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Jul 2015 · 1.2k
A prayer
Don Bouchard Jul 2015
Were I given a life to return
To hold again my newborn son,
I'd take time to be present,
Really "there,"
Beside, behind him,
As he learned to run.

Instead of the tower on the hill
I tried unsuccessfully to be,
I'd walk beside him on the path,
Reminded of my boyhood memories;
I'd leave the sermons to the priest and be the dad.

I'd get us shovels,
Deep to dig our conversations,
Embrace the work and sweat and look for more,
Pick and bar our way to Rock,
Drill and blast our anchors to the floor.

Before the storm surge of his teenage years,
I'd strive to see strong footings were in place,
Weld strong the structures while the girders rise,
Pray the work would stand the weather's cruel face.

The past, now present has me chilled;
The distances are lost in haze;
What I see now from my distant hill
Reveals broken structures to be razed.
God grant us time to renovate and fill
Remaining years to bring Him praise.
Work in progress....
Don Bouchard Jul 2015
He had always assumed that when his parents died
A kind of freedom would commence
For him to grow into what he could become,
But when his faher passed, unexpected,
His shock to realize the opposite was great,
And left him feeling numb and naked,
Weak and unprotected.

That he should realize his own mortality,
And the imminent farewell coming for himself,
And the sad goodbyes to other journeyers,
So gripped him then,
And robbed his sleep by bringing waking dreams:
Conversations with his father's silent ghost,
Worries of adequate preparations,
(What to leave behind, what to send ahead),
And desires to make some sort of difference,
So troubled his poor head
As to take the deepest sleep,
The kind he'd had whilst father was alive,
And leave him morning-tired and troubled.

Seeking solace for losing a life once charmed
With parents well and family whole, so tempted
Him to seek relief in revels far from depths-plunged grief,
That for a while, he lumbered on,
A wanton, seeking temporary pleasure
Who barely stopped to measure
The flying moments of his sordid life,
The cost of temporal flights with no intended destinations,
The emptiness of purpose-empty avocations,
The fruitless pursuits of mindless gratification.

But now he sits,
Back up against a lonely bedroom wall,
Violin and orchestra his late night companions,
Taking stock of where he's been and where he's bound,
Thinking deep and praying some,
Wondering what the waning mornings left to him will bring.

Lonely, he has become a different man,
Humbled in his un-sought and once-denied mortality,
A peace-begging supplicant beneath a tired moon,
While ancient winds blow ancient dust around
Outside his open window,
Just as they did while his mother moaned
Fifty years and more ago
Out on the dry land farm where he was born.
Seeking a purposive life.... Not all that much time left....
Jun 2015 · 3.5k
Montana Livestock Auction
Don Bouchard Jun 2015
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight  over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying  them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.

So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days  of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....

I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.

Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where  I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Reflecting on  boyhood experiences, Sidney Livestock Market, Sidney., MT, 1963 -  2015....
Don Bouchard Jun 2015
Father's Day 2015 in Charleston, SC

When the murderer goes numb,
Thinks actions imply no consequence,
No need for forethought,
No heaven to approve nor disapprove,
No yearning hell to shun,
The act of killing becomes amusement,
A way to unsettle the ennui.

Drape a twisted mind in a Confederate flag,
Lace every thought in outrageous racism,
Give time and means and venue...
Turn the other way as percolating HATE
Photographs himself burning the Nation's flag,
Cradling symbolic rebel colors,
Proudly displays the vestiges of apartheid,
Rants villainy on the web,
Mind sick, and gifted with a gun...
The perfect recipe is prepared
For hellish fun.

Indoctrinate
This weakened mind,
Stir in a diatribe or two,
Look the other way,
Avoid the warning signs...
And wait...
Hope for the best,
Don't intervene...
We'll see results again
That we have seen....

The pastor greeted him at the door,
Invited him to join the Bible study.

Sitting through the heart-deep prayer,
Embraced by kindness as a stranger,
He chose to follow through,
A snake in the house of innocence...
Firing and reloading...
A coward's calculated act
To incite rage,
To challenge Haters everywhere
Race war to engage....

Looking into the killer's eyes,
Survivors speak of deadness:
No emotion, no elation, no remorse....

And so on Father's Day,
I weep and pray
For brothers and sisters
I have not met,
Mourning the dead (in Christ),
Who died at Mother Emmanuel.


(On Father's Day, 2015)
Prayers for the families, and for my African American brothers and sisters.  Racism is EVIL. God bless and comfort and protect each and every one. We all are made in the image of God. No one is less precious than nor more valuable than another. Don
Jun 2015 · 1.2k
Mass no Mas
Don Bouchard Jun 2015
She was the only Non-Native
On staff in a parochial school,
Reservation in Montana...
The school nurse,
Working in her office,
Fighter of colds and flu,
Coverer of scrapes and bruises,
Pre-medicine expert...

A little girl stopped in to say,
"You gonna come to Mass today?"

"No, I'm a Protestant,"

Just then another student walked in:
"You going to Mass?"

"No! She's a *******!"
Said girl one.

And so it goes....
Can't make this stuff up.
Jun 2015 · 1.8k
Thinning Beets
Don Bouchard Jun 2015
Planting excitement upon us,
My daughter asks how to thin the beets.

"When the plants are three inches tall,
Pick the weaker ones and pull them up,"
I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young  plants
So the rest can grow."

I see a troubled look upon her face,
And realize what I find in myself....

The teacher's quandary:
Picking whom to keep,
Whom to cull...
We put our love into them all.

Watching for first and tender shoots,
Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear,
Not thinking of a time ahead,
Dreaded time to thin....

Teachers are reluctant to cull,
Building emotional connection,
Providing loving direction,
Promising success to all....

Then come the standardized tests,
The  team selections,
The popularity contests,
The invitations to slumber parties,
The division of elites,
The rising of divas,
The rostering of first teams...

The separation of pariahs begins,
The promise we made to early learners ends,
Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears
Of those left standing by the fence,
Excluded from the chances to advance.

Standing in the seedling beds,
Spring breezes rustling tender leaves,
I turn to Kate....
"It's never easy....
But if we don't  thin the beets,
The beets will not develop
Beneath the leaves."

These damnable analogies arise
Infrequently these days,
And I am standing in the dirt,
Black soil upon on my hands,
Wondering about survival of the weak,
The treatment of humans and young plants,
Pondering humane ways to honor every student
In which I am investing...
Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....
Conversation with Katelyn, the newest teacher in the Bouchard line.

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Jun 2015 · 1.3k
Bastard Tree (Give and Take)
Don Bouchard Jun 2015
British soldiers,
Trained her for war,
Slunk through these vines,
Machete-hacked jungle trails,
Stumbled through tangled heat,
Discovered torturous needles
Of the dusty ******* Tree,
Cursed the stinging pain,
Attempted cures for naught.

Belizean allies revealed
The *******'s secret:
Within the sap
Beneath the needled coat:
Analgesic antidote.

So it is the "Give and Take" poisons
Then takes the curse away...
Solutions sometimes lie
Just beyond our pain.
Trip to Belize and the Lamanai jungle....
Don Bouchard May 2015
My Girl,
My Melody,
I love you!

I know I tell you regularly,
But being here with you
Reminds me how precious
You are.

Time is growing down;
I cannot get enough
Time with you....

We are not in Corozal
For waves and sun,
For lying out beneath a tropic sky.
Instead I see you sitting on a stool
Reading stories to children,
Sans makeup, sans decoration,
Sweat beads your forehead  
As you puff a ringlet
Of hair from your eyes
While beautiful children,
Mesmerized,
Enjoy your reading.

You have flown so far to be
A teacher and a friend
To others whom you've never known,
To forego the safety of our home,
To listen to the children,
Though we have our own...

So, I am watching you with different eyes,
Seeing inward beauty outward shine...
Praise God above that you are mine.
Work in progress.... Week and a half working in Santa Rita AG Primary School, Corozal, CA, Belize, with my sweetheart. My love grows deeper.
May 2015 · 3.8k
Banos el Belize
Don Bouchard May 2015
Surprise me!
A sink,
A toilet,
A shower,
A plastic can to leave soiled paper
A cup to pour water
On my sweaty self...
I am eight again,
Homesick at summer camp,
Stuck powerless in time.
el bano
May 2015 · 784
Blackbirds of Corozal
Don Bouchard May 2015
Unlike the ones I know,
Sing beautifully,
Vigorously,
Unapologetic-ally,
Eight different songs,
Awaking me before light,
Before the rising heat of Corozal.
Belize
May 2015 · 637
When You Whisper...
Don Bouchard May 2015
When you whisper close,
My hair rises...
I get the chills...
Feel thrills...
I'm in first grade again,
That first crush feeling...
And frowzy-headedness comes reeling...
Delicious ticklings up my spine
Sidetrack me for a little bit,
Like that first glass of wine....

I even lose my place,
My bookmark I can't find...
Should have folded down the tip....
Doesn't  matter...
I think I'll let my reading slip...
May 2015 · 658
Art Pribnow
Don Bouchard May 2015
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss you.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.

I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor had been a gift.

I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.

Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.

Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant be ******...
A stroke was taking down another man.

A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.

You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month covered in oak,
Wheat sheaves bedecking the heavy lid.

Inlaid and waiting, you rest,
Ready for the coming harvest.
Apr 2015 · 2.4k
Magpie
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
A fluff of feathers
Black and white,
Hide the scrawny scavenger
Whose "Rick, Rick, Rick!"
Identify some place of death,
This careful bandit's visiting.

He leaves outright robbery
To his cousin jay,
And flits,
One disaster to the next,
To see how he may capitalize.

Dead carrion, his usual fodder...
Yet one subzero winter day
I saw a magpie perched
Upon a shivering cow
Belly deep in snow, and
Chilled in minus 30 air,
Peck-scratching through a healing scab
And pulling living flesh away.
Nature in extremes is a cold-hearted witch. A memory from cattle-ranching days 30 years ago....
Apr 2015 · 784
Stanford Binet?
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
Carl didn't finish school
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke
Seeing suns rise and fall
Living under the weather
Freezing or sweating to the season
Reading the wind
Cursing the heat that brought migraines
Smoking Salem cigarettes

Alone in his bunkhouse
With his regrets
Three meals a day with us
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work

The draft cards came;
Neighbors left, but Carl stayed.
One day I asked him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"

"I can't," was his reply.

I asked him why.

"Because I tested as a border-line *****."
At 10, I had no idea what "*****" meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the damage of labels,
But now I do.

When authorities mis-measure
the capacities of a man,
And labels shackle,
They fail to see or know
The genius in a Carl.

They didn't stop to think
What gifts he had
Nor had they seen
The perfection
Of his creations
There on the 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.
Mis-measured Man
Apr 2015 · 797
Romance in Unlikely Places
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
A plain woman in a checkered dress
Trapped on a windy hill with a man whose every thought
Was crops and cows and bad weather coming,

You cooked every meal on time,
Served lunches exactly
When the hands aligned.
At the stroke of noon.

You drove "flagger,"
Moving trucks and tractors
From field to field,
Raised two boys and two girls...
Buried one in shock and disbelief;
And then moved on.

I know your secret.

On that swept-neat farmstead
Under the green roofs
Beside the red barn
In your white walls,
The rational order,
The unnatural neatness
Belied you.

Lydia,
Woman of the Romantic Heart,
You of the secret desire and passion...
Beside your chair in that sparse house
Stood a stack of novels,
Romance in easy reach,
An escape from harsh reality.

Ahhh.
The stolen moments!
The bliss of passion!
Handsome strangers ready
To rescue you from wind-blown land.

What guilty ecstasies you stole
Came five miles from the post office,
Ninety-five cents a copy,
Wrapped in brown paper,
Tucked in a galvanized milk pail.
Memories....
Apr 2015 · 756
Lawn Mowers in Spring
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
The usual crew down at Mary's Cafe,
Slurping coffee over hash browns and eggs,
Weather too nice now for comments.

Bill clears his throat to say the grass is getting long,
And the pastor was out mowing yesterday.
"I tried to get my old Sears mower running,
But no go," he griped. "Took it to the shop."

Tom cleared his throat and looked at Bill.
We all knew what was coming.
Tom prides himself in handy manning,
And waxes on and on to us poor fools.
"Did you clean the plug?"
"Was your filter clean?"

Bill was in the hot seat now,
And we were being entertained.
"I checked 'em both, that wasn't it,"
Said Bill. "It don't make sense,
'Cause it was running
When I put it in the shed last fall!"

Tom chortled then, an expert in his glee...
"Well, then it's obvious, Bill!
If it was running when you put it in the shed,
It's out of gas!"

At that point, I burned my mouth,
Spit hot coffee on my food, and gasped for air.
I wouldn't miss these breakfasts for the world.
Old geezers,every Thursday morning, having toast and eggs and bacon at a small town cafe. Camaraderie extraordinaire.
Apr 2015 · 502
Father's Love
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
Near frost early morning,
Packed bags squeezed
Into the old Oldsmobile,
Ready to leave for college.

I kissed my mother,
Said good-bye,
Held her tight.

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

I couldn't see his face...
Had no idea.

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

The words arrested him.
All movement stopped.
Shoulders hunched,
He slowly set the buckets down.

Turning was agony,
I saw,
As though his efforts
Somehow jarred the world,
Disrupted natural order, and
Acknowledged chaos come at last.

Forty years later,
I still see my father's face
Coursing silent tears,
And watch his shoulders shake.

Then we embraced,
We two,
And both were torn
With my leaving.

I knew with certainty
My father's love
That morning,
Leaving home.
This month, three years ago, Dad left us, riding off into an April sky on a life flight chopper. Still miss you, Dad. Always will....
Apr 2015 · 1.7k
My Grandfather, Odysseus
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
To see this old man shaking here
In rage at boys whose apple-throwing jeers
Reduce him to impotent rage and tears
Is to know Odysseus, home from Troy,
Battle spent, no Cyclops left to blind,
And no more Stygian puzzles to unwind.

The threats he hurls are hollow stones
Coming now from a man whose bones
Once cracked beneath a decking plank
As Scylla searched with serpent heads
For men to crush and swallow, dead,
But ***'dy now remains to save the day.

The hapless tree whose apples green are peltering his home
Is now an oar, pole-planted tall a thousand miles ashore
As penance for the years of taunting gods of wave and foam,
And boys be savages unaware of what an apple's for.
Apr 2015 · 1.2k
Boots by the Door
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
A coat poses on a peg … waiting;
The newspaper lies beside the chair;
A hammer on a nail is hanging,
The sad-eyed dog, jowls sagging on his paws;
Looks tired, but does not yawn.
Chores waiting at the barn….

A caller rings to ask to speak to Art.

Any evidence that he is gone can bring
A flood of memories and tears,
Fitting response, I think, as part of noting
That cleaning up is difficult this spring.
No hurry now, to set the whole world straight;
We’ll get to work, or work can wait.
Dad is away - won’t be back, early or late.

I am, this morning, haunted by my father’s ghost.
If you would ask me now what’s sore,
I’ll tell you my heart hurts most
To see his worn old boots waiting by the door.

(April 6, 2012, DB)
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
Plato, Socrates, Glaucon
sat and talked
about a chair and bed,
Discussing
What was real and
Was not.

"The originals
Are safe
With
God."

"Anything after's
Imitation;
The Carpenter
Creates a representation
Of the Real
But never duplicates,
And in some way
Honors the Original."

"The problem lies
With poets whose ideas stray
In artful Imitation,
Sort of a third-hand
Bit of Gossip
About Truth."

"In a perfect world,
Original thoughts
Exist only the mind of God
And artisans create
One-off visions of
The Prime."

"To stay near Truth,
Let's banish poets
And their poems
And create the
Ideal Republic."

then ee cummings
sauntered in -
said - boys
i see a universe
next door
Lets g o o o o!

Glaucon shook his head,
Took *******'s arm
And followed Dada
Off the stage.
Apr 2015 · 1.3k
We Should Dance
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
She said
Or someone will
Notice
Not us
Will notice
Just others
Are dancing

We should go
She sighed
Or someone may
Go
And not us
Without
Notice.

So,
We went
So
We danced
And everyone else
Noticed
Not us
But the lonely
Old women and men...
Chaperones, silent,
Eagle-eyed, standing
Un-moving, remembering youth...

While we danced.
Apr 2015 · 647
I have been traveling
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
Across a dry plain,
Heat shimmering,
Blur-ring in my mind...
Lost track of reason, lost my rhyme...
Rhythm gone to plodding,
Clodding on the burning flats,
Dust-deviled and limping over thorns.

Mountains are my only vision,
Forcing aching feet,
Tugging creaking knees,
Coaxing lungs, air parched
To breathe, to wheeze
Toward supernal heights,
Valley-ed torrents rushing
Cool and green and clean....

Beckoned thus, my heavy pace
Lifts lightly up;
The brackish slopping
In my old canteen
Reminds me that the way
Leads on to granite glories:
Woods inhabited,
Cabins warm against the alpine chill...
So I keep walking still.
So I keep walking still.
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
North Charleston, South Carolina,
Officer Michael T. Slager fires
Eight SHOTS
At Mr. Walter L. Scott,
Unarmed and running away...
Detained for a traffic stop.

Simple math,
These bullets Eight
Into Mr. Scott:
Five Bullets found him:
Three in the back
One in the rear
One through an ear...
Three bullets whizzed away.

And when Scott fell,
Slager yanked his arms
Behind his back
To cuff his hands...
Ghosts don't take to cuffs
The shooting was enough.

I have not been a marcher,
But I have seen enough,
I have seen enough.
No words can do justice, but the video shows what happened. If this officer isn't convicted of ******, where is justice. God help us.
Apr 2015 · 670
Fourteen Blackbirds
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
Outside my office window
Sitting on the naked branches
Black against gray, chill sky....

Rained last night,
Rain on the way,
Fearless, they perch,
Wind in their faces,
Ready to fly...
Determined to stay.

This morning, I watched
Nest building in the arbor vitae
Strands of broken winter grass
Crammed into the evergreen fans...
Whole columns, breeze-shaken,
Hosting exuberant home-building.
Spring must have her way;
Eggs must be cradled;
Wind and rain, gray sleet,
Ignored as passing signs.

Love has built her nests;
She will not be denied.
Apr 2015 · 1.3k
Good Friday 2015
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
In Gethsemane Jesus was sweating blood
(John Kerry sipped a Perrier)
Pilot, washing up, could work no good
(The Ayatollah practiced his *****)
And Jesus, beaten, headed to the Cross...
(The peace they plan isn't what we want to hear)
Established peace for Man in Heaven
(The Devil take this lower sphere.)
The Good thing is, He's risen!

He is Risen!
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, do I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be afraid. (John 14:27)
Mar 2015 · 1.4k
Tremens & Spectres
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Homeward headed, I was driving my way
Down I-95 past the Old Mill Way in a yawn,
Turning the radio on and looking to play
Something to keep my consciousness on.

Few cars out at 1:00; it had been a long day;
I'd stopped off at Charlie's to sit with a friend
To blow out the kinks and let myself say
What a **** the company minion had been.

Four hours burned off like the late morning haze;
When I'd sobered back steady, was able to drive,
I paid off my tab, left my friends in a daze,
Headed the Jeep to the feed ramp for old 95.

At one in the morning, the traffic was thin;
When I heard Harleys roaring behind,
I scoped the mirror for the lanes they were in,
Double-blinked then to see if I was road-blind.

No bikers behind, no bikers beside, but sound
Like a squadron blared loud, and I felt a cold chill,
Thought better of having the last couple rounds,
Wished I'd stayed an hour before I'd settled my bill.

I glanced to the side, though the sound was all 'round,
Saw a glimmer of green glowing chrome in the dark,
And fire ethereal from pipes blooming sound,
From a Shovelhead, barely visible, flat black and stark.

But the rider's appearance emptied my chest:
Dark goggles, full beard and a gray flowing mane,
Black leather with signs on his tattery vest
And a number embroidered below the man's name:

"Rider 88" glowed red through the gloom,
A ******* burned on the withering arm:
"We rise again!" I heard a voice of doom,
"We're meeting at the old red barn!"

He wasn't alone, though I couldn't see
The posse he rode with, the pack he was in;
I felt a squadron of hellions run through me,
Concussive, incessant, their rattling din.

And then, except pavement beneath the Jeep's tires,
The howling of wind and crackling "Cotton-eyed Joe,"
Nothing but the road after midnight, no sirens or fires,
And me, shaking hands on the wheel, alone.
Ghost stories....
Mar 2015 · 2.0k
Irish for a Day
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Alight me Paddies! Today the world is Green;
I am in a mood, alas, to gnaw crubeen,
To kiss my Irish lass, and cuddle her awhile,
To hear the Irish Rovers sing their bonny Isle,
To wear a shamrock, laboring o'er a stout:
Murphy or Guinness, to me it matters naught.
Married to an Irish girl whose family hails from County Antrim. The luck of the Irish be with ye, as it has with me! (0=/*
Mar 2015 · 446
"And, It Came to Pass"...
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Which might just as well mean
That "It,"
Whatever "It" might be,
Didn't come to build
Permanent residence...
Had no plans
To put down roots,
To settle down...

"It"
Brings no eternal joy,
Nor infernal pain...
No Anything,
Really...
Forever.

So...
When "It" comes to pass,
Either savor or endure
For what "It" is...

But...

Don't build "It" a nest;
Don't build a wall against "It."

Let "It" be,
And prepare
To let "It" go....
Wordplay
Mar 2015 · 1.3k
Star Squatters' Circus
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
"Buy a Star!
Own a Star!"

The sales are brisk,
For cross-eyed lovers,
Cross-hearted, lost,
Beneath the spinning constellations
Burning immortal exhalations,
Desiring forever oxytoxic bliss,
Burning ******* and hearts
Yearn longevity of stars....

PT Barnum saw his opportunity:
Sold cotton candy,
Hawked elephants,
Gawked dwarves,
Hid the razors from
Fierce bearded ladies,
Even sold the elephants' dung,
Provender to exotic gardens....

Barnum's packing up
The Pachyderms,
So Hawkers have us
Gazing on the stars....

"Step right up! See the stars!"
Purchase your fire in the sky!
Your lover's name,
Fixed in the firmament  
A million years!

At least the cotton candy
And the elephant dung
Served some earthy, earthly good,
Paid dentists' children's college,
Fertilized the family food.

So now go claim a distant star,
A million, billion miles away,
Its light must make its journey
A thousand years or more
To greet your eyes, and yet,
Your lover's sighs predict
A hundred dollars' better spent
Than on a good Chablis,
Cementing mortal love in
Distant stars so permanent,
Visited through telescopic glass
Atop our rented tenements.
Mar 2015 · 984
The Gathering (Joel 3:9-15)
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
You Gentiles,
Unwashed, unclean,
Prepare for war,
Come vent your spleen.

Beat the plowshares into swords,
Your harvest tools to mighty weapons,
Feel the surging doom and think you strong,
Gather  in the Valley of Decision,
The Valley of Jehoshaphat,
Where stand we all for judgment.

The Sun, the Moon, go dark;
The Stars remove their shine,
And full earth shakes beneath
The coming doom,
Before the lasting Peace
Descends on Israel.
Reading Joel again. Chapter 3 is an interesting twist on plowshares and swords.
Mar 2015 · 2.1k
Justice Arrives
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Pecking through rubble
Picking remnants
Clearing spaces
Planting new
Breathing fresh air
Opening a path through
Memory and Remorse
To Peace.
Working on this one....
Mar 2015 · 1.0k
Spring, Stagger In
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Covered in slime,
On a new calf's legs,
Blowing and wheezing
To clear your lungs...
Commence breathing.

Spring, chirp in,
Crack the shell of ice
And open your beak
For the first worms
of Summer.

Spring, stalk in
With the dandelions,
Smear rouge on your tulips,
And sally forth
Looking for Love
In the asparagus.
I am ready for Spring....
Mar 2015 · 550
Hard Man to Cipher
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Bull headed stubborn, never conquered, he...
My Father.

A hearty laugh, with anger never far away;
A choking voice; emotions had their way
With him, and when he sang alone,
Heading for the barn, he sang Handel
So we heard him clear in every valley.

When only grass and leaves were "Green,"
He saved everything he thought might be of use:
Red tape from old banana sales,
("Never know when tape will come in handy!")
Bagging string wrapped on a stick,
("You can't have enough string!")
Rusty wire in spools from some old fence,
("Carry some with you for emergencies.")
Dirtied engine oil in metal barrels,
(To soak wood posts and make them last),
Scrap iron by the ton,
("Boys, weld these into fences!")
Semi loads of **** seed screenings,
("Cheap and adds protein to the feed!" )
Even burned out light bulbs...
(He never gave me a good reason;
One bulb's enough to **** a sock.)

"Never know when this may come in handy!"
His constant motto.

A complicated man I never could unravel,
Honest to an inch, sometimes, yet shrewd to miser-dom,
Then crafty in some deal that left me blushing,
Only to turn around and sacrifice to see a neighbor thrive.

Drove sad old cars no one would want,
And made us work for most things that we sought,
Then gave such gifts to others
As would stun my mind to thought.

I have him by a hundred pounds,
Am taller by a head,
But deep inside, I am convinced
I'll never measure up in height or depth.

I'm not sure that I want to.
Another about my father
Mar 2015 · 855
Questions I Asked My Father
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
At 82, he rises early, hurries to the barn
As fast as he can go, and at his age,
The shambling gait looks like a run.

"Retire?" I asked just once.
"Die in my boots," said he,
"Or hanging in a fence."

"Vacation?" his foolish son inquired.
"Each morning standing at the gate,
To see the sunrise is my vacation!" his reply.

"Rest?" I still must ask.
"I'll sleep when I am dead!"
How many times I've heard this?
I don't know.

I come, a tourist, to the farm I once called home,
The place he never left...will never leave.
Some day we'll find him, hanging in a fence,
Or stuck and cold in a snowy ditch,
Out on the fields or pastures that he loves.

No matter that my mother waits as always,
Looking out at distances,
At some late hour,
Wondering where her man is, and
Holding dinner warming on the stove.

Two lives inseparable in life, but winding down.
Rest in Peace, Arthur Bouchard 1928-2012
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
I am standing in front of another creative writing class, and from my mouth, the mouth of all English teachers, comes, “Write what you know,” and the carefully tied fly whips itself out onto the surface of the classroom and lies there, waiting for a nibble or a strike. My students, fresh from fields and country roads and long hours alone on the prairies, stare back like ancient trout, converged at this bend in the river. No one moves a pencil; no one rises to even tap the bait. Silence is broken by the sound of the motorized General Electric clock over my head as it marks the flow of time and water and life.

Whoever put a 15 inch clock on the wall above and behind the teacher, knew something about multi-dimensional sadism. Students mark their breathing in second hand sweeps, while I wait for that first hand to rise like a fish, foolishly deciding to catch one last fly for the evening…my fly, tied carefully to “invisible, mono-thread nylon leader” guaranteed to withstand the assault of five pound monster brown trout. Patiently, I stand by the edge of the stream, my feet just barely touching the water line.

“Mr. Simms? What if I don’t have anything to write about?” a querulous voice trembles. Shimmers of water-light ripple through the pond-room. I see the other trout-children moving ever so slightly, turning in the water thick air toward the question-tap.

“Patience,” I think…and clear my throat. “Good question,” I say. “What do you know that you would want to write about? What stories do you have to tell that others would like to hear?” I let the current move the fly a little deeper over the waiting trout.

And there I miss the first strike of the day.

“Nothing. I got nothing,” grumbles Charlie. “I don’t go nowhere. I don’t do nuthin’ but work and stay at home.”

“Yah. Pretty much says it all right there,” chimes in his best friend Tad. The other fish start to turn away from the prompt/bait. I can see they are thinking of going into deeper water.

Quickly, I change tactics. I turn and grab a broken piece of chalk…not much, but enough. I scratch out two words: ‘episodic memory.’ Turning to the class, I say quickly, “What do you remember about 9/11? Take a minute and think about 9/11. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? What time of day was it? What did you feel?”

The class is interested in the bait change up. I can see their trout bodies, speckled with brown dots, turning toward my new presentation. Gills are fanning in and out a little quicker than before.

A hand shoots up. Mary says, “I was on my way to school, and the bus driver yelled at us all to be quiet because something was going on with World Trade Center.”
A couple of her friends nod their heads, eyes looking up and back, into the past. Images were coming into focus.

Jose blurts out, “My mom was on the way to New York that morning. She was waiting at the airport. We were all worried about her.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, I tell myself. “So, Jose, can you remember exactly what you were doing when you first found out about the planes hitting the building? Where were you? What were you doing?”

“I had just eaten…Cheerios…yeah, it was Cheerios!” he says. “I was making sure my books were in my backpack, and the news came on over the Good Morning Show. I remember I stopped and just stood there like I was frozen. It was a couple of hours before we knew she was okay, but her plane was grounded so she couldn’t go to New York.”

The rest of the class murmurs. The beautiful fish begin to move as one toward the bait.

I nudge. “What did you see? What did you hear? What did you feel? What did you smell? Who were you with? Take a minute and write that down.”

Pencils scratch on cheap paper. The sound of the clock hum recedes. Time slows as currents of thought push the humming motor down. The stream slows and the water surface becomes glassy.

Two minutes pass. No one says anything.

I break the silence. “This is episodic memory. When huge events take place in our lives…events that mean something very important to us, or that are swift and exciting, sometimes too wonderful or too terrible to understand or to survive…at that instant…those events are stored in our minds almost like living, high definition videos. We can remember these episodes with all five senses. We remember what we were doing, what we were eating, who was with us, where we were, sights, sounds, smells, feelings…they’re all there in our episodic memories.”

I have their attention. The hook is set. Some pencils even scratch “episodic memory” on paper. I push on.

“We all have collective episodic memory. 9/11 is a good example. You all have some collective memory of that day when terrorists flew two airplanes into the twin towers in New York City.”

I take a breath. “Now comes the reason for my teaching you about episodic memory. We all have personal events stored in episodic memory as well. Each of us has his or her personal memories, forever burned into the hard drives of our minds. When we pull up these memories, they are there in true color, full sound, and clear vision. We can see, taste, touch, hear and smell those memories clearly. That’s what I mean when I say, ‘write what you know.’

It’s illegal to fly fish with multiple baits on one line in Montana, not that I am coordinated enough to keep 15 grey wolf flies separate and in the air on the end of 30 feet of fly line anyway. In my mind, I imagine those flies stinging the water and 15 fish leaping to snag them. The class is moving mentally toward episodic events.

The fly fisherman lives for that leaping catch, when the world explodes with the splashing surge of trout beauty and fierce battle. The teacher lives and breathes the exhalations of “AHA!” as students capture concepts and come to life.

Fifteen memories, brilliant as shattering crystal catching sunlight, explode in fifteen minds…and then the trouble comes. I have been here before, and move quickly to head off a possible flight to deep waters.

“Class! I need you to hold your thoughts for just a minute.”

“Some of us in this room just experienced memories of wonderful events: winning shots at ball games, good news of brothers or sisters coming home from war, first kisses … and some of us are experiencing terrible events, reliving them over right here in this room. I know that happens. It happens to me. The problem is…not all episodic memories should be shared with everyone.”

The class is silent. A couple of eyes are red and I can see where tears are beginning to form. Someone is recalling a fumbled tackle and the agony of sounding jeers. Another is re-living the scratchy beard and beer-sour breath of a father as he crosses all lines of decency and honor with a child. I can almost hear the sounds of skidding tires and feel exploding airbags as three minds simultaneously re-experience crashes…. The silent sounds of slaps and screams, of joyous and sarcastic laughter, of shouts of tearful farewells and exuberant reunions fill the air, bubbles releasing in the moving water of the classroom.

And then, the bell rings. “Take your ideas with you and write about what you know! I’ll see you Wednesday,” I yell.

Fifty minutes. The fishing is good. I reel in the fly, check the hook, and wait for the next fish to come upstream.
This came from 30 years' trying to figure out how to start that genius within my students' writing minds....
Feb 2015 · 968
Nihilism
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
The end of the road behind
The step from the cliff above and behind
The swirling of smoke and no fire left
The bottom of the whirlpool twisting from sight
The emptiness after the slap, before the welt outswells
The end game of every philosophy: ab nihilo, entre nihilo
The logical declension through insanity to catatonia
Thought leading to the nth degree without the subsequent, "Oh!"

Critical thought without foundations
Building without bedrock
Runaway locomotive, off the tracks
Leaving home without good-bye and no way back
Thinking about the Philosopher's statement that "Everything is vanity."
Feb 2015 · 1.2k
Hugs
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
Ole and his strong wife Lena,
Distant on their pathway grew,
And life between grew meaner,
Silent in the house, it's true.

One day the Pastor came to say
He'd heard a thing or two about them,
Sat at the table in a listening way
While Lena spouted about men.

Pastor Inqvist finally gave a shrug
And walked around the table slowly,
Had Lena stand and gave a hug,
And looked down from his height at Ole.

"This is what she needs my friend,
A big hug every day, to end her sorrow,"
And Ole cleared his throat and said,
"What time will you be here tomorrow?"
Heard this on the radio this morning and had to make it rhyme.
Feb 2015 · 434
Dance, Little Child
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
How gaily fair, and fairly gay
This child of May
To skip past cares and dance away
Her childhood in a day
And leave behind her fairy form
And form so fair
As though her bones
And not her soul
Could dance on air.

How quickly soon and soon and quick
Comes age and care and body thick!
When only eyes and spirits dance
And fairy form and form so fair
Are vanished with the flaxen hair.

Now dance, my child, with spirits free,
Before the careless days all flee,
And as I watch, my heart once more
Will lift with you and gaily soar.
Feb 2015 · 5.3k
Thankful!
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
Poems come from our inner pain,
Bleeding out and down the drain,
Pulling readers into our woe,
Chilling hearts like falling snow.

I will rebel against this trend
And bring my whining to an end
By listing blessings yet untold
While I am well and growing old.

First, let me thank the Lord above
For giving wife and children that I love,
And then for parents, growing old
Who gave me principles to hold.

And then for friends for staying true
Across the years and distance, too.
For work I've always found rewarding
And health to work from early morning.

For homes I've run to, needing rest,
And roads to travel in the West,
And opportunities to fly the distant breeze:
Canada and China, West Coast and Belize.

For clothing and for food in easy reach,
For education and for students to teach,
For restful nights and active days,
For knowing where to send my praise....

Forgive me, Lord, ungrateful as I often am,
And thank you, Father, once again,
For grace and mercy, joy and peace
And time to thank you for life's lease.
Impossible for me to e'er repay,
My thankfulness goes up today.
Work in progress.... Thankful.
Feb 2015 · 1.2k
Thorin Oakenshield
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
King Under the Mountain?
Hardly so.
Longed to be king?
Certain sure.
But treasures lost...
He, dragon-sick,
Trusted no one,
Swung an Elven blade,
Lies buried holding Orcrist,
Elven Treasure.
Feb 2015 · 1.7k
Legolas
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
Elven prince
Tender of trees
Molder of leaf-covered mansions,
And brother to the green and growing;
Older than Dwarves,
Older than Men,
And Hobbits,
Younger than Ents,
Eternally young,
Fading slowly
To the West....

Truer heart
Never surged,
Inscrutable,
Unfathomable,
Anchored in Old Codes,
Time out of human mind,
Hidden motives
Sometimes revealed,
Sometimes blind....
Worthy of fearful trust.

Friend to true-hearted
Hobbits,
Men,
Dwarves,
Eagles,
White wizards,
Hunter of Nazgul,
Blade-armorer.

Warg Enemy,
Orc Killer,
Spider Foe,
Sauron Hater,
Murdering Mordor....
Feb 2015 · 1.1k
Death in February, 1935
Don Bouchard Feb 2015
Between two wars, a blizzard,
Fifteen degrees below,
Wind howling shook the house,
Drove the dirt and snow
In snarling threads across the ground,
Separated farms from town.

My mother and her sister, little girls,
Up and chilled in the kitchen
Huddled by the iron stove,
Warmed to a mix of fuel:
Coal, wood, dried cow manure
Radiating steady heat,
Water starting to steam,
Sad irons warming slow,
Breakfast down,
Ironing to be done.

Wind howling and roads blocked,
Dad out milking cows,
Chopping ice on water tanks,
Pitching down a few forkfuls hay...
Not much else to do
In the howling wind.

No co-op telephone to say
School was closed;
Not that it mattered,
No one could have made their way
Over country roads blown shut,
Over snow-blown dunes  of snow.

Dad and the uncles had wired
A makeshift telephone along the fences,
Two miles to the home farm,
A haphazard affair, but still a marvel
On the eastern Montana prairie
To keep Grandpa and sister Anna close....
(Grandmother gone, and only Anna home),
A crank to send the  current along the line,
The hope that someone heard the bell,
Picked up to say, "Hello?"
A modern miracle
Between two farm houses in Montana.

The bell rang,
Mother answered,
Listened and then spoke low....
"Anna's gone," she told  her husband
As he stomped in, white with cold and driven snow.

"We'll try to go across the fields," he said.
But first they ate, and bundled up:
Long stockings, woolen dresses for the girls,
Blankets, coats and mittens,
Sad irons from the stove top,
Bricks warmed in the oven,
Wrapped in burlap for the floor
Of the old truck.

The journey was unsteady, slow,
Following the fence line,
A makeshift guide in the blowing snow,
Moving patch to patch of brown blown bare,
Avoiding rock hard drifts
Looking out for stones,
Seeking gates to find approaches
To the neighbor's fields.

Two hours later, the old house
Stood ghost-like in the swirling snow,
Bleak it seemed,
Windows staring dark,
Holding death within.

The quiet girls stayed in the kitchen,
Little mothers with their dolls;
The men carried sister Anna to the porch,
Laid her on the boot shelf, stiff and still,
And Momma washed her,
Dried and combed the soft brown hair,
Dressed her in her flannel gown,
Wrapped  her in a linen sheet,
Ready for her ride to town,
Said her good-byes out on the porch.

They left Grandpa standing
In the glooming cold,
Chores to do, stoves to tend,
Waiting for the storm to end....

"The undertaker told my mother
He'd never seen
Such a wonderfully prepared body,"
My Mother's voice crackles
through my cell phone.
She's sitting in a soft chair
A thousand miles away;
I am parked along a road
Reliving an event 80 years past.
Towers hurl our thoughts:  
The  past - the present,
The looming future
Frozen in a telephonic moment.

My mother recites a memory
Eighty years' past...
Her parents long gone;
Her life nearly through;
Her son grasping every word,
Blizzard whipped in the rush
Of time.
Trying to preserve these old family memories.... As we grow older, our family stories become more important. Go ask your folks for their memories. They tell us who we are....
Don Bouchard Jan 2015
At first,
Love is a Choice
To act,
Not in emotions,
Nor perceived rewards,
Done from duty as duty,
Because we would be
Loving.

Love may mellow
Over time,
See traits worthy of surrender...
Take root,
Become reason of itself
For pleasure,
For staying true.

We performed the ritual courtesies:
Reiterated "Love yous,"
"Thank yous,"
Farewell prayers,
Hugs,
Waving good-bye,
We hoped our window tint
Hid relief shining in our eyes....

And then another farewell,
A mother crippled, old,
Bent low by time and widowed,
Gentle now, and grateful
For our shortest stays.
This mellowed love we would desire
When we have nearly lived our days.
Smiling tears and long embrace,
Juxtaposed these loves that end in sighs
The differences in love's good-byes.
juxtaposition of farewells between the two mothers
Jan 2015 · 1.6k
Abuse
Don Bouchard Jan 2015
Abuse
Singer sounded like "stinger,"
Fifty years gone, but fresh....
The long sewing machine drive belt
Hung thin and waiting by the broom.
Mother handled it like a snake,
Writhing in the after school air
When she used it to soothe
Menopausal rages.

Welts and shame, rose-red arose
When she stripped them of their clothes;
Struck hard the tender flesh:
Buttocks, thighs,
Panicked wrists and hands,
Flailing in the silence of a preacher's home.

"I never struck in anger,"
She likes to say.
A counselor chills to hear...
A cool-headed striker of children so sick
To give her children the gift
Of bruises, without emotion.
No room for child abuse. NONE.
Jan 2015 · 1.2k
Physical
Don Bouchard Jan 2015
Ten O'Clock, day after tomorrow,
Henry Nilson's funeral's almost  here,
I hate to but I really have to go
Cause we've been friends for sixty years

Rode twelve years on the same old bus
Made memories by the dozens
Played sports, chased girls and learned to cuss,
Married sweethearts who were cousins....

Adjoining acres, ranched and farmed
Never had a fight or angry word,
Kept each other's backs from harm,
Old Henry's death just seems absurd.

Melva loved to worry on about the kids and weather
And when the television doctors said
"Go get a physical," she said, "We'd better!"
And then commenced the journey of the dead.

Old Henry'd never had a use for hospitals,
Said only sick people should go, and he'd
No time for such a waste of time at all...
Besides, he wasn't even sick, by gee.

But Melva kept the pressure up, and she
Though never tall, was never short with words
'Til poor ol' Henry finally gave in to her plea
And let her make a date with Dr. Wards.

He  grumbled to me afterwards, about the big to-do,
"They put me on a fast the day before, not even water!
Couldn't have a cup of joe, nor pinch of chew!
And when we got there, the nurse looked like our daughter!

Old Henry seldom saw the sun below his tee-shirt line,
So when she handed him a gown, he  struggled for a time
Before  he put the ****** thing on, "minus any clothes"
And wondered how to cinch it up...the fasteners  were  behind.

Old Dr. Ward gave cautious smile on entering the room,
"How long's it been, Mr. Nilson, since your last  physical?
I  don't have a record of your charts, so I assume
You've doctored elsewhere?" He looked up, quizzical.

Henry cleared his throat and said, "I ain't been anywhere!"
(At seventy, such a terse statement is something to be said.)
"Wal...that 'ent exactly true, I guess. There  was a couple times
I came for stitches or a broke arm"... his face was weathered red.

What happened  next, old Henry wouldn't speak a word...
Results were good, surprised the doc and Melva, too.
"You'll make a hundred at this rate," the doctor purred,
And  Henry saddled up and  left all in a stew.

A week or so went by, and Henry's medical triumph
Made the rounds of gossips in church and at the bar;
"A waste of time!" was all old Henry humphed.
And the next day, a heart attack took him in the car.

No moral now will end this sad old story,
No fancy shibboleths or speculation;
I notice though, the clinic's in less glory,
From physicals, I'm taking a vacation.
I have seen this happen a time or two. The doctors tell somebody he'll live to a hundred and he dies on the way home. Crazy.
Jan 2015 · 871
Christmas Memories 2014
Don Bouchard Jan 2015
Stories of the pranks we'd done
Moved quickly round the table:
Eric's water balloon  story:
Teen boys driving around water bombing cars
Running red lights to escape an enraged convertible driver...
Wide-eyed son hearing his father's indiscretions for the first time
(Father and Grandfather trying to spin the story to teach a lesson).

Dad's vinegar breakfast drink:
The visiting preacher ******* down a breakfast gulp
Of cider vinegar that drained his face to pale,
Sent him running for the toilet,
Made him ill enough to whisper from the pulpit
(No good explanations, only gasping laughter).

Then came my story of "the stolen VCR":
Staging a robbery in our mall-parked car,
Frightening my wife and her mother into tears,
Bringing telephonic anger to my withering ears;
Laughter turned to silence as the table turned to see
My sweetheart's mother glaring hard at me....
And words revealed the anger fresh again
From thirty years' brooding....
(At loss for words, I asked forgiveness once again).

The fact that father and grandfather and great-grandfather
Had done stupid things accentuated the heat of
Great grandmother's rage.
Children and adults sat fidgeting...
Awkward stillness brought the evening down....

My attempt to teach and bring to rest by looking at the failure
Of 30 years' consequence for a foolish prank that I had done
May serve as worthy instruction for a grandson who has
Mischief in his eyes.
"Before you do a thing, look ahead to see
What consequences there may be!"
(My feeble sermon to a wide-eyed grandson).

I left the table reflecting on the meaninglessness
Of empty words,
Felt again the hopelessness of meeting standards,
Realized that forgiveness hadn't happened,
Reveled in the glow of knowing my wife was standing
Beside me in the heat of the moment,
Reflected that consequences
Follow every foolish thing,
Every action that we take.
Dec 2014 · 786
Callie
Don Bouchard Dec 2014
She's lying on an old gray rug beside the kitchen table
Head gently resting on her paws,
Eyes watching me by the kitchen door.

"No tail wag this morning?"
I ask, and move to kneel beside my Callie,
Lay a gentle hand on her curly brow,
A pat for my old friend,
Who lifts her head and sets her quiet jaw upon my arm.

Standard poodles seldom sit for long,
But Callie's been here all night now for near a month...
Stays motionless, except her eyes and lifted head.
This morning my old friend attempts to rise...
She shakes a little and I see the sadness in her eyes.

A thousand times we've left together,
Headed to the barn in any weather;
She's ridden shotgun on the pickup seat,
And shared the ride and anything I had to eat.

The suture's long and tight along the leg.
The tumor's gone, but cancer has a way
Of reappearing in another place
In old dogs and old men tiring in their race
Against the gods of time and space.

"I'll be back soon, old girl," I say
And rise to start the choring day,
And Callie, good girl that she is,
Attempts to follow to the door,
Until my wife arrives to lead her
Back to her warm spot beside the table.

Mortality and love are on my mind
As the bitter January wind hits hard.
The cows are bawling at the barn,
And I have tanks of ice to break,
And buckets full of feed to haul...
Must be the dust that hurts me after all these years,
Or else I can't account for all these tears.
A friend's standard poodle is recovering from major cancer surgery. If this doesn't work, they can't afford the 5000.00 chemo, and their old friend will have to be put down. Everyone, including me, is grieving.
Nov 2014 · 14.6k
Cow on the Lam!
Don Bouchard Nov 2014
Sundays on the ranch are somethin',
Just after morning chores are done,
I head up to the house on a dead run,
I've called the herd and put the buckets out,
Fed the chickens, called the horse, "Old Son,"
Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun;
Old dog is baying loud to add some fun....

Meanwhile, at the house,
The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out,
When I come in, they clear the bathroom out,
So I can get a shave and morning shower,
And off we'll head to church in half an hour.

Or so we think....
It's then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow's swinging by,
Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder,
"She's headed north toward town!" he chortles mirth,
"Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!" I mutter.

All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap,
We pile in the truck to try and get her back....
We have a chance if we can turn her 'round above the hill....
Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill?
A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid,
Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd,
Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree,
And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.
So many times this happens on the farm.... Town folk can't quite understand the unexpected predictability of "we're ready to go...hold the phone!" lives farmers live. It's amazing we ever get anywhere on time.
Nov 2014 · 1.9k
Damn Politicians?
Don Bouchard Nov 2014
Men and women for election,
Listen to the crowds,
Reflect desires to perfection,
Echo murmurs loud.

Elected, the voters exult
If their candidates win,
Curse under losing result...
Plot to get themselves in.

Either way, time isn't long,
Voters lose first love;
Officials begin to look wrong,
And politics gives 'em a shove.

We never quite see
We're electing ourselves;
Candidates riding on mirrors;
Shiny reflections scream while we yell
Our demands or feed on our fears.

Soon plans we've made turn to dust;
Politicos fail us;
The system breaks down;
The party clogs with inertia and rust,
Until the next campaign comes 'round.

Want to see what we'll get?
Take a look in the mirror...
What we see gives us reason
For fretting and fear.

True mirrors, our best politicians;
Can only reflect what they see...
If we kneel to offer petitions,
Ourselves will pay for our pleas.
Reflecting on politics.... No significant differences seem to come from elected officials, partly because they have to resemble each other to garner the majority votes.... They look to see what the majority wants and then try to go there. From what we see when we look in the mirror of politics, where are we  and where are we going?
Nov 2014 · 999
ABD
Don Bouchard Nov 2014
ABD
Four years and plus I have studied,
Wanting to hear "Well done, Lad!"
Papers and books and Internet leads,
(Some I have even read).

My goal is to finish the final degree,
To stand with the women and men
Who doctor their classes for fee,
Philosophical women and medicine men...

Yesterday's morning came early and light
As I sped to the citadel towers,
Stood in a hallway at the end of the night
For minutes that ticked off like hours...

Then to the panel of erudite four,
Explained and defended my cause...
Stood in the hallway once more
Reading posters and climbing the walls.

The door latch announced the time was at end,
I turned my mentor to see.
"You did very well!" and out went her hands
To throw a big hug around me.

So in we two went and I faced the Chair,
"We're pleased to announce you have passed!"
I grinned in relief to find there was air,
And lungs to breathe it at last.

Numb and relieved, I shook hands all round,
Readjusting my sights and my plan,
Dissertation and frameworks, new targets found,
I left them with papers in hand.
Work in Progress....
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