Salmon Mousse and Cucumber Sandwiches
a word played
Pseudo Rabbits turn purple.
the call of Satan
of dragons roaring
thine crawl on all fours
Wolverines howl the night down?
women die by the sword
we hear you say,
maidens of blood ready.
to the savvy beat
yo doin’ in da ‘hood
dude, she stacked yo
man, suck on this xtasy tab.
my mind again
on the challenge
day longs for evening
the respite of night
shadow men will walk
Something special about Alice
there is something special about Alice,
way she wields her poetry pen
conversations inside poems that stir
there is something about Alice,
sure if it’s her ne’er say die attitude
fact that her new home is special,
I see a poem penned by Alice
always aware where she comes from
her mind almost trips along like mine.
I can only read one Alice Poem a day,
is the publishing regime in Blue
I can at least go back through and read.
you for reading my eulogy about Alice
you too have the same feeling when you read
a gracious lady writes for us privileged.
dust of a whillywhirl
on a cactus
crown of office.
thud of wild horses
dust to anoint kings
lost to firing ranges
proud warrior race
confined to nothing
loss of Buffalo
decorations, Made in China.
Devil Moon of the Mighty Eagle
moonbeams on crowns
one who yawns,
Goyaałé, a fading picture.
Man Mountain, Woman Sky
on a range
huge boulders in each hand
plains lined with trees
to be bowled ten pin style
up and see the Sky Woman
cloak of grey cloud
around my massive shoulders
I ruin her siblings domain?
each boulder on the side of the hills
for another test of triumph
day when the cloak is removed
Woman can perceive my want.
her weep now, a torrent
soft underbelly of my hills, my children
for eternity in love
sprouting plants and blooms her testament.
we rejoined in matrimony
children and mine as one applaud
removes the cloak, Papa Sol shines
ones warm in the afterglow.
back down, wrap the High Ranges cloak
my way back into the Ranges
lay there for my turn at sleep
Woman and Mountain Man as one.
many, I hear voices too,
sometimes, when there’s things to do
pops up and details a question
comment to follow a gloat.
a Demon that tells me to jump
put my head on a track – advancing train
pick up a piece of steel and throw it at something
I fight these voices with aplomb.
voices that congratulate me on decisions
clap loudly when I achieve an aim,
voices are preferred and welcome
five each other when the right choice taken.
on a panel that that highlights Hearing Voices
participant in a seminar of help,
on the clients faces as the tape screams at them
the feedback, wonderment of shared sufferance.
ensconced on a workshop that deals
clients mystified, then clarified
knowledge that some they deal with afflicted
able to go away and work with knowledge.
Tree Children, Hill Children
children stand and stare
at Man Mountain
head there by Beganroost Top
shoulders on Highrent Rise
amiable hips the crest of Gordenthrop.
children look at Papa Sol
Sky Woman’s cloak wrapping
reach and her touch a loving thing
drops of tears falling on Man Mountain
through the gorge to be licked by us.
Indians call these things by name
Eagle hovering between both, Hikoioi
great eye searching for food supplied,
salmon in the tears of Sky Woman
rapids and dives for tepid pools.
in the Rain, medicine man calls out
chant to raise Man Mountain
to dry the Sky
of oats and jerky his staying power,
Chitiwa groves sway in the breath of Papa Sol
dance also swayed to the strength of it’s breath.
and observe, the fountain of youth,
whillywhirl of Papa Sol and Man Mountain
be they trees or hills, dance forever
sight for sore eyes, the Grey/white wrap
shrouded in Woman Sky’s love.
not the Indian names for things,
a recent interloper by God’s design,
am aware of the European names
a also man of intellect, I know what I see,
a man empowered by nature and fairy stories.
Ocean God, Sky Woman, Man
silver blue reflects Sky Woman’s power,
of Cumulo Nimbus sail her heavens,
drawing power of Ocean God sends above
cloak for her to share her love.
Sol generated wind cuts Ocean God’s domain
the shroud towards the Man Mountain,
able to feed his children, and hers too, starved
landscape when the wind fails to blow westerly.
Lake Love fills with tears and fish,
a capturing ground
girth nothing compared to Ocean God’s vastness,
of Hills and Trees surround her protectively.
of wind and cloud shares Ocean God and Lake Love.
the Sioux will pack their summer camp,
the eagle south to the savannah of Montana,
of the Buffalo King drawing bows and spikes,
clothes for the tribe, meat for the jerky.
God offers up fresh Salmon for the tear ducts,
Sioux capture before the Grizzlies take heart,
Man climbs from his slumber, his spirit guide
points the way for them, danger free, solace.
Lady Dancer, soothsayer, dances good omens,
Mountain Man and Sky Woman dancing
wind fresh, the cloak of Grey/White enveloping,
to the hunting grounds fresh and safe.
Far Man takes a look at the weather pattern,
the day has come, Ocean God’s bounty abroad,
great lady and man dancing across the grasslands
aplenty as maple leaves dance high in the air.
Wolf Cub signifies the journey to start, omens good,
fires burning down, the north wind encroaching,
of the Sky and man of Mountain settle down,
wind of Papa Sol moves around behind, driven.
too soon the grey/green of an angry Ocean God
snow flurries to Sky Woman, reaching everywhere,
grey of thunderheads over the Sierra Nevada’s,
awaiting the first snow flurries of the year,
day when the Sioux reach winter home
chase grassland animals, and men hunt
with horse and spear, no guns yet, soon
of the grasslands as the north wind cuts through
beach where the Mayflower touches ground,
of the White Eyes, soon to affect them all,
Ocean God, Man Mountain, and Sky Woman
unsullied by the approaching nemesis, scum,
downtrodden, downright dastardly demons
process of modernisation about to affect deities,
to affect the way of life, about to demonise false gods,
to sodomise the very life of the plains Indian.
Crow Feather Bigfoot*
*The title is my Indian spirit guides Indian name for me.
sit upon the crown of Snow Covered
the wind my grandfather tasted,
foul stench of LA born on a westerly,
the snow beneath me melt slowly
melted for my father and his forebears
each sat and sought solace from above
spirits purely divined by the cold of reality
beneath me, the winding of many roads
associated poison these bring daily,
buffalo gone to ranches in the north
unless permitted by authority,
young ones lost to Playstation and Xbox
here and ponder about the direction of the tribe
up in a reservation for generations now,
the maples and caribou of the northern lands,
I sit here and ponder Sky Woman’s vapour trails
Sol’s global warming, Man Mountain’s
saplings stripped at early age for a new suburb.
back to my grandfather, and his grandfather
generations that fought and died for a cause
their domains, their livelihood, their mana.
drops to my knees, I smoke the pipe
and get a vision of what’s in store,
my European mind now says more of the same.
my way back to the tribe, puzzled.
The Children of the Mist
a groundswell of movement back to the old ways,
Maori of New Zealand, the Plains Indian, Zimbabwe,
need to recapture the old traditions and beliefs.
Maori or recovering the language is huge here,
just within Maori, with the Pakeha* too
need to recognise the deep cultural diversity,
call the Indians of North, Central and
First Peoples, though it’s debatable if they were first,
more than any have lost their cultural identity,
maybe the mountain people of the South Americas,
tide is turning however, the likes of a Sioux
to a mountain again to seek guidance
Maori Kaumatua** reading the weather patterns
Israel Kamawiwo’ole the Hawaiian
the loss of lands and fishing rights
is not an amalgam of yesterday and tomorrow,
is the knowledge that change can be made,
the new weather roars in and cleans anew.
– Maori term for the Europeans/Strangers
– Maori word for Elder
a super day, when children come out to play
a great evening, when ships ashore are heaving
a green zone, where flowers grow alone
always the right time, when bells in clocks chime.
a blue sky, that blankets the ground from on high,
a green belt, where trappers trap beaver for pelts
a white plume, where a volcano consumes
never growth, where never
I see you, the person who mixes the herbs in stew,
I beg for money, where the food of the day is honey,
I rhyme, where the ropes on the hill mean climb,
I pass algebra, where the only clothes you wear’s a bra.
see me, the man that wiles away his time in poetry,
understand, the need to be better well at hand,
miss the clouds, the remnants of Christian shrouds,
make love, when the scent at hand is a foxglove?
The American Dream (or China
calls the tune)
a toy today, was nothing fantastic,
a plastic Minnie Mouse for my child,
on the packet – Made in China.
of all the job losses over the past decade,
factories shut through economic reasons
now living on redundancy, unable to work.
past Rudderheimer’s Boutique Toy Store
in and sure enough, all made in Asia,
taste of the toys suddenly overwhelming.
the Jackson Wanderers have Sony backing,
Japanese yen sponsored funding sports teams,
is the Mighty US Dollar these days?
home, yes I have a car and a job,
the internet for items that used to be US,
being manufactured in Mexico and Peru,
shoes made in Indonesia,
Asian cars everywhere
Michael Moore’s Flint Michigan special
sound of machinery made in Japan or Korea?
get over the Walt Disney empire,
toys in mass production in China,
the number of American tourists is down.
I hear you say, we are the healthiest around
wealthiest too, millionaires galore (are you one?)
slum areas in most cities is growing daily, the poor
workers who can’t relocate, who can’t earn,
skills lost to other places, their time dying
Coke have a plant in Russia supplying Europe.
my camera on the desk in front of me, Kodak!
too scared to lift it, to search for it’s country of origin,
sees my face and shivers, I’m despondent.
Notes from the Red diary.
I sit here ruminating,
tones from yesteryear waving
sound of crickets early onset summer
rice I had for lunch sitting
people in town shopping spree
on a unicycle saunters by, smiling
from the night before
for birds flying inside the hall
meter clunks, a sound of revenue
parlour pizzazz croons
between two banks and money
the exchange rate jumps, smokes dearer
my ice cream, dripping
new pairs of shoes for family
in carparks silent like a death dirge.
Notes from the Red Diary – Connie’s Chest
the curtains, the day growing anew
poured in from the rising sun, aglow
purple of autumn leaves reflecting down,
birds gathered leaves and straw, spring
to be built, flowers to bloom and grow
Wordsworth book on the table by the door,
chilling blast etches icicle furrows
drip of water silenced by being frozen
snow has footprints of night time animals
early rise of the sun and late dipping
days when the pool is used many times
under the Yew tree a place for picnics
is the breadth of her poetry, we’re amazed
of verse, the descriptions succulently passed
readings always a pleasure for eye and ear.
Notes from the Red Diary – Gardawgs Gavel
his vast poetry pen,
gavel of poetic rites and rituals
in Red appear from billowing verse
Gambler on riverboats – Whitman
of the old country
read and reread
when ages dictated
or non fiction.
from the same book, you and I
tome that says spread the word
open at all pages
a story or two to dance out
Ladies in petticoats do the Cancan
streets of New Orleans yet
to be discovered
Gras wishing and waiting
dive into prehistoric America.
thoughts to myself,
to appease my own sense of voyage
the thoughts of others
Gary, but more than that I’m Gardawg
Poet, statesman, raconteur – Laureate!!
Notes from the Red Diary – Allen’s
a breath of fresh air
he’s given to driving
a well tuned
his style and tenacity
dogged determination to keep it going
daily a poem we can all share
indulge in, I salute you, Sir.
Notes from the Red Diary – Sue’s
lady of the board
yet glamourous poetry
where words speak louder,
than the language itself,
a day is not wasted
everyone is honoured
read her erudite words,
love of her poetry borne
with meaning and hope,
days when stars are born
from the tips of her fingers.
seem heavier than before
seem to drop and poof!! Puddle,
twenty years ago, the rain
pattered it’s way from sky to sea
it drops like fifty icebergs from heaven
floods severe and deadly now, shame
a way to reverse the current process?
Earth on the same axis as five years ago.
yesterday the wind blew dust
never remember a drought this side of the hills
the least at this early time of summer,
it rained 8 days ago, at night.
vividly the long hot summers of the 70’s
kids splashing in shallow rivers, the beach
no worries about how much sun to bake in
times when less dressed was best and more,
dresses shorter, shorts said you obeyed the Sun
melanoma and 50spf sunscreen abound, so…….
glaciers are melting, and the northern Ice Cap
we produce enough sunscreen to save the day?
Mirrors through the Looking Glass
(Also known as The Mad Hatter was a Stoner)
whistling the tune from The Fisherman’s Daughter, the high key shrilling out in high F, the bass key Low B. The ladies walking their dogs kinda skipped along when they passed me on my own park bench, the remnants
of pigeon poo washed off by morning rain.
affects of the acid tab
his red nose
long fingers stroked
that dizzy blonde bitch.
local cop sauntered by, his night stick twirling deftly in his left hand, the gun hand stroking a solid .38 clipped back to
handle deadly situations. I smiled at him, he pretended not to notice, but his
eyes were lavishly passing to and from, me and the path ahead.
Mad Hatter came down
his monthly high,
A in Wonderland
have been high
glass that looked back
when a bunny ran forward.
Doctor from Doctor Who
in, in a time machine
the stoned ones
to foreign land
gone now, chasing some inert pigeon that shat on his head, the .38 waving wildly about as birds flew amok. I settled down to a two day old Subway sandwich (been saving it), the pregnant mother with one in the pram
not long off the nipple (if at all) sails by in her Zambriskies designer track suit and Nike runners, hair carefully pony
tailed back and the face a picture of a painted model. If I had smelt her, wouldn’t
have been surprised to smell Chanel No5.
lace on her stockings
wasn’t her forte
cup cakes Doctor"
the therapeutic nature
Jane sticks dipped
tree fell! I know, I’ve been sitting here on and off for thirty years now,
my spot, but the bloody thing just toppled off it’s base and crashed in an almighty heap in the spare ground next to
the Bird Aviary. Scared the shits outta those birds I assure you. Gave me the collywobbles too. I stood up and went over to
the silver birch that had just passed away, and as self professed Padre of the Williamstown
Park, I administered last rites to the poor tree and any animal that
may have either been in the tree or under it.
to Lou Reeds
a Walk on the Wild Side”
rather high Wabbit
bellywho to whoever,
Alice MY Dear
him bye bye’s
in the mirror
Snow White (hussy)
the room went blank,
the cupboard door
immersed in my repartee, I failed to see my brother and sister come to visit. They
must have seen me ranting and raving, so made their way over. I heard them approach,
turned and confronted them both with a special spell. “Hi duckerus, dindycator catchstickery” and poof I closed
my eyes and they disappeared. However when my sister asked what the fuck was
happening did I then open my eyes and found my wizardry to be as effective as my Spirituality self. Today I put the rest of my life behind me and followed them back to the Redcliff centre for the Mentally
Challenged. Yeah, ok so the cop might have had good reason.
garbage man filters the bins,
Hatters Mad Hat
Subway wrap scrunched up,
next to the bin
pigeon poo and a twig
from a fallen birch,
mirror in pieces adjacent
other end of seat.
dollar, gold coated
the Wizard of Oz
the planet again.
The Bond of Matrimony.
here, my twilight years, not dreaming anymore, but reminiscing over the early years, the kids, their education, their respective
marriages, and more importantly the part you played in it. I sneak a quick look
at the photo wall and your beaming real man face shines back. The last time I
saw you alive, your smile was booming, the celebration of another grandchild, the fifth, and the fact it being a boy and bearing
your name, your smile just exploded.
corners of my mouth
you my darling, I’m your angel in the photo, the one next to the marriage ones, when we had our first child. I watch over you from here, and from Heaven too, your standing is such you deserve it. I see you mind in your reactions, read your body language to tell me when you are ready to come hither. The signs are good, you’ll be a great grandmother one day, and that’s
care, love’s game
Love on A Christmas Tree
you Elvie, fifth Branch third twig
by your lovely string, toot sweet
It’s me, your love from last year
Angel with a branch rudely poked
love me still, it’s been a year
from the lights tires you huh?
do I see this year? Same family,
house, te wallpaper has changed,
fire is now gas, no more smoke outs
be another child, more presents,
they have the Christmas cake there
Santa comes down the chimney,
be safe, at least until they fell the tree
put us daydreaming Fairies and Elves abed
right I love you, next year you need to be higher
can smile at each other and swap secrets.
then, sleep it is, until the little ones come down
see only presents and the wrapping paper,
two lonely figures atop a tree in love
eyes of the world falling to sleep.
The Loneliness of Christmas Past
me and the wife rigging the room
the tree, parking the lights
this done in the middle of the night.
the cakes, puddings too
the fridge with things so sweet
of heart, strong of feet.
presents for the children so good,
so big, wrapping so careful
friends can be so tearful.
I sit in my one bedroom flat,
children all gone now, living elsewhere
life I once lived follows me so clear.
a present from an early Santa,
teddy meant for my daughter
of loss heavier than water.
now in sudden repose, remembering
energy we spent to make the day great
spent without me, my time comes too late.
suddenly the cloud of grey settles deep,
settled in a place far away now,
I can talk to them, must figure out how.
ramrod straight, anchored to Icaria
my hands above my ahead – “Take Me God”
baleful moan of family and friends – “fear not”
reverence to conduct myself prophet-like
BOOM! Lightning strikes my feet, I jump
sudden revelation electricity is the real God,
inside the Palace of Chaenik, my abode
bouncing on sheepskins and doeskin rugs
am God, all I need to do is place a finger in the lamp
watch the glow in the room amplify to motif size,”
light from my eyes shining pure gold, reflective
members cower near the door, wizardry
comes to the door to see the occurrence
over on the rugs and falls at my feet, Superman
a hand down to him, silver blue lightning strikes
hand, out of curiosity, touches mine, electrifying
God in my head ‘use it well, to heal to cure’
Romans get wind, there will be hell to play,
say the event created a little boy, a manger
Bethlehem way, a pure woman, and a man
I take the journey, many miles south, Greece
Palestine, I’d stand out like anything, but….
to pay homage, this day was more than realised
day God passed on his heritage, to two, anointed,
the Sharman, the blue light dissipated now
change my name to Paul, and go on a mission
the time it takes, I am driven to a place in time
need to carry God’s Word, but we’ll see, saviour.
Footnote: I’m not totally aux fais with things biblical even though I have read it, doesn’t
make me an expert. This is just a story using characters from that time, even
the places might be wrong. I know, weak excuse, the import in this is faith in
God, not the prophets or disciples, especially in all religions. One truth I do know of, I was struck by lightning last year
and my feet are still light.
the Shadow of the Day
are lyrics from a Linkin Park song that I am really enjoying right now:
And the shadow of the day,
Will embrace the world in grey,
And the sun will set for you...
dawned bleak and cold,
wind from the south spreading morning showers
when good cheer and heart are molten to gray.
Christmas dinner was lunch today,
turkey, ham, and copious vegetables,
a cold beer beforehand, first this year.
folks had gone home to family
I sit composing another poem for good people
good people I used to love no longer care, shame.
not down about it, far from it,
to see the world in it’s true colours,
homage from friends I have made here.
embracing the world in Grey
cloak of a dying wizard shines dark in life
it recolourises to a shade of white.
I know, it’s after Christmas.
sent me a return email
early asking for pressies innit”
haven’t tested the new ones out yet,
Ho, Ho, the dogs bark reindeer style
snow on the ground somewhat out of season
in the Manger emptied for a donkey,
Watson called for, something untoward,
hymen’s stopping the birth process, Sir’
we call the Pope, let him know we have another,
this is called silly season for a reason,
people are vehemently looking for a saviour,
they peruse their navel and the cost of living.
my wife in May, she married me then too,
we parents are two, makes for easier passage
right to tell everyone we have a MUM and DAD,
was a great month I believe, the equinox
shepherds travelled a few months too early,
in Waiting travelled too, the occurrence rare
the Moon stopped over Auckland, a beam down,
hand in affairs so people can witness his act,
revelation that a new born King was a miracle, Oops,
considered lucky to keep the cord, especially for sailors,
father kept it in his wallet, even to these days,
one for my first daughter lost in the melee.
moved closer to South America today,
the Atlantic north and southward,
Britain weighed anchor and settled anon,
place of great grace, the Mediterranean
hands with Italy, Greece and Turkey
amongst the European Union.
they see the Moon, up there, in the north)
King is actually a Queen we are told,
new born brat of God born to Marie,
grow a seamstress of the royal realm,
of seventeen seamstresses in Otara,
cheap clothes for the markets, for the poor,
suddenly the doors close, the world a different place,
yet to come to be announced and anointed,
centuries will pass, I predict, before war again.
Purple Dyed Hair and other nuances.
dye your graying hair purple, a sign that things aren’t sitting well with your aging.
No matter how many times people say things like “you look great” and “I wish I was in your shape
at your age” don’t weigh too heavily on your disposition. Even I
have said you are great, but still, the changing of hair colour and lipstick (a deep reddish orange) signifies that things
on your mind weigh heavily.
Green Green Grass of Home.
planet shifted direction
not to collide
an errant Mars,
Great Uncle Albert
stuck to his old telescope
in a breath
we argued, the dress was just too skimpy, yes I like it on you, but the looks you’ll get from the public just not marriage
endearing. Knowing you’re tarting yourself up for your 50’s irks
me, am I supposed to move with these changes, or dare I behave myself, set a good example and grow old graciously. There’s
not a lot I can do to hide my advance into netherworlds for aging rockers, my long haired mullet a sign I’m too fighting
it, but at least it’s a badge of office for my age. Looking like Mary Suffragette
the Prostitute is not my cup of tea.
heels kicking up
still showed enough leg
had golden hair then
as a child it was gold
my move when she
into the neighbourhood
struck from first meeting,
blossomed to eternity.
this time the kids were away at school, we argued about our changing lives, about the mellow me, and the indignant you, we
argued to the blue blazes until the purple of your face matched you finely dyed hair (which started this anyway). We decided to settle amicably, the grey would come back, the dresses less eye catching, the lipstick less
threatening. I promised to mow the mullet and to trim the long beard. Well we didn’t actually agree to anything, but we both knew what each thought of the other at such
a crucial stage of matrimony. I reminded her the other ladies of the school committee
would have adverse things to say about her, she chortled, a sort of mellow “fuck them”.
what were they
19 year old’s summer
good times and sex
she was on the Pill
really, it didn’t matter,
know when the right moment
to stop taking it
the fertility waters,
a few months
however marriage bloomed
my bed and lay in it. I see this morning the dye has gone, replaced with a new
golden look. The first thought was that street in Matamata where the removal
truck stopped at 19 Rawiri Street, my neighbourhood. I walked up to her and kissed
her cheek, muscled my way into a packed bathroom (school clothes strewn), sought the solace of the Wahl Sheers, and gave the
mullet it’s final rites. The beard I was asked to keep, my badge of office.
catches up with all
speeds life up
ladies in Plaid Dresses
at earth science
secret of Uncle Albert
in the family until news time
century when descendants
did he tell?”
A child’s lullaby
Jack and the Beanstalk
with, the more you closed your eyes
more I changed the story for your dream.
you safe in the knowledge
are sleeping in peace
dreams about to surface and warm,
into your room from time to time
if you head, cushioned
flow of golden locks
in happy mode.
smile says yes, I know now I can sleep well.
The Ice Prostitutes, Lininsky Prospect Moscow
She’s a 14 year old girl
a Dacha not her calling
the frozen cement of Lininsky Prospect
snow falling around barely clad.
The cars crawl by, John’s
or in this case Vladimir’s and Ivan’s
the rubles clashing with gifts
a life of a southern girl
wrapped in a small apartment
or in the carpark in the back of a Chrysler.
She stands there, the snow falling
ice under her 50 ruble black market Nikes
the stockings failing to keep the cold out
twirling snowfall settling on fake fur coat,
I’ll call her Stephanie Svetlana
a petit orphan needing saving
we start to chat, seems she’s happy
the drugs keep the cold off,
she asks me if I want her
I say ‘no’, I do want to save her
sort of My Fair Lady if you please,
she looks to the building behind her
the face of rough cast Russian Thuggery
a smile, if that what passes for one,
a foreigner, big money he thinks
she stands her ground, the snow building at her feet,
offers me again, this time I know she is gone
I walk up the prospect, towards my chariot,
I don’t like failure, but when nature calls
The Ice Prostitutes heed the call, daily.
Ode to Summers Past (A Man Retreats)
summer drops of light rain
touched a ground scorched
of a past nation dance
the lightning gods
children to play with in absentia.
the porch a grey gold cur ruffles
dust settling over a mangy coat
low growl at passing humans enough to awaken
a drop of rain in the pot Grandpa
we go feed the cornfield with the offering.
hard to decipher dust motes
dance in wind driven patterns
country reel or Rock’n’Roll whirl,
in Grandmas lap, dusted off,
under the footfall of another infant.
a stand for humanity, actually two
water from the heavens sent by God
prayer I had last night, and the dog’s dalliance
that winds will prosper from dustbowls,
MidWest in August signifies death and reverence.
dance in the rain, high summer’s repost
devil cat, jet black despite the dust, howl’s
too far in the distance a coyote replies,
sound chilling and awakening, Pa races inside
the old side by side with buckshot, the hunt
Ford F100 drives up the road, still dusty
rain only light enough to wash his screen,
for the dust in the wind to kick up when disturbed,
like Uncle Clancy’s in time for the hunt,
his vehicle, sees Pa’s shotty, grabs his
through the cornfields, towards Harcourt’s Gut
in tune with each other, splitting as they neared
a boom, and another, double shot
the howling of a wounded creature, shame
an animal that rarely attacks, scavenger really,
cousin Patty play with the rain drops in the dust,
skirt dirty from childhood excursions in the Mog
of their place several clicks down the Rod Road,
picks at the bubbles with a stick, all the while watched,
under the porch, and from above too,
it rained yet? Ma comes out from her bedroom
the melee going on around and in one look
it’s time to cook some grits, and tortillas
men return, as the rain drops intensify,
time punching through the dust and making Mud.
and related an oft told tale of the Great Wolf Hunt,
he’d been a vet and working on Grandpa’s spread,
that’s right, the one way up north, fenced
hounded by this wolf for days, a hungry cur,
boys grabbed their rifles to go a-hunting
the beast in a gully several clicks from the farmhouse
Grant got the first shot off, missed and spooked
wolf took off towards them, then got the scent,
to the west and I got a shot off, winging the animal,
it at that, never saw it again, nor heard it,
rain was now pelting down, enough for the dog
out from his hidey hole and do a shaking dance,
had fun when he tried to chase the rain,
feeble attempts met with even more rapturous applause,
out with the grub then, plenty for all.
here now, nearing 95, in a tenement apartment
city lights graying with approaching dawn,
residing on the good side of my pen,
to recreate the Mid West in simplicity
simplistic it was, least that’s what they tell me.