to the stuff
Now my memory’s a little foggy but the legend’s quite clear
that somewhere between my first and second year
My daddy leaned over the crib to kiss me goodnight
with the can in his pocket not sittin’ too tight
It seems from the beginning that I sure liked the stuff
and, in no time at all, ate that whole box of snuff
Legend doesn’t tell my exact shades of green
but I hear there were some that had never been seen
Though out behind barns and sometimes in bars
I’ve tried cigarettes and pipes and a few good cigars
Still when folks pull out that old round can of thar’s
all my colour comes back and they think I’m from Mars
ONE ROOM SCHOOL
There were seven students and eight grades
With the inkwells covered to save the braids
The first day of school
the boys all rushed through the door
to fight for their seats
with their father’s initials carved thirty years before
At recess there were garter snakes, and gophers, and mice
which girls who were being chased, and teachers
who had just opened desk drawers didn’t think
were so nice.
At recess you could get on the big teeter totter
on the North side. If you could get high enough,
long enough, you could get a bobbing glimpse of
one of the big boys, hand outstretched for the
well deserved strap.
In winter the pot bellied stove was set up in the
back center of the room. How warm you were
depended on how close you were to the back. The
teacher didn’t always teach from the front of the
class
There was a big tin shield five feet high around
the stove to keep us from burning ourselves
although it got hot enough itself to do a pretty
good job
Any lapse in supervision added to its décor as
we melted our wax crayons into modern art on
its silver sides
It was always great to hear the lessons
meant for other ears than these
and to sting the older kids in spelling bees
In those days outdoor toilets were cricket
and so was the game we played
with firewood for posts
and baseball bats
for bats.
WAVES OF MEMORY
I was sailing into waves of memory
as I drove to my boyhood home
To find that some heavy breakers
had turned to light light foam
Here I walked for miles in freedom
and my home was warm and real
And here my good dog saved me
from a coyote’s tender meal
Here all my innocence was known
And most of it shattered too
As I remembered what people said
and then what they might do
I thought that I could face those waves
with the things that I now know
But I was more than a little surprised
by the strength of the undertow
GROWING STONES
Each spring on our farm
the old father sun turned up his warmth and
charm
melting the frost deep in the heart of the mother
earth
The
egg babies
thereby created
rose to the surface
to play in the open air
mischievous miscreants all
waiting to jamb diskers and drills
and if they get a little grain to hide in
ambush swathers, combines, and oil pans of
grain trucks
so we had to gather them into
school bus stone boats and wagons and haul
them off to places where they could be with their
older brothers and sisters on the reform school
rock pile
there is still some hope
that someday they can learn to be pillars of the
community
TRAIN DAY
Once a week, once a week
they came from all around, all around
and swelled, and swelled, the size of our young
town
And the chugging grew, and the chugging grew
and the chugging grew, and the whistle blew
and all was new, and the children knew
But now the lines are down, all down
old folks and old dogs in the town
not a child nor a pup, nor a pup
and not one elevator up
BUFFALO CHIPS
Lily pads floating
on the sea of prairie grass
Heat for the tepees
or the homesteaders cabin
Nothing wasted in the West
And every boy knew
that a good sharp stick or a pointy toed shoe
would let you know
if one was just right, or still a little too new
And I’m here to tell you, that compared to a
good dry chip
meeting a West wind’s invitation
A Frisbee is a weak and poor, plastic imitation