ELEVATORS
Remembering
all those seed filled erections
in every town on the prairie
back when the west was young
Tag Archives: Youth
THE PELICAN PROJECT
THE PELICAN PROJECT
In July 2000 New Dance Horizons in Regina
Saskatchewan put together a presentation for
“Dance and the Child International”
It consisted of dance, song and poetry
performed by about thirty young people
many from Canada’s “First Nations”
I had the privilege of coaching and guiding
them as they wrote their own poems
Following are some poems that I wrote
for samples of metaphor, and for the awe and
respect I felt for their talent and their courage
Also, I was totally star struck by the grace and
beauty of Robin, the director and dance
instructor who goes around quoting Neruda
and holds my disowned love of movement
so wrote poems for and about her as well
SMALL TOWN – GRADE SEVEN
SMALL TOWN – GRADE SEVEN
In a town of six or seven hundred
you get a cross section of the country
One classmate’s father’s suicide with shotgun
splattered walls
One boy my age, drowned
in an upturned truck in a muddy ditch
One with leukemia, white as the snow
One redhead, Leslie French, as beautiful and
mysterious as the language
One blonde, Shirley Long, to long for
She’s only interested in grade 9 boys
One bruised heart
Not yet hard enough to be broken
GOODNIGHT MARILYN
GOODNIGHT MARILYN
(or dyin ain’t easy but it’s a livin)
All heroes will be expected to die young
to keep their fans from growing old
and will be well rewarded
in unspendable gold
If it’s sex you give then sex it pays
so take along the two young Ks
Though a frozen instant Porsche crash
could be worth a lot of cash
And the Colonel smiles as the money piles
for haunting supermarket aisles
But for biggest gross and longest run
it’s still the cross at thirty one
LEA
LEA
When you walked West from your home
down the main street to the
heart of the town
a car driving in from the country
could slip up silently behind you
A quick blast of the horn
and your knees
would collapse and you’d
drop like a stone
Good sport in a small town
If you were walking down that street
today
and I was driving behind
I would be sorely tempted to do it again
but this time
I would want to catch you
MY COUSIN WAYNE
MY COUSIN WAYNE
When Wayne was thirteen
he had the finest blondest hair
the finest features and the finest mind
of all the cousins round
A city boy and cooler about everything than all of us
until we took him hunting
When his first shot hit the rabbit
he ran and cried and held it till it died
At eighteen he quit school with A grades
a month before grad to get a jump on a job
met a girl and bragged of achievement on first date
Over achievement it turned out to be
quick marriage, quick, two children three
Army for security, liquor for the pain
it was twenty years before I saw him again
He was in a downstairs bar
sitting there as coarse and thick as adobe brick
I wanted to roll it all back
reach in for the lost fineness and yank it all inside out
And hold him like the rabbit when he cried
still innocent when it died
TRAIN DAY
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
GOOD OLD BOYS
GOOD OLD BOYS
For years you’ve been cleaning up your act
But now the good old boys are coming back
And the guy they’re coming back to see
Is the good old boy that you used to be
You broke some broncs and drank some
beers
And played tough football in those
years
Cruised to front and back seat double
features
And took big guns to kill small timid
creatures
Since then you’ve passed through many a
door
But can’t say to them. I’m not that person
anymore
Of course they may have changed too
But how oh how could they tell … You
FIRST ART PROJECT
FIRST ART PROJECT
It took a long time to pound
a whole keg of brand
new spikes
into the hard ranch yard
A silvery path
paved with shining heads
danced bright in the prairie sun
I stood back young and strong
and proud and knew
that it was beautiful and good
My father thought he had to teach
There was no room for art
in a hard yard
in a hard world
It was a long time before I tried again
KENNY and ME
KENNY and ME
(or Ranching at Eighteen)
Together we were young
and strong and very bold
And together we could drink
more beer than we could hold
We could drive home late and fast
singing every Johnny Horton song
And then fall asleep for minutes
and still answer the morning gong
We would work it out in the hot hot sun
(so easy then did the poisons yield)
As we sweated bales with pith forks
and passed gas
in a thousand acre field