COWBOY POETRY
This is not the poetry of pulling calves
in a cold wind and a foot or so of spring snow
with only a vest and a bottle of rye
to keep you dry
This
is the poetry
of that calf that would have died
standing on shaky legs
to drink warm milk
from the cow that would have died
BLIND ROOSTER
Afraid of missing daybreak
crows all night
BERT BUILDS A SHED
Bert is a gentle man
wakes early with no hurry
and drives nails all day
with a gentle fury
BLUE EYED BOY
Blue eyed boy
blasts off from breakfast like a quail on a rail
Collie dog leaps on board
and they’re off across the prairie
barely touching the tops of hills
Sun gives warmth or cloud gives shade
all depending on his whim
birds and rocks and swaying grass
everything living embraces him
Burrs don’t stick and thorns don’t prick
even fences joining in the play
happily turning their barbs away
Floating along on the wings of four
not long now till they slam that door
IN THE BEGINNING
Small town doctor
tired and out of sorts
resenting a 3:00 am delivery
and snapping at his helping nurse
Stands little in awe of the first born son
come to save the ranch
One wonders if the promise of a poet
would have outweighed
his desire for his bed
FROST BITE
On the prairies they know
that you have to use snow
In January on the Wood River
the laces got wet and then stiff
and could not be untied
Walked the whimpering long mile home
in one frozen skate and one warm boot
part of my foot and all my toes
numb and milky white
On the prairies they know
that you have to use snow
Too much warmth all at once
can bring the feeling rushing back
with more pain than you can stand
I have since learned
and this is the sad part
It is the same way with the heart
BARN SWALLOWS
They swoop
from beneath the eaves
Carving
an invitation
to the big red ship
Come slip your moorings
and follow us across the sea
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
FROGS
In my youth all the ponds and spring ditches
were alive with frogs in the millions
grasses waved with their leaping
night was loud with their song
Wise miners knew well to listen
when canaries stopped singing
We block out the silence of the frogs
like we blocked out their songs
and we sleep
ODE TO THE FARMER
No one will be surprised by the report
that farming is a very dangerous sport
What flapping empty fingered gloves
point back to momentary lapses
What limbs with what power
have been taken off by
power take offs
What tendons snapped like glass
and bones cut clean as grass
by unthinking mowers
And what of those neighbours dead and true
who for a minute forgetting what they knew
through red machines combined
with their grain
All these have earned his dusty tear
and many a “who’s next” fear
Year after year, after year, after year
And yet deep in the soils of time
the seeds of his goodness are growing
while the world turns in slow seasons
and he will be ready
when at last they declare
a true war on poverty
and are willing to bomb with wheat