Waking and sleeping our way
Past our losings of you,
Thinking you forgotten,
Ourselves we fool.

Proof lies in dreams now common:
Your brother sees you in one house and then another...
Happy times as though you've never left,
Your mother sees returned embraces,
Powerful reunions, tearful faces,
Embraces flee morning alarms....
Who knows the dreams to come?
My convolutions mix beyond my ken;
I have no will to stop them, else I lose all memory
Of your face, your happy laugh, or rebel yell;
Losing sight of children, a father's constant hell.

Weary days and dream-filled nights
Toss us as we pine,
A daughter and a sister lost,
An aunt that we can't find.
The past seems never far away
What can be done, we do...and pray.

Once more, an embarrassing suit forced on him,
Picked out by the woman he'd loved
More than his mother, more than himself,
Sixty years and a few short months.

Strange how women have power to choose
Public attire for the men they love
As babes, and boys, and grooms, and now....

What is he now, lying so still in his new suit
So stiffly, awkwardly at peace?

A shoe-less traveler tucked into a box
Wearing a suit with an open back,
Hair finally combed the way
She'd pestered him to keep it.

"Oh!" she says,
"He left his wallet by the bed."

Feel like dancing,
I.

If Dr. Who
Can
Boogaloo,
Then
So
Can
I.

Rose
Is
A
Rose
Is
A
Rose,
As
Dr. Who
Knows.

And dance on the bridge
Of the TARDIS,
They
Did.

Enough
Now
Of
Dooms
And
Emergency
Weathers....

We Dance
Hilarious
Dances
On the TARDIS
Bridge.

Tomorrows
We
Cannot
Imagine
Before
And
Yesterdays
Behind.

We
Pause
for
A
MO...

And
Just
Dance.

I have seen my share of old men
Sitting early in diners:
Widowers, perhaps,
Or never-weds,
Seldom women,
Excepting tired street people,
Tattered bags sprawling
Disheveled out of the wet,
Leaving only when the manager
Steps up with a bottle of soapy water
And a cleaning rag,
The polite symbol of
"It's time to go."

Fast food,
No place to rest,
Up and moving before the family crowd
Can see the riff-raff
Who sat these chairs earlier,
Who hunker now on some lee-side wall
Against the chill spring rain.

Art Bouchard,
My father,
Never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot...
Recounted fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Art Pribnow,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(Dad was very sure he won).

My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Worn diesel pistons
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps,
Sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.

Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of meadowlarks and robins.

Fifty years later,
Dad laughed in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Started up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out first?'"

Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier
To be the first to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I never heard.

These battling neighbors
Even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore
As early became earlier
in the little farmers' war.

One day in town,
By happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But old Art Pribnow shook his head,
Grabbed my dad's hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness
Before one of us is dead!
I don't know about the hours you keep,
Or what got in our heads,
But I admit, I need my sleep!"

The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a little while,
As, "The Early, Earlier War."

As I grow older, Melody, my only Love,
I remember young desire
And thank my only God above.

It was you who made me croon,
Paw the dirt,
Howl at the moon,
And burn.

So it is as we are growing old:
You light the fires
Deep within
And stoke the flames
We've long been in.

I would not have another,
Wife,
Though hard has been our
Life.
I find you everywhere,
It seems...
Asleep, awake, you're there,
Girl of my dreams.

We are Children
Of earth and water.
We are reminded
We are of the elements
In our entries,
In our farewells.

At first light, Easter Sunday morning,
The lilies on my mother's table
Trumpet Resurrection.
Not far from me,
My father's ashes, cool now,
Begin their dusty settling,
While I contemplate
The Resurrection.

"Don't try heroic means!"
He'd tell us.
"I'm old ... used up."
He even told me once
That if we found him in a home,
Lost in a coma,
That I must smother him.
(I told him no.)

I know what he meant, though.
"Do not resuscitate!"
To him, and now to me,
Requested no annihilation,
But declared his hope of Resurrection...
The Savior's gentle nudge to bring
A glorious morning's waking
Other where:
Shedding worn old limbs,
Renewing battered heart,
Erasing a million sins,
Though long forgiven,
Still borne on earth -
Consequential scars
Of living.

Easter Sunday morning,
My father's death, still fresh,
Brings me to affirm,
Christ died for sinful men
So they might live again.

But at this moment the Messiah stands risen from the dead, the first one offered in the harvest of those who have died. For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead also came through a man. (I Corinthians 15:20-21)

db April 8, 2012

Eternity,
Looking at a thread of Time,
Examined Earth,
Considered its conception,
Traced its trajectory,
Ignored the dire prognosis,
Opened its Heart to send
New Life through a ******.

Tickling the back of the neck,
Disturbing the too still air,
Brooding in silence still
Here on the top of the hill.

Burgeoning, the approaching storm
Clouds, far, but nearing,
Climb the ladder-less sky
To the west, to the south.

Air here does not move,
Stands somber, waiting,
Breathing in to hold,
Tense, anticipating.

Flash erupts up and down,
Meets mid-sky, burning,
Clapping air moves
Instantaneous implosion.

Vacuum reverberates,
Ripples fists of vibration
Out and out and out....
Thunder pounds the chest.

White light blinds and burns
The startled inner eye;
Black and purple threads
Visible in lidded dark.

Air escapes the lungs'
Gasped shock surprise...
Too quick for flight,
Too soon for fear.

The ears reverberate ,
Hammered hard within,
Ringing cacophonic
In remembered din.

Knees jellied move and turn
To take my body from the hill.
Alive, and stunned, I lived to learn
Lightning's not my kind of thrill.

If I may presume to summarize the concept,
"Eminent Domain,"
The Big P People own the Right of Way
And the little p people
Have temporary possession of the  opportunity
To get out of the Way,
Or to be smashed under the wheels
Of Big P Progress.

Appropriate compensation will be paid,
Of Course,
And living spaces provided
To the little p people,
While the Big P People thunder by on their new highways,
Overpasses, airports, causeways, and thoroughfares.

Reclamation will be done over the torn earth
To re-bury the unearthed little p people's dead,
To restore damaged aquifers,
To "replace" trees and grasses "just as before,"
Never mind the pipelines,
The concrete roadways,
The railroads,
And the power lines....

Eminent Domain...
Rhymes with Capitalist Gain,  
And little p people's pain....

Whether the smoking rubble forms from
Tumbled towers or ruined desert caves ,
The settling grime of guilt remains.

Whether missiles are guided
By box cutters or by lasers,
Chaos and mayhem reign.

Whether human lives are snuffed
By smoke of oil or ideologies,
Death is the fragrant incense.

Whether "religious," or "political," or "ideological,"
How empty men's blessings and declarations fall...
Empty on the mothers of the slain.
Empty on the mothers.
Empty on the slain.
Empty.

Enoch hurried to the gate
To walk with God one sun up;
That very day the walk of friends
Was born.

A young man still at 65,
In Enoch, something changed
The day the walks began...
A hundred years
Then two
Then three...
The daily walk and deepening talk
And friendship grew.

Who knows the subject of their talks?
What were the words a man could say
To occupy so long a time with God?

Over years, the conversation changed:
"Good Morning, God," and
"How are you?"
Formal and polite perhaps,
As new friends do,
But worthwhile conversation
changed and deeper grew.

One day the walk was long,
And late it grew.
"I'd best be getting home,"
Old Enoch said.

The Lord looked back and then ahead;
"It's closer now to take you on
With me," He said.
Old Enoch smiled, and arm in arm
Walked Home with God.

Here today and gone tomorrow,
True of love and joy and sorrow.
Frost said gold lasts but a day...
So does work, and so does play.
Here today and gone tomorrow,
True of anger, pain and horror.
Savor golden days whene'er they come;
Remember them when they are gone.

Write What You Know

I am standing in front of another writing class 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 General Electric clock over my head marking 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 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 bait, tied carefully to invisible 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. Bouchard? 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 move 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 changing 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 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 was there with you? 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 sour breath of a father as he crosses all lines of decency and honor with a child. I can almost hear 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 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 next fish to come downstream.

David felt the emptiness
Of his bowl,
The House,
His kitchen sink,
Felt the weary settling in.

On the table
After the dish and fork,
His Bible, worn,
Lay open:
"I will never leave you,
Nor forsake you."
The pages, marked and stained,
Seemed dry
In the after-dinner hour.

Echoes in the house tonight:
His bare feet skiffering the floor,
The water running in the sink,
The creaking bed and rustling sheets,
The refrigerator sighing below,
Echoing into the bedroom
Through the empty hall.

Her side,
His side,
The old rules of halves:
Yours/Mine...
Empty now
Either side his.
Yet shuffling to the far side
By the window,
He let himself in,
Slid his tired weight
Between sheets.

Once in,
Let his leg,
His foot reach over
to the emptiness
Of cold sheets
And a flatness
Lonely for her indentation.

Arising sleepless
He wandered out,
First to the toilet and sink,
Then to the kitchen for a drink,
Then to the window,
Then the door,
And out into the yard.

The lowland bog alive:
Spring peepers chorusing,
A nighthawk veering air,
Crickets cheering to stay warm,
Beside, before, and all around,
The night was filled with sound.

"Where have you taken her?"
His eyes searched the stars,
Silent in their astral lofts.
"Where have you gone?"

Chill of night - Mid-eastern spring,
Night air pungent - earth and rain
His woman gone - this lonely man
Hopes for rest - perhaps a dream:
Of them together - balmy weather.

Frogs croak against the growing dark;
Loons call loneliness into my soul;
Chill invades me in sudden falling dew.

Cherubs fed and washed, lie slumbering.
In dying light, in gathering gloom,
Upon the shadowed floors of living room,
Picking up the toys that scattered lie,
Stooping, she sighs to gather scattered things,
Orders them to wait awhile till morning.
Toys rest with arms akimbo, heads a-droop.
Stuffed bears and rabbits sag and dream.
She finishes the tidying and leaves the room.
She smiles a weary smile that lightens gloom,
Remembering when she was herself, alone.

Ever the Optimists,
We Men.
Wee Men, we.
Wowed by
Simplicity.
Confused by
Complexity.
Slain by
Women's smiles.
Ever the Optimists,
We Men, we.

Wheeeeee!

The doctor's news falls hard upon him;
The hammer "cancer" deals a deathly blow,
Enough to shatter all philosophy
Stagger him in wheeling woe.

"My hunting gear and books and orchard
No longer hold my heart so dear
As they did just a week ago."

"Let goods and kindred go,
This mortal life also;
The body they may ****;
God’s truth abideth still.
His kingdom is forever."*

Old Luther told us plain and clear
Our anchor rusts if it be here.
On earthly shores, the harlot, Time
Demands we leave our pelf behind.

But still we gather up our things,
Amass our wealth, our riches sing,
Only to leave them, bit by soiled bit...
Wanting everything, but keeping none of it.

Time is a friend who's getting on;
She forgets promises she made in youth,
Gives the hope of summer coming strong,
Then Autumn steals in softly with the truth,
Steals strength and hope and hair and tooth.

The station master arrived a little after five,
Set about his morning schedule,
Turned on the lights,
Put the coffee on,
Checked the restrooms,
Picked up the paper at the curb,
Waited for the old town clock
To chime six bells
From the tower carillon.
He set his pocket watch with care,
Then stepped outside to check the station clock
Standing on the red brick apron of the station.

The 6:10 arrived a little early,
Offloaded mail and Billy Johnson,
Home from college and heading to the farm.
He looked tired from two days' travel
Coming on the rails.

At 6:14, the train pulled out,
On the station master's wave.

A few seconds early,
But not so much
As to bring concern
Until a man rode up to ask
Where was the train?

"It's come and gone at 6:14,"
The station master said,
"You've arrived too late."

"That cannot be," the stranger said,
"My time piece says it's only 6:11."

The station master scratched his head,
"I set my clock according to the bell
That rings at 6:00 each morning in the town.
It's accuracy is beyond compare."

The traveler's face began to crack
Into a crooked smile.
"I think I have an inkling
Of the problem here," he said.

"My uncle's the town mayor.
Just yesterday he said
He sets the bells by the station's clock.
I set my pocket watch three days ago
Back in the city where I live,
And it's three minutes slow
Compared to yours."

'Tis time for contemplation;
Painful humor in the situation,
The 6:14 in early locomotion,
Three minutes bought for meditation
On the need for calibration.

I imagine a breath of celestial air;
I say I'll face the ground,
Afraid to see the Almighty.
But how?

If Jehovah is above and below,
Within and without,
Beside, behind, and before,
Everywhere at once...and more,
I'll have nothing in store:
No attitude, no posture,
No stumbling alibis...
No critical questions arise,
No time left to philosophize...

He sees me throughout;
He sees through my eyes;
He's in my thoughts;
He knows my truths...and lies.

I will attempt quietness
Though my mind rushes on;
He is here in tumult & solitude
Present in the garden and in the multitude.

She takes a half a century
To ready up to go;
He stamps his feet and grumbles...
Then stifles, 'cause he knows
She's faithful...
Faithfully she loves;
Faithfully she's true;
It's a better life to love
A girl who's always slow...
Contentment comes
To those who know...
Faithfulness.
===================
Always she is ready,
Looking mighty fine...
With her, life is heady
Roses, ***, and wine,
But still he's feeling low...
With him or not, her heart's not true,
And every man is game.
Always empty, wanting more,
She paws the door and wears the floor...
Faithlessness.
--------------------------------------
He­ hangs his head these lonely days
She's gone to greener grass,
Because his penchant kept his eyes
On making one more pass,
"A little candy before lunch,"
He liked to joke around,
No woman ever felt it safe,
To let her guarding down.
Meanwhile his wife waits up at home,
While he is working late.
So sadly married to a man who roams
Breaking vows and tempting fate.
=========================
He's tired and he's growing old
A little stooped and bent,
His hair's receding now, and gray,
His working days are almost spent,
And yet she knows he's done his best...
He's fought his battles, nearly lost a few,
But found his love held faithful, true,
And so she holds his hand and stays
Faithful to her man and loves him, too.
The comfort these two know in later days,
The quiet peace of coming home to stay,
Are interest and dividends,
The priceless benefits she pays...
Faithfulness.

In a far off country have I roamed
Away from family, away from home.

Chaser of visions, Dreamer of dreams
Long have I been so far away.

What have I to speak?
To whom might I say,
"Forgive me, I have been away.
Remember me, I have been away."

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)

Alicia,
Brynde,
Braden,
Kate,
This one's for you,
My children....

Alicia came upon a wish,
Surprise, surprise!
Our lives could never be the same,
Bright and pretty,
Intelligence to stun....

Brynde followed within two years
To join her sister,
To make life full,
A way with Daddy's heart,
A feisty soul,
And willful charmer of bees.

Braden's entrance brought me joy,
To join me as our only boy,
A melancholy son at times, but sharp
At math and quick debate,
Able bodied little man now tall and strong,
I am so glad you came along.

When Katelyn joined our band of five,
We both were stunned, and yet the joy
You brought us with your winning smiles,
Your brains and voice and dancer beauty
Cannot be measured, can't be bought.

As I am growing old, I've cried my share of tears,
I've laughed and raved and mourned the years,
I thought my work was in another place away
From you, my bonnie bairns, but as the years come on,
I must give thanks for you...each one,
And count myself a man so blessed
To have four children safely born,
To have a loving wife,
My only love, and Mother of you all.

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.

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)

How does the rancher learn to dance
The annual rhythms of the land?

When do we bring the cows, bawling,
From open summer to sheltered winter pastures?
When is it time to bring the stubborn bulls
To the empty, urgent cows,
Or to remove them from contented cows,
Grown placid in the heaviness of calves?

How do we know the time
To round up the sweltering herds,
Bringing the bellering calves to brand?
Or when do we cull the frightened heifers,
Lucky in their selection, but uncertain?
When should we pare the weanlings,
And when call we the buyers?

And, when is the time for hiking forty miles
Of rusting fence,
Replacing posts,
Mending broken wire
Before the changing of pastures?

And when is the time to come to ease,
To sense the satisfaction
In seeing grazing cattle,
Tails swishing away the black flies of June,
Moving through gray-green prairie grass
On their way to cool creek water?

Sometime early in the year,
Calving drawing on,
Seeders and tractors
Lose their dormant chill,
Began demanding preparation,
Murmuring anticipation:
"Clean the seed for planting!"
"Till the soil and ready it for seed!"

The farmer, wanting rest,
Anxiously awaits first sprouts,
Anticipates the time to till the noxious weeds,
Watches capricious sky for signs of rain or hail;
Tends fences; guards his fields,
Where ripening grain cannot predict the yields.

June scrambling begins:
The readying for harvest,
The hopeful storage plans,
The preparation of harvesters
Expensive beyond budgets,
Soon to lumber out and gather
Dying summer in....

Autumn's chilling breath
Calls quickening to the work:
The gathering of straw,
The hauling-in of hay,
The opened stubble fields for cows;
The planting of winter wheat,
That first must sprout before frost....
(If not the seeding may be  lost).

I know what you are thinking;
I know what you were thinking;
I know what you will be thinking
When your end comes.

When the end comes,
I will be waiting
To pull you through into
Always.

Wasn't it I who pushed you,
Unaware and blinking
Groggily into the light;
Wasn't it I who pushed you
Forward into Time?

"Write two poems," I said.

My students left the room.

Some frittered the week away,
No idea how to start,
What to say....

Others found a way to play,
Rolling phrases
Making hay,
Coding words in lines
Testing assonance,
Alliteration,
Anthropomorphization:
A door, a pen, and clouds...
Always clouds.

"Write one that rhymes," I'd said,
And so the rhymers vied,
Stretched morphemes until dead,
Finding words I thought had died,
Bruised themselves with rhythm,
Metered anapests and dactyls,
Resorted to trochees and iambs
And smiled as if inventing fractals,
My little lambs.

"Write free verse; break all rules!" I said,
And though they tried,
No ee cummings Jesus resurrected,
No William Carlos Williams rose
To eat plums beside white chickens,
And no apologies.

Still, when all was finished,
Notes came in,
A treasured, precious few
Wrote to say they'd found
Appreciation for words
Arranged intentionally,
For power of images,
For realization of the value
Found in working words.

"Papa, we want to fish!"

We gather the digging tools,
The plastic pail,
The poles and the wagon.
My old fishing pack rides in the back.

First stop, garden, to unearth
Peaceful worms
For a hook and a bath.
Our fingers are black with soil.

The walk to the pond is hot.
The bank and the shade help.
Bullheads are our only customers,
Making worms' sacrifice a shame.

The girls soon tire and run to play,
While the boy and I try on.
"Here," I say, "I'll teach you to cast."
He looks at me, shading his eyes with his hand.

His little thumb barely reaches the release,
But his determination and natural skill
Produce perfect casts within minutes.
The line arcs high and falls, arcs high and falls.

I am no longer necessary for casting,
And soon he'll figure how to run the hook
Inside the worms' wriggling to hide the barbs.
Today is a most important day for both of us.

Some day, when I am gone away,
I hope he'll repeat this ancient ritual,
Digging in dirt, uncovering worms,
Teaching his grandchildren to fish.

Gray skies upward fling
In the vap'rous breath of Spring
Melting mounds of snow
Trickling rivulets slow

Lines of feathered travelers
Nature's hope inspiring harbingers
Vee Northward o'erhead
Calling high and loud and long
Their ceaseless journey song.


Houses buried far below
Including the one we own
Beneath the weight of heavy snow
Crack complainingly and groan,
Wait with unknowing strain
Warm sun's shine to own.

Incessant, nervous breeze,
Gray mornings scudding in,
Branches, stark and thin,

Rain and flurried snow
Blended now, as if they didn't know
Which way the sky must go,
Warming now, but slow.

Bleak skies and weathered land
Beaten colorless by Winter's hand
Seem silent in these days of gray,
But I know fair Spring will have her say.

A neighbor rang, reporting her first robin;
Two trumpeters flew north without stopping,
And geese stand waiting on the icy pond,
Rememb'ring open water just beyond.

This is the time when old ones sigh,
Wondering will winter ever die?
And some decide that it is best
To turn toward eternal rest.

So left my friend this early spring
Before he heard the robins sing,
And I remain to live the winter out alone,
Awaiting green and coveting bird song.

Five rivers, horror-full
Through Hades flow:
Acheron, full of sorrow, endless woe,
Cocytus, howls as lamentation and regret,
Phlegethon - smoke and molten fire, ever hot,
Lethe - black waters of oblivion,
Styx - bitterest of all, flows full of hate.

The boatman Kharon,
Psychopomp, deliverer of souls,
Navigates Acheron and Styx,
Plucking his coins
From passengers' eyes
(No one is alive),
Then lets them find
Their appointed ways
To bliss or dread.

Odysseus alone
Braved Phlegethon
To speak with wise Tiresius;
Tossed his sacrificial goat
Into the flowing fire,
Heard the Ancient's voice,
Then fled in terror.

Dad,
Can it be that you are gone now,
Five years' comings and goings,
Five solar journeys now, around the sun?

I can still see your shape,
Thin and worn,
Overalls, too big,
Cap pulled down,
Pliers hanging at your side,
Lace-up boots, worn,
And your face, lined,
Eyes still twinkling, though
Weary after a day's work,
Fixing,
Farming,
Fencing,
Feeding.

In my mind, you're
Going off to the barn,
To hay the cows,
Like an old imam
Heading mechanically
To daily prayers,
Moved by routines
Impossible to ignore.

The man and the work,
So embedded in the other...
No more thought of leaving -
Though as a younger man,
You spoke of some day retiring -
There was no way, and no desire,
Farming was your one remaining fire.

So, five years are gone,
And yet, everything still
Standing on the farm
Bears resemblances of you.

The peeling buildings, sagging still,
The gravel paths you tended,
The panels your hands welded,
The barns and sheds you built
Still stand, and bear the evidence
Of Arthur Bouchard's hands.

Leaves have disappeared,
Only the last,
The fallen fruit remains,
Fading red and waiting frost.

Not yet visible, the latent buds
Hang silent now on leafless boughs....

Fallen summer's work
In this garden of the lost
Beneath autumn branches lie:
Graveyards of apples.

Only the passing deer
Bend low to pick the last of harvest up:
Provender quick, an easy meal
Before the coming snow.

The road winds ahead
I think.
In truth,
I cannot with my human senses tell;
Thick fog and rain and dread...
This path might lead
To the bottom of a well
Or worse...to Hell.
But no, the way behind me led to Hell,
And I have turned my back,
Begun my pilgrim way.

What directions I can find
Point in the way I head,
And mired as I am,
I cannot stay
Nor stand and wait
Nor can I turn retreat...
Been there before...
There's nothing good to eat,
And nothing there
To give me peace,
So I press on.

Push on I must,
For I have heard
Somewhere high above me
An eagle cry,
The promise of a clearing sky,
A vantage point to find
If I have wings.

Whenever I put the phone down
To go walking,
To work the soil,
To garden,

Or ride some river road
Beneath trees,
Feel the breeze...

I realize with Frost
That nothing gold can stay,
That the witching light of screens
Takes fleeting gold away.

Forgive me, sir, forgive me,
I think I'll just walk by;
I see unbridled anger;
I hear voices shouting high.

Cinders in your voices,
Fire in the skies,
I'm weary of your anger;
I think I'll just pass by.

Venom on the posters,
Riots in the air;
The innocent are losers
If anybody cares.

So, forgive me kindly, sister,
I think I'll pass you by;
I've lover, home, and children,
I must reach before the fight.

Rests invisible in the hot blood's rise,
Unused before barrage of rage and alibis,
Silently outwaits the soul's angry sighs.

Wisdom, too, holds knowing tongue,
Content to hold forgiveness' hand, while long
The cooling blood is covered with their soothing song.

When right mind o'er-takes the anguished brooding whole
Wisdom and Forgiveness emerge, envelop, and enfold,
Release the hatred, salve the bitter, broken soul.

So find the wounded soul's release;
Wisdom's Forgiveness bringeth Peace
Provides the way to life's new lease.

On this day,
Twenty-eight years ago,
I realized that love is not divided...
Not halved between.
A father's love for his children...
Is a multiplication,
An expansion.

How do I explain?

Meanings of life change;
Additions and subtractions aside,
Love multiplies...matures:
Exult or suffer, it endures
Even the agony of division.

Mainly now, love suffers,
But always it endures.

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.

Light Shows

Wafting up this hill
From the town below
The fetid air this morning,
Whispers sleepily.

We sat here with a crowd
Last night, anticipating
The finale of the Fourth of July,
Expecting colored fire
And fierceness in the sky
To erupt above the lake
As a flotilla of boats,
White and green and red markers glowing
Took their bobbing places
Too far from us to see expectant faces.

The morning grass lies matted,
Littered with bits of celebration:
Candy wrappers,
Bottle caps,
Crushed cans...

Only the motorcycle and I
Overlook the restless trees and water
Uncertain in the morning breeze below....

The fireworks this year amazed us all,
Arcs and constellations
Shattering the air
Drifting off to die in smoking trails,
Whistling curlicues,
Weeping-willow shreds of gold,
Strings of blue and white and red,
Cacophonies of power,
Echoing and echoing again.

And yet, again,
God won the show...
Sent a humble lightning bug
To fly across my grandson's path
And captured, captivated his attention.

While thundering explosions pinwheeled overhead,
An insect blinked his tail,
Walked up young Parker's arm,
Disarmed the bombing of the sky,
Attached a young boy's quick affection,
Earned the title, "Sparky,"
And hitchhiked home
To be released alive and well
On my front lawn.

Two Christmases ago,
Morning cold hovers in electrons.
Frost covers the Chevrolet
Backed by whiteness
Under zero degree sunlight
The old farm place sees morning
Bright and calm....

The ancient barn,
**** frosted roof agleam,
Stands downhill to the north,
Below a curving tractor trail
Cut in the snow...

At the other end of those tracks,
Eighty-one and counting,
You are crawling down
the tractor steps,
Pulling battered buckets
from the ancient fodder shack,
Hobbling to the cattle troughs...
Doing what you love to do...
Have done for fifty years....

I am taking pictures at the house,
Amazed at the cold and frost;
An onlooker now,
Somehow aware that I can not
Follow you...or won't,
Wistful still for attentions
you always freely gave
To kine instead of kin.

Could I go back,
Would I go down
To trough the feed?
I tell myself I would,
Or I would not.

The image burns coldly,
Electrically before me,
And only vaguely I'm aware
That you have slipped away.

Two Christmases ago,
Morning cold hovers in electrons.
Frost covers the Chevrolet
Backed by whiteness
Under zero degree sunlight
The old farm place sees morning
Bright and calm....

The ancient barn,
**** frosted roof agleam,
Stands downhill to the north,
Below a curving tractor trail
Cut in the snow...

At the other end of those tracks,
Eighty-one and counting,
You are crawling down
the tractor steps,
Pulling battered buckets
from the ancient fodder shack,
Hobbling to the cattle troughs...
Doing what you love to do...
Have done for fifty years....

I am taking pictures at the house,
Amazed at the cold and frost;
An onlooker now,
Somehow aware that I can not
Follow you...or won't,
Wistful still for attentions
you always freely gave
To kine instead of kin.

Could I go back,
Would I go down
To trough the feed?
I tell myself I would,
Or I would not.

The image burns coldly,
Electrically before me,
And only vaguely I'm aware
That you have slipped away.

Left the house this morning before six;
Stopped to photograph the hoarfrost
Beneath the street lights glowing thick...
White, silver, black before it all was lost.

The headlights caught a snow-like fall,
Frost slanting north before a southern breeze,
And I was all alone in wonderland to see it all;
I turned inside a splendor-dome of trees.

The camera tried to focus, battling light and dark;
No sun to give some depth against the night.
I felt my fingers growing numb and left the park,
Hoping at least one snapshot would look right.

The morning breeze then stirred, "Enough!"
Revealing golden warmth, arrived the sun;
Shivering trees their silver jackets sloughed,
And I, to work because the day'd begun.