Don Bouchard

Don Bouchard Dec 2021

The imminence of death
Heightens awareness of eternity.
We realize our need to live in the reality
That as eternal beings we must prepare to die wisely
As well as to live.

During the Christmas season,
We return to the Truth:
Jesus is our hope,
Our source of joy,
Our source of peace
Even in the face of loss,
Even in our sorrow.

Jesus is our “Shelter in the Time of Storm.”

Great loss and sorrow upon us in the past year. Fifteen souls gone, including my mother, two aunts, a cousin, and more....

Don Bouchard Dec 2021

Still Births

The rough draft
Stillborn lies:
Five paragraphs
Fully formed,
Topic
Safely stated,
Three points,
Strung in line
Tense & form
Aligned monotony.

No life here,
Words penned,
Five paragraphs
Double spaced,
Properly indented,
Grammar neatly safe.
Enough, and without risk.
Nothing here to see.

No life here
Nothing here to see

I am twenty-one again,
Standing in a chill March barn,
Steam and blood scent,
Obstetric chains straining
On the winch I crank
To save a calf born breech,
Rear heel pads pointing up.

The strain and pull exhaust me,
Mother staggering in the stanchion,
I wrestle against time, about to break.

The calf’s hips stall against the cable strain
Then slip as something pops...
Whether baby or mother
I am uncertain.

Whooshing, the calf slides out and down,
Cable and chain,
Blood and fluid,
Umbilical stretching,
Last tethering connection.
The newborn lies un-shivering,
Inert upon wet straw.

I slip off the chains,
Grasp the slippery feet above
Jellied hooves,
Hoist the calf,
Hang it head down,
Slap it against the wall,
Chant, “Breathe!”
Breathe!
Breathe!
Breathe!

Desperate miracle!
The lungs gurgle,
Raspy coughing,
Gargling mucous,
Air brings life.

The mother,
Eyes rolling,
Murmurs.

Forty years later I stare:
Stillborn paper
Delivered late and lifeless,
Having form,
Technically correct,
Lying breathless on my desk.

Were I to slap it against a wall,
The lines would still be dead.
So, what to do about resuscitation?
I cannot slap the paper,
Nor the student.
My dry eyes tire
Following inanity.

DB Dec. 8, 2021

The lines blur between two forms of struggle. Resuscitation is only possible if the basic spark of life resides.

#cattle #writing #life #death

Don Bouchard Dec 2021

2021, I am

On a desert plain, wind blown, mirages boiling,
Dusted, parched beneath an angry sun,
Silent heat unending, withering, bending...
So many loves behind me now have fallen.

Walking first, I tried to run;
Standing now, my trudging's done,
At battle's end; the desert's won,
On the plain of despair, I am undone.

I wait for the chilling night to fall
I wait for the chill of night to fall
Night to fall....

Far off, the mountains stand,
Slopes of trees lined in black,
Beneath celestial snowy caps.

There's water flowing there, I know,
Beneath those icy tips of snow.

Were I to lie here on this ground
I might not wake,
And though rest's a tempting sound
I will not take my end in lying down.

The ones who left me far behind
Have flown to rest ahead,
And if I linger here to pine,
My heart knows this is not my bed.

These winds, this heat, the churning air,
Are only for this place; solace awaits up there
On the mountains' rising *****,
I inhale the wind and muster my last hope.

2021, a year of loss...

Don Bouchard Nov 2021

Autumn Light, Go! (Leave this land of snow!)

Autumn's light leaves me
Wanting,
Seeming
Wrong.

Summer's light raided me,
Burning,
Yearning
Strong.

Spring's light lilted me,
Promising,
Blossoming
Songs.

Winter's cold glow chilled me,
Accosting,
Frosting
Long.

But, dismal Autumnal light,
Warns me,
Scorns me...
Go!

Autumn chill may bring hot blood, but I prefer Spring's promising breath. Winter's a stage reminiscent of death, Summer's antithesis and up to no good.

#autumn

Don Bouchard Nov 2021

Spider Oasis

In the night
After humans' washing up
Splashed water lies upon the floor.

The spider traveling
Approaches the mirage,
Finds water real and abundant

Insect blood quest paused,
Water treasure found,
Clear thirst sated.

Don Bouchard Nov 2021

Carl

Carl didn't finish school,
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke,
Seeing suns rise and fall,
Living in the weather,
Freezing or sweating to the season,
Reading the wind,
Cursing the heat and migraines.

Smoking Salem cigarettes
Alone in his bunkhouse,
He never mentioned his regrets;
Three meals a day with us,
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work

The draft cards came;
Vietnam called;
Neighbors left,
But Carl stayed.

One day I barraged him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"

"I can't," his reply.

I asked why.

"Because I tested border-line *****."

Just 10, I had no idea what "*****" meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the power of labels.

Now I do.

When authorities mis-measure
The capacities of a man,
When labels shackle,
We fail to see or know
Imago Dei before us.

We didn't stop to think
What gifts he had,
Nor did we see the perfection
Of his creations on his bunkhouse table:
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted,
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.

Don Bouchard Nov 2021

Ice Today

A skater lone soars on new ice.
I hold my breath as I observe
His every pirouette and swerve.

Yesterday, the water lapped a chilling shore;
Today a brilliant skin holds sway.
Thickening hourly though it may,

I wonder at the nature of the glider there;
Does he consider life and death,
Or think beyond exultant breath

To be the first upon new winter's ice?
He sails along an ice-blade track,
Never falt'ring, never looking back.

Oh, I was young upon a time and flew
The way this skater now does fly,
But fear and "wisdom" hinder twice
While others soar above thin ice.

New Ice! Is it safe? Take a Risk! Take a nap....

#skater #ice #winter #nature #risk