I recall quite accurately the day that I died
I caught a mirthful conversation between sibling
and parent on how ugly I was
It was in April around two o'clock on a Saturday
Other children were playing
I chose to stay upstairs , confined to my bed
That very day the music claimed my head
It filtered the good and the bad
The sad turns to song
'The wrong' settled in my fingers
Digits struck strings , crimson melody left the body
The hate trapped in sound mercifully went away
It continues to do so to this very day* ..

He was five or six when he first challenged her
To play a game of checkers.
Fresh-faced and eager from battles with friends,
Young master of jumping and double-jumping,
Connoisseur of cornering and kinging.
Ready to wreak havoc on his grandmother,
A simple farm wife, unskilled in the battle of the board.

He didn't contemplate that the checker set
In the old farm house was hers....

Their battles raged,
Sometimes every day,
With, "Want to play again?"
His constant question.

I would watch her lose,
Seeing what my little boy,
The often conqueror,
Could not see in victorious glee.

Twenty-five years later,
We sit again at the old farm table,
And the two are pitted in their checkers game;
The same, but wearied box waiting
While the battle rages on the old scarred board.

Her hand, uncertain, moves the pieces slowly
As though she is off somewhere thinking,
And he, now patient, waits in a treasured time,
For her to contemplate and make her moves.

He is twenty-nine, and she is eighty-nine,
And though the opportunities rise,
Through my misty eyes,
I see my son, pulling punches.

The prairie sun hung low,
Slipping toward the hill,
Just touching the top of the lone cottonwood
Leaning away from the country road.

He stood in the doorway,
Removing the tattered chore coat,
Taking off his muddy boots,  
Saw his mother,
Standing, looking out the window,
Half expectant in her pose,
Half turning toward him,
Where he stood.

She'd looked out that window
More than 25,000 times, he figured,
Watching the ends of days,
Year after year,
Storms coming, or no,
Soft breezes blowing,
Opened, she'd listen to the prairie sounds:
Coyotes and owls at night,
Meadowlarks and roosters in morning,
Hawks shrieking and cicadas by day,
And people sounds:
Children and grandchildren laughing, crying,
Neighbors closing the latch and coming near,
Her husband, clearing his throat...
The memories returned at the window,
While she was standing there.

Through the galvanized screen the world filtered in:
Earth-rich scent of coming rain,
Strong tobacco smells of men lounging after lunch,
New-stacked hay beside the barn,
Springing grass and budding trees....

She'd waited at that window, too,
For her husband to return,
Or one of the ten boys and girls
She'd birthed and raised in this old house.
At 97, she was nearly blind,
Could only hear a little,
Spoke seldom now,
Covered her swollen legs with a woolen blanket,
Even in the heat of summer.

Her idea of exercise were precarious journeys:
The toilet,
The table,
The bed,
Her old easy chair,
And the western window.

He, the youngest son, a bachelor,
Comical in his words,
Steady in his ways,
Owned an easy-going laugh that set his friends at ease,
Careful in his manners, never meaning to impose,
Ever ready to lend a neighbor a hand,
Became the one to stay with "Mother,"
After his father died the lingering death
Of a man who'd lived to groan that he'd
Survived a bull's trampling.
(Well, "survived" was just a word, meaning
Prolonged misery preceding untimely death.)

"Mother, what you lookin' at?" he asked,
Fresh in from chores,
Wanting supper,
Knowing vinegar pie and hamburger hotdish
Were waiting in the oven
Because he'd placed them there.

"It must be time for breakfast!"
She turned from the window,
One frail finger pointing at the sun,
Struggling now in the branches of the tree,
"The sun is coming up!"

He stood behind her.
"Where does the sun come up every day, Mother?"
He asked softly.

She looked at him, confused.

"Yer lookin' out the west," he spoke again,
"The east is over there."
He pointed to the other side of the house,
And she, uncertain, looked again
At the dying sun, now setting,
Easing carefully into the western pool of night.

A few high clouds glowed red, tinging now in grays.

"Sun's going down, Mother, and nearly time for bed."

He put the plates on the table,
Walked her to her place,
Helped her sit,
Scooped their plates and cut slices
Of the home-made pie.

Red sky at night meant he might get the last
Few truckloads off the home place tomorrow
Before wind or storm flattened everything to the ground.

Tonight it was supper and settling his mother to bed,
Washing some dishes, and putting things away,
Before some reading and a solitary evening...
Before the coming of another day.

Who faithfully waters flowers
In the too-small *** upon the stoop,
Blossoms smiling at morning sun,
No fear of nooning heat
Her ministrations prove that love
Transcends the tightness of their tiny space,
And so they bloom and glow.

Here's to the Man whose only Love
Anticipates his steps before sun-fall...
His only thoughts of coming home to her;
She is his haven 'gainst a solemn world;
This little house with flowers on the step
A place where love and blossoms grow.

Near frost early morning,
Packed bags squeeze
Into the old Oldsmobile,
Ready to leave for college.

I kiss my mother,
Say good-bye,
Hold her tight.

My father passes us,
Moving over stones,
Carrying two buckets
On his way to cows
And milking.

I can't see his face...
Have no idea.

"Art, are you going to say good-bye?"
I hear my mother say.

The words arrest him.
All movement stops.
Shoulders hunched,
He slowly sets the buckets down.

Turning is an agony,
I see,
As though his efforts
Somehow jar the world,
Disrupt natural order, and
Acknowledge chaos come at last.

I see my father's face
Coursing silent tears,
And watch his shoulders shake.
Then we embrace,
We two,
And both are torn
With leaving.

I know with certainty
My father's love
This morning,
Leaving home.

(1978, leaving for college)

I have known enough of life
To speak a word on the value of love,
And the quickness of a final breath,
And the separation caused by death.

I have bent to tie a shoelace,
Been overwhelmed with realization,
That when I stand again to look,
The loved one who came to mind
Has long been buried,
Will not hear me speak,
Nor say my name.

This morning, as we readied
Ourselves for work,
I stopped to pick a thing up,
Realized the joy
Of hearing my wife's sounds:
Cooking eggs,
Running water in the sink,
Putting things away,
And felt a rush of love.

I stood and walked to her,
Kissed her on the nose.

"What was that for?"

"I was overwhelmed by love just now."

I once found the moon in a forest
of fir two hundred foot tall,
it's face being lovingly polished
by fish in a silver pool,

the water was deep like a riddle,
as dark underneath as the pine,
I swam like a thief to the middle
but that slippery silver
                        refused to be mine.

He never regained consciousness
In all the hours I sat there.
The only sounds were the monitors’ beeping
And his staccato gasps for air.

Each breathe more labored than the last
as feeble hope turned to despair.
His extremities felt so cold,
as I sat and murmured wordless prayer.

A good life, certainly, and full;
Honor and glory both were there
As that old soldier slipped away
and his last breath rejoined the air.

O to be young once more , to welcome each day with a smile ..
Drawn to the kitchen by the smell of waffles , a new day awaiting just outside our window .. Sweet , fresh cut summer grass , each yard replicated the next , fastidious and diligently manicured all the way to Main Street where neighbors would meet ..
Root beer floats and fried sweet potato pies , the band performing on the city square ..
Summer calmed by afternoon showers , the scent of southern cuisine on an open grill filled our city .. June was a magic time to be alive ..

The summer had come and gone,
And tomorrow, she was leaving,
Going back to the city to wait
The warming spring's returning.

At 88, she had decided it best,
Husband gone four years,
Two hips healed, but stiffening;
Ice forming on the ground
To keep her from walking;
Time to go back to the city to rest,
Hopefully to return when whooping cranes
V'eed north again in spring.

She'd packed her things
In two suitcases yesterday:
Simple clothes,
Her Bible,
A pair of shoes, or two;
Not much now,
No need.

She wondered if he'd do one thing
Before they drove away.

"My nails need a trim."

So, here he was,
Bent low to hold each foot,
To trim his mother's nails...

Memory, returned then,
Reversed four years
To this same chair,
In this same house,
His father struggling for air,
Needing help to dress.

He saw again his father's feet,
Frail and white and cool,
The nails long and needing care.

Embarrassed, the old man,
Despite the lack of breath,
Wheezed he couldn't bend
To reach his feet.

And the son had bowed then
To trim his father's nails,
And dressed him before
The three of them began the journey
From which only two returned.

And now, the week before Christmas,
The mother and her son,
Focused on the nail clipping,
Knowing certain chores,
However poignant,
Must be done.

"Don't forget your hanky," Mom said
almost eighty years ago
as I went out the door,
and I think that's why
I keep a generous supply
clean and folded square
along with socks and underwear
in my middle dresser drawer.
When my brother Clifford died,
Mary Jo gave me an unopened pack
that Cliff had kept who knows how long.
I'm guessing a reminder
had sounded in his head, too,
so, having taken heed,
neither he nor I would be caught
unprepared.
Often enough a nose bleed
or a seasonal sneeze
would not be blocked
by paper tissue.
More lately, at weddings
when the couple vows . . .
"in sickness or in health,
for better or for worse,"
folded cloth absorbs my sobs.
Most often now, it's at memorials
whether for youth or aged alike
that I check my pocket
hoping to find that a hanky is there.
Tonight, though, cries of laughter arise
in surprise, with no need to be stifled,
but sputtering, slobbering
Great Grand Kids
find perchance most sacred use
for a hanky that catches it all.