NOTE:  This is a short story; not a poem.  (author)

(Sometimes when you don’t know something can’t be done, you discover a way to do it.)

High at the top of a tree in Forest Park, Parker Squirrel lived in a nest that his mother had built from a hollowed out place inside the trunk of an old oak.   A large branch forked away from the main trunk and a hole in the bark conveniently served as a doorway to the outside world.  On one particular morning, Parker poked his head out from the doorway of his home and looked around very carefully at his surroundings.  It wasn’t the first time in his young life that he had peeked at the outside world from his mother’s nest, but this time he was more alert and cautious than he had ever been before.  Today he was orphaned and all alone.  Sometime in the dark of night, while he was hiding deep inside the nest, he was forced to watch in terror when a large owl came and took away his mother.  So today, feeling very timid and afraid, Parker made every effort to look in each direction before leaving his cozy home to explore and search for food.

Just ahead of him he saw that the rustic ranger station stood like a monument, to welcomed visitors to the state park.   On his left he could see the foothills of the purple mountain range.  He knew that these foothills and their woodlands were all part of the place called Forest Park.  Off to his right a dancing brook bubbled along the edge of a grassy meadow.  In its tall grasses he saw a white-tail doe playing with her newborn fawn. There seemed to be no danger in that direction, so Parker stretched his neck upward and watched as white, cotton-ball clouds floated across the azure blue sky.  Finally he looked down at the ground far below just in time to see a large toad quickly hop under the cover of some wild mushrooms.  Still, he sensed no danger.

Unfortunately, in order to see the forest behind him, it was necessary for Parker to leave his nest and climb around to the other side of his oak tree. And that was a problem for Parker, because the little squirrel was still much too timid to take such a chance.  Instead he stretched as far as he could to look around the wide tree trunk and into the woods.

Glancing back into the forest, Parker saw more tall oak trees with their strong, stately trunks.  He saw a scattering of white flowers that revealed the presence of dogwood trees.  A stand of sugar maples displayed their graceful branches and delicate leaves.  He also noticed some early spring flowers and wild mustard plants splashing bright yellow hues against the fresh green Indian grasses where a tiny meadow carpeted the outer edge of the forest floor.

There were no owls!

Even if they were hiding where he couldn’t see them, Parker would know they were there.  He would be able to smell their unmistakable odor.  To nearly all rodents, the owls have a peculiar stench that is putrid and foul.  And even a young squirrel like Parker would recognize it at once.

The young squirrel was fascinated by all he saw.  His furry skin tingled in the warm glow of the bright, noonday sunshine, almost making him forget the tragedy of the previous night.  Parker had only arrived into the world about six weeks ago, but in squirrel time that meant he would soon be approaching young adulthood.  He had always been cozy and comfortable, cradled in the nest his mother had built in the tall oak tree.  He had always enjoyed foraging with her for seeds and nuts.  The pantry was partly filled, even now, with acorns and hickory nuts, which emitted a woodsy aroma that reminded him of his mother.   He loved the wonderful world he saw from his perch and his heart was so happy that he began to chatter a new springtime song, which he seemed to hear playing all by itself inside his head.

Parker was so enthralled by all the new sights and smells filling his senses that he nearly outstretched the length of his body as he leaned outside the doorway to his mother’s cozy nest and suddenly he fell and tumbled onto the forest floor beneath him.  He landed with a horrible thud!  The little squirrel landed on his back into a clump of moss that grew beneath the tall oak, which only moments before had been his citadel.

  “Ouch!” chattered Parker as he recovered his breath.  The fall had knocked the wind from his lungs but as soon as he discovered he could breath again he checked himself all over to make sure he wasn’t seriously hurt.  Then he began to explore the forest floor.

The little squirrel was so excited, as he ran from one discovery to another, that he completely lost track of time.  Before he knew it, he was a long way from his mother’s tree and it was growing dark.   The little squirrel ran from tree to tree looking for his home and finally he stopped at a very tall oak.  Parker was certain that this was the same tree from which he had fallen, so as fast as he could scurry, he climbed up the trunk, searching among its branches for his mother’s nest.  When he failed to find his home in the trunk of the tree, Parker finally realized that he was lost. The young squirrel had exhausted all of his strength running through the woods.

Afraid and suddenly very lonely, Parker was also very sleepy and hungry.   Since he had no food and didn’t know what else he could do, Parker curled up into a ball at the crook of a branch and fell asleep.  Next morning Parker searched the tree again for his home.  To his surprise he stumbled upon a strange nest made up of branches and twigs of oak built close to the trunk of the tree.  This nest seemed substantial and well built.  The interior of the nesting cup was about eight inches across and five inches deep.  Although the nest looked crude from the outside, its bowl was delicately and warmly lined with a combination of moss, feathers and leaves. It was about seventy-five feet from the ground and two fledgling crows were sleeping inside.

An older squirrel might have killed the baby crows for food and driven off the adult birds when they returned, but Parker just climbed inside the nest, curled up beside the sleeping pair, and fell asleep to dream about where he would find his next meal.

Parker’s sleep was interrupted by the noise of the two young birds’ loud clamoring for food.  Their incessant calls were being tended to by the mamma crow, which had returned to the nest and was now busy stuffing their hungry mouths with an assortment of seeds and worms.  As strange as it seems and much to Parker’s surprise, the mother crow also began stuffing his mouth with food just the same as if she was feeding her own children.  Although he didn’t like the earthy taste of the worms, Parker was very hungry and he swallowed every bite.  He found that he was actually quite satisfied with the meal.

Parker soon learned that there had originally been six baby birds occupying the crow nest, but sadly four had recently been taken by the owls in nighttime raids.  Perhaps the loss of her own children was the reason the Mother Crow decided to adopt the baby squirrel and began feeding it along with her own young.  In nature there are many mysteries and not all of them have easy answers.  But, whatever her reason, one thing is very certain.  Parker Squirrel had been officially adopted into the Crow family and he now had a new mother and a new home, complete with a brother and a sister.

Parker’s new siblings were very close to his own age, which meant they soon would begin standing on the edge of the nest and even leave to nearby branches of the tree when they were being fed.  In the course of another week they would be leaving the nest and taking their initial flight while being watched, tended to, and protected by their adult parents.  So Parker had a great surprise awaiting him. He didn’t know it yet, but in just a few days Mamma Crow would be expecting him to learn to fly.  Of course, squirrels, by nature, are curious and quite acrobatic and no one had ever yet told Parker that he couldn’t fly like a bird.   So when the time came for Parker and his siblings to make their initial test flights, he spread his arms and began to flap them hard, as though they were wings, as he leaped from the nest.  Naturally the little squirrel tumbled down once again onto the forest floor with another thud.

Encouraged and nudged along by Mamma Crow and by taunts from his new brother and sister, Parker tried again and again to fly.  Each time he tried flapping his little arms like wings and each time he fell to earth with a thud.  Soon his whole body ached with painful bruises from his many falls.  But even more than the motivation and prodding from his new family, Parker wanted to fly.  There was something inside Parker that made him want to keep trying.  Parker really did want to fly.

Immediately after being adopted, Parker had begun foraging for his own food by pure instinct.  When he found acorns and seeds he brought them by mouthfuls back to the Crow family’s nest.  But now the urge to fly was almost as strong inside him as his urge to scour the forest floor for acorns and nuts.

At night Parker dreamed about flying.  As a younger squirrel he had often dreamed about being a “super squirrel” that flew around the forest, from tree to tree, doing good deeds and fighting off the evil owls with his super powers.  But the urge he felt now to soar through the air was different from the wishful thinking of a childhood fantasy.  Parker felt that he had to fly.  He just had to.

He thought about why he wanted to fly so badly.  It was more than the fact that his new brother and sister could fly.  There was some important reason deep inside him that made him yearn to soar from tree to tree.  As time passed Parker met other squirrels in the forest and he knew very well by now that he was not a crow, so why couldn’t he just be content to be like the other squirrels and forget all about this nonsense of flying after all.  He thought that perhaps it was because he remembered what the owls had done to his mother and what they had done to those siblings from his new family that were taken before he even had a chance to meet them.  Perhaps now, he thought, he was just afraid and only wanted to fly so he could escape the danger of the owls.  Maybe he was just a coward.

The next night when Parker went to sleep he dreamed again of flying.  But there was something different about this dream.  In his dream Parker was not flying like the crows fly.  He didn’t flap his arms up and down like wings.  Instead he just glided and soared with no effort at all.  In this dream he could actually feel the wind flowing over his body as he glided from one tree to another.  When the sun came out and awakened him from his sleep, Parker couldn’t wait to try again.  This time when he jumped from the nest he would not flap his arms because, after all, arms aren’t wings are they?

Before anyone could stop him, Parker leaped from the nest.  He began to fall straight down, but instead of flapping his arms up and down, he stretched his arms and legs out as far as they would reach.  Then, suddenly something happened.  Instead of dropping to the ground with a painful thud, Parker started gliding.  He didn’t fly far enough to reach another tree, but he was able to glide to another branch on his own tree.  After recovering from his own surprise, he looked back to the nest and he saw his mother and brother and sister all standing on the edge of the nest with looks of amazement on their faces.  They were all calling out to him to try it again. This time, having learned what to expect, Parker glided all the way to the next tree.  After a few more tries, Mother Crow was flying right beside him.

One day Mamma Crow told him to follow her.  “Come with me,” she said.  “I want to show you something.”   And he followed her, gliding from tree to tree.  She led him to a new place, deeper into the woods than he had ever been.  Soon they arrived at a place in the forest that almost seemed enchanted.  He was very surprised to see that were lots of other squirrels gliding from tree to tree just like Parker.

“This is your new home,” said Mother Crow to Parker.  “You’re not just an ordinary squirrel, you know, you are a flying squirrel.”

Then she told him, “From the day I first adopted you I knew that you were special. But you had to discover by yourself who you really are.  Here in this place you can be safe and make friends of your own kind.”  After saying goodbye and wishing him well, she waved at him and, looking back one more time, she flew away.

Well, that is how Parker learned to fly and how he discovered who he really was.  After that he continued to live a very happy life with his new friends.  The owls never seemed to trouble him in this part of the woods.  But he never, ever, forgot about Mother Crow and the family that adopted him. Even to this day, Parker often stops by the nest with a mouthful of acorns and nuts.

I found a book of wisdom
And read it through and through
To learn about a way of life
Taught by a great Guru.

He said the way to inner peace
Was there for everyone—
Just make a list and finish
All those things you’ve left undone.

I searched my own house thoroughly
And made myself a list.
I finished off these undone things
As I fulfilled my quest:

A bottle of Jack Daniel’s,
Three of my favorite rums,
Some sherry and some cooking wine,
A box or two of tums,

A box of chocolate cherries—brandied to give a kick
I’m now a mellow fellow
But I’m also terribly sick!

My grandson came to live with us today.
It costs a lot to have an extra boy.
It costs so much for modern boys to play;
No longer such things as a dollar toy.
He eats enough for four and then eats more.
His high priced clothes must have a hole or tear.
His pants are low and dragging on the floor;
His cheeks covered only by underwear.
It seems my truck is always low on gas
I let him drive; I know life here seems dull.
And the dear boy is always out of cash*
He never fills the tank completely full.
In spite of all he’s really not a care
We’d rather have him here than have him there

I’ve known some Wiccans in my time,
Sky clad witches!
Wicked!  They

... chanted spells in words that rhyme.
I watched,
waiting,
wanting to play.

I neither sought portion nor spell—
not trusting the magic of it.
I thought them ******--
all raised in Hell—
whose sinful flesh I yearned to get.

I met a witch named Sally Sue,
I took a longing for that Miss.
You won’t believe what she could do
with just a nickel and a kiss.

Her beauty rare,
she stole my heart,
that sky clad witch named Sally Sue.
She taught me secrets of her art.
She taught me things I never knew.

When moonlight’s full on Solstice eve,
their gossamer **** bodies dance.
And power men cannot conceive
is raised to give new life a chance.

Daughters from Hell? These Wiccans—
Nay!
With grace and beauty they create
more peace and love than words can say
to save a world, dying with hate.

But in despair we had to part—
I and my Wiccan, Sally Sue.
She left me with a broken heart
to do what only Wiccans do.

Grandma had a clever dog;
She raised him from a pup.
And when he learned that he could talk
You couldn't shut him up.

His tail was just a nubbin
And he had a flattened mug.
He looked like a short boxer
So grandma named him pug.

Grandma told us what he looked like
For we never saw the cuss.
Her walking, talking, Pug Dog
Was invisible to us.

She said he'd always been around,
As far as she recalled.
Her mother told Pug stories
Before grandma even crawled.

Every family has traditions
And I guess I'd have to say,
Pug tales have been our custom
Right down to this very day.

When grandma gives a long deep sigh
And says, "Now, one day Pug. . ."
We know a story's coming
So we sit down on the rug.

We nestle up beside her
For a tale we've never heard.
And everyone gets quiet
So that we won't miss a word.

The stories grandma tells us
Of the things that dog can do
Can hold any child's attention,
Even fill a book or two.

Grandma's Pug tales outdo Rin-Tin-Tin
And even ******-Doo.
He's a smarter dog than Snoopy;
Smarter than Lassie too.

Pug has traveled  far, to distant lands,
And even outer space.
He's done every thing there is to do
And he's been every place.

He always gets in trouble
For there's nothing he won't try.
He has traveled in a sub-marine,
Flown airplanes in the sky.

He has even been arrested,
More than once broke out of Jail.
But the family loves him dearly
And we always pay his bail.

Where grandma gets her stories from
I guess I'll never know.
But even down through all these years
Her Pug tales grow and grow.

I know someday when grandma sleeps,
And her life on earth is gone,
The Angels all will gather
To hear Pug tales all day long

Nineteen million NASA's price
  To build its crew a safe device
So astronauts could have a place
  To handle *** and ***** waste

  And men of space would have a loo
  To do what other men must do
These millions bucks NASA would pay
  So no spaceman would float away

These men were safe from their own farts
  With leg restraints and other parts
And all was safely put in place
  A porta-***** out in space

But something's wrong I heard today
  An amber rain on its way
No place to hide no place to run
  A loo in space has come undone

From far in space a cry unheard
  A spaceman hit by a flying ****

Bruce the Spruce was a Christmas tree;
     he lived on Christmas Farm.
Each night he dreamed that he could bring
     cheer into someones home.

He stretched his branches every day
     and squeezed his needles tight,
so he could be a perfect tree
     for holding Christmas lights.

Every year at Christmas time
     Bruce did as he was taught.
He showed all of his Christmas charm,
     hoping he would be bought.

The people came from miles around
     to buy their Christmas Trees.
They pulled and tugged at branches
     and gave the twigs a squeeze.

They looked for trees just the right size,
     with needles that would stay,
trees that gave a Christmas smell
     to brighten Christmas day.

Bruce was a perfect Christmas tree;
     the children seemed to love him.
But Bruce was small and other trees
     still towered high above him.

The years went by and Bruce the Spruce
     eventually grew tall.
His branches spread and held their form;
     they didn't droop at all.

But there were many Christmas Trees
     that grew on Christmas Farm
and no one ever seemed to pick out Bruce,
     with all his charm.

Bruce grew so sad as years went by;
     it seemed he'd grown too tall.
It seemed that he would never be
     a Christmas tree at all.

When the new families came each year
     to buy trees for their home,
they never looked at Bruce the Spruce;
     he stood there all alone.

Bruce never forgot Christmas;
     it brightened all his dreams.
Yet, in the light of each new day,
     he lost his Christmas schemes.

One day a truck came to the farm;
     men came with saws and rope.
They came to cut the tallest tree;
     Bruce finally lost all hope.

"My time has come; Ive grown too old,"
     his arms trembled in fear.
"I'm only good for firewood now;
     I've seen my final year."

They cut him down and tied him to
     the flatbed truck they brought.
They drove away, while Bruce the Spruce
     lie weeping on the truck.

Bruce closed his eyes and fell asleep;
     he dreamed of silent nights,
of children's smiling faces,
     of gifts and colored lights.

When Bruce awoke He couldn't hold
     back all of his delight.
Bruce couldn't believe what he saw;
     his branches all had lights.

His arms were filled with tinsel.
     Children were gathered round.
Everyone was cheering
     and laughing on the ground.

Bruce looked around in ecstasy;
     he couldn't help but stare.
Bruce had become the Christmas tree
     that now adorned Times Square.

You can eat them plain or toasted,
Either with or without salt.
You can fry them; you can roast them;
You can flavor them with malt.

You can sprinkle them in salad.
You can serve them with your fish.
You can eat them from a bag; or
You can flavor any dish.

They’re nutritious and delicious
And they’re very, very mild.
You can buy them at the market;
You can harvest from the wild.

I love gathering pine nuts,
Fresh and tasty from the wood;
For we always go together
That’s what makes them taste so good.

I left the home of the meadowlark
For a land found more oft' in my dreams.
A more noble land than my native park,
With its rubble of meaningless schemes.

And the song that the meadowlark sang to me
In my heart will forevermore burn.
I can only say that it seemed to be,
"Once you've gone you can never return."

So I set my course for the highest mount
On a path where few have tread,
To the great unknown where the masters roam,
Through the valley of the dead.

Neither bard nor sage ever wrote a page
Of diabolical lore
That could ever compare to the evil found there,
Past the gates to the valley of horror.

Men had left their bones as stepping stones
Which glowed with a phosphorus light.
They lighted the way for my feet of clay
As I stumbled through the night.

But I sank in the mire of my own desire
While I groped along in the dark.
And I thought I would die to the mocking cry
Of that dreadful meadowlark.

Then the helping hand of a dying man
Reached to pull me back on the way.
And I rested there in the August air
Where I longed for the light of day.

And I sang a song as I traveled on
In the light of a new day's sun.
'Twas a song of hope I could reach the *****
Where great battles had been won.

When I reached the glen at the mountains end
Then I knew my journey was done.
I took pleasures there and with utmost care
I sought for a course back home.

And now I knew that the bird sang true;
I had aged in the course of time.
And the past I had scorned; now I deeply mourned
And with sadness learned his rhyme.

Although your road runs true, you can never undo
A life born of your own desire.
Nor, ever return from a destiny earned
By deeds lit from the souls own fire.

And the song that the meadowlark sang to me
In my heart still continues to burn.
I can only say that it seemed to be
"Once you've gone you can never return."

They sailed out of Miami
Aboard the Southern Light
Headed for Sunset Island at
A place called Key West Bight

When suddenly a mist appeared
Filling a cloudless sky
The sea began to churn and boil
The compass spun awry

Their hearts began to flutter as
Their minds were filled with fear
There seemed no explanation for
For the thing that would appear

The lightning flashed; the moon turned dark
Then came an evil sight
Out of the sky a ghost ship sailed
That cast an eerie light

Unlike a craft that men might build
With neither rig nor tower
No sound of grinding engines
No oarsmen to give power

She silently hung in the air
Moved With no observed force
She followed without error every
Time they changed their course

And like the Ghost that haunted them
There still seemed to persist
The cloud that now surrounded them
That evil yellow mist

There are no words that can describe
The chilling taste of fear
The kind of fear that robs men’s souls
Of all that they hold dear

But I can tell you plainly how
Five sailors weighed with fright
Lost all their nerve that fateful day
Aboard the Southern Light

With the radio not working
And the compass failing too
The southern Light was lost at sea
Along with her whole crew

But then the ghost ship disappeared
And sky returned to norm
It seemed three hours of troubled sea
Had left the men forlorn

But when the crew was safe on shore
To tell their tales of their dangers
Twelve years had passed since they’d left home
Their families now were strangers

There's a bad stretch of road on Route Sixty-Six,
  that I've often heard truck drivers say,
is silent and bare, with a chill in the air,
  where travelers have oft' lost their way.

And the birds never fly in its overcast sky--
  the air always seems strangely still.
The dogs never bark and the moon casts a strange
  eerie shadow across the mill.

Most truckers avoid accepting a load that
  would cause them to pass through or near.
But I've never believed and refuse now to heed
  tales of superstition and fear.

Back in October of seventy-three came
  an offer I couldn't decline.
For a truckload of brew would be soon overdue--
  if no driver was found who would sign.

Having hard luck for cash, I took the dispatch,
  with no reason in my mind to fear.
I'd carry the load past that bad stretch of road
  and folks there would all have their beer.

With my cargo all sound I was soon out of town,
  on the road that led to the mill.
I felt happy and free--I'd received half my fee--
  I left bad luck behind on the hill.

Then a lightning bolt flashed with a thunderous crash
  And the sky turned a strange colored hue.
The clouds poured out rain in a world gone insane
  And a chill froze my flesh through and through.

I drove through the storm feeling sad and forlorn,
  then I rounded a hazardous curve,
where I got a surprise, as a sight caught my eyes,
  that caused me to veer and to swerve.

At the edge of the road stood a lady in white,
  with her thumb out to ask for a ride.
I hit the brakes hard and I slid to a stop.
  The girl eagerly climbed up inside.

I popped her a beer and the lady began
  to talk, as she sipped at her brew.
From the words that she spoke, it was clear she was broke
  and had missed more meals than a few.

So I took her to dine a little past nine
  at a cafe we passed on the road.
I watched as she ate all the food on her plate.
  then she smiled, as her story she told.

She sought a new life to escape all the strife
  of a past she could barely endure.
She'd left all to be free from her past misery,
  taking naught but the clothing she wore.

She told of her schemes to build on her dreams--
  to someday be a nurse wearing white.
She was nobody's fool--she could breeze through the school--
  and she'd work as a waitress at night.

When I got up to go she told me goodbye--
  said, "I know there's a place here for me."
She thanked me and smiled as she told me her name,
  "Just call me Nurse Nancy," said she.

So I paid off my tab and got into my cab feeling
  glad to be back on the road.
I soon reached the mill and delivered the ale.
  I was proud to be rid of that load.

The storm had now eased to a mild autumn breeze
  so I turned back the same way I came.
I hummed an old song as I rambled along
  and I wondered Nurse Nancy's real name.

I reached the cafe at the break of the day,
  so I pulled in for coffee and eggs.
When a waitress came by I said, "Tell Nancy hi!"
  And her hot coffee scalded my legs.

I had startled her so she had let the *** go
  and the glass shattered over the floor.
The poor waitress said, "You dishonor the dead
  making such jokes inside of this door."

I was sorely confused, feeling some sort of ruse
  had made me the **** of a scam.
But the glances and leers and the waitress's tears
  gave me cause to ask her to explain.

I could see her surprise by the look in her eyes
  that a trucker like me hadn't heard
Of a girl who'd been slain, named Nancy McClain,
  who'd been dead now for nearly ten years.

A man had came in from out of the rain
  to attacked her here in the cafe.
Shot her twice in the head and left her quite dead.
  then he somehow had gotten away.

She had worked for six years saving tips in a jar--
  "To pay for her schooling," she said.
But Nancy the nurse had left in a hearse;
    Nancy now rested safe with the dead.

There are poems that say in a lyrical way
  every thought that a man may employ.
But what lies in a heart one can only impart by the
  music a song may enjoy.

For music rings clear when it reaches our ear,
  bringing tears and laughter and hope.
It can sound the same as the autumn rain
  and say things that mere words can't emote.

There is music that's born in the heart of a storm,
  amid flashes of lightning and din.
Its a rushing sound of floods coming down,
  like the marching of ten thousand men.

It can sound the same as the cold autumn rain,
  saying things words can never explain.
Its a score so sad it can drive a man mad--
  so I cried as I drove in the rain.

There are things I believe and things that I know
  there are some things I just can't explain.
But I've driven that road with many a load,
  and I never saw Nancy again.

On the dusty slopes where there's still cowpokes, where there's yet more sky than land,
In the Big Sky State, back in thirty-eight, they were hiring at Fort Peck Dam.

In the open skies where I get my highs, past the spill-way and the fort,
A small town looms where there's more saloons than a feller like me could sport.

Came a Texan bloke who was almost broke (and I'll tell you right now, it was I).
I was looking for work, something of my sort, but I'd take any job to get by.

At a cowpoke's inn where I wet my chin, and while standing at the bar,
I watched a girl who could dance and whirl to the tunes of a wrangler's guitar.

Every eye in the bar watched her jiggle and jar, not a one who wouldn't make her his own.
But, in spite of her shaking, I could see she was taken by a gent who sat back all alone.

And I saw in his face that he felt disgrace, Saw the jealousy seethe in his eyes.
Though he sat in disdain, and he never complained, his displeasure was easily surmised.

In a place where legends and tales abound, where circumstance rules the day,
Shaping men's schemes and frustrating their dreams, Till their willpower has no sway.

Where fate may run contrary to plan, frustrating our deepest desire.
It has often been shown that the life of a man can be changed when his soul's set afire.

I can only tell what I know is true , what I saw with my very own eyes.
But the man, alone in the back of the room, had a murderous look in his eyes.

I left the bar and went up to my room; tomorrow I'd be working for sure.
And the music still played, but the blare and the din didn't keep me from sleeping till four.

The morning came fast, and now working, at last, (for they'd hired me to work on the dam).
I worked and I toiled and I know my blood boiled pouring concrete for old Uncle Sam.

I gave no thought at all of the evening before; soon the whistle blew, ending my day.
And a drink with the crew seemed the right thing to do. I still had a few bucks I could pay.

At a bar back in town where we all bought a round The gossips were whispering a tale.
It seems like the girl, who knew how to whirl, was being held down at the jail.

A body was found under two feet of ground in a newly dug patch of her lawn.
And no one was missed from the residents list but her husband, nowhere to be found.

The body was new, but was nothing to view. It was burned beyond recognition.
Folks came forward to tell of a marriage from hell, of suspicions and speculation.

They had argued and fought over things she had bought. Some said he had threatened to leave her.
And a weapon was found laying there on the ground. He'd been slain with her brand new meat cleaver.

It was open and shut, they'd arrested her ****. and there weren't any clues to redeem her.
The gossip was keen and vicious and mean. Every woman in town would demean her.

Then a telegram came and I got on a train to a Texas town on the divide.
Where my father, quite ill, was having a spell and I wanted to be by his side.

I was well out of town when I happened to hear a railroad detective named Sam
Tell a story, quite odd, of a hobo he thought was asleep, by the track near the dam.

He had gone off to chase the *** from his place and had tossed a road flare on his bed.
But he fell to surprise when the *** failed to rise; and approaching, he found him quite dead.

He left him to burn so the next one would learn that "Old Sam was the king of this road."
But when he went back there was nothing but track, not a sign of the *** or his load.

Then I had an idea, for it made me recall what I'd seen that first night at the inn.
In the look on the face of a fellow disgraced, who had now vanished into the wind.

Had he buried that *** and planted some clues, then departed on this same train?
Sent his wife off to jail and covered his trail-- to start his life over again?

Tamaker

I won her on a whiskey bet,
At a place called Rusty's Shack,
In a poker game in Fargo
With three deuces and a Jack.

I took her from a mountain man
Who had bought her in a trade,
For a rifle and a jug of Rye,
Off an Indian renegade.

I had no yen to keep her;
I meant to set her free.
I never thought she'd want to stay,
Or that she'd follow me.

I told her she was free to go,
No longer be a slave.
But the squaw refused to leave me,
Called me her Paleface Brave.

And when I rode out of Fargo,
Headed for Cheyenne,
She followed every trail I took,
No matter the terrain.

I couldn't seem to lose her
No matter how I tried.
By the time I got to Deadwood
She was riding by my side.

We rode hard through a valley,
Forged across Powder Creek,
When I fell from my saddle
Three miles from Miner's Peak.

My saddle pony stumbled
And landed on my knee.
He broke his leg and I broke mine
Unable to get free.

If I hadn't had that Indian squaw,
A maiden called Tamaker,
I be wearing a peg-leg now,
Or living with my maker.

She patched me up and catered me
With herbs and Indian lore,
Until my health and strength returned
And I was whole once more.

And when we finally reached Cheyenne,
Still riding side by side,
We found a cowboy preacher
And I made her my bride.

The squaw I met at Rusty's shack,
Won on a whiskey bet,
Became the lady of my dreams
And we're together yet.

I once visited the father of a soldier
   who died, fighting a war quite far away.
And the words he spoke to me shall  ring eternally,
   so listen to the words he had to say.

Did you ever have a pal who was your hero?
   A pal who meant the world and more to you?
Who conquered every dare and all your dreams would share,
   he alone was the cause for all you do?

Did you ever have a pal who’d lift your sorrow?
   Who by a smile could make sad moments bright?
He could make each pain and care somehow seem to disappear
   and bring sunshine into the darkest night.

If you ever had a pal, like my pal,
   then you know, when duty called, just how I feel:
That beneath my stead pride there’s sadness deep inside,
   a heartache there that nothing seems to heal.

He said, “Dad, I’m much too young to be a hero.”
   But, still he went in answer to his call.
“Dad I want to do all the things you taught me to.”
   Then went away and gladly gave his all.

In my hands I hold the emblems of a hero,
   these medals and a flag—red, white and blue.
And yet, far and gone, lies the body of my son,,
   who died because his heart was brave and true.

But, Sir, I’d rather have a son than a hero.
   I wonder if the world ever becomes
a place where people see a better way to be—
   where men no longer sacrifice their sons.

Yes, I’d rather have a son than have a hero.
   Yet, you hand me these ribbons and a flag.
Did you ever even see who you took from me?
   Did you even know the trophy that you had?

I always knew he’d be brave and do his duty.
   But, there was so much he had inside to give.
You said, “Be all that you can be; come join today’s army.”
   Yet you couldn’t even give him time to live.

Sir, I’d rather have a son than have a hero.
   And though I respect and honor this call you’ve made.
Yet your words can never hide the emptiness I feel inside;
   nor these medals ever fill a hero’s grave.

In the bygone time, of an age sublime, in the long of long ago,
  by means arcane, which I can’t explain, I once lived by knife and bow.
Though I can’t forswear in truth my tale; it is woven out of dreams,
  (a fabric made of memories that only night-time brings).

Alas! These tales gush from my soul when midnight casts her spell.
  They fill my mind with visions of both paradise and hell.
Vivid dreams are they, words from a book, once penned by ancient lore;
  they cast a spell with the tales they tell of a life I lived before.

Can a man interred have his ashes stirred so his spirit will come again,
  in another life to this place of strife—and in someone else's skin?
For if that be so, than indeed I know that somewhere near Bismarck,
  near Montana’s line, I lived one time, in the Land of the Meadowlark.

My people are “The Band of Friends”—Lakhotas—near the lakes.
  When white men came and named us Sioux; did that they know they called us snakes?*
Fort Peck soldiers came one day, with a smithy shop on wheels.
  With their iron tools they made repairs and bartered a few deals.

After our trade we romped and played, deep into the dark of night.
  A man named Doug produced a jug and we drank until daylight.
One man stood out among the rest, amid the din and clamor;
  an English smithy called Hawk-eye, whom we named “Man with the Hammer.”

Round after round he stood his ground, besting first one man—then two,
  in games of skill he won them all—a warrior through and through.
Our friendship grew into brotherhood and before the moon was spent,
  with mingled blood, we sealed our bond to witness the event.

What could have been I’ll never know, because by quirt of fate,
  a drunken warrior killed my friend, from jealousy and hate.
Shamed by his defeat in the games and seized by a drunken rage,
  while others slept, he took revenge and stabbed this noble sage.

Tommy Cuts-The-Rope fled, fearing punishment, and escaped in the dead of night.
  I tracked his way the following day, with an oath I would set things right.
It was at Wolf Point several miles away that I finally took him down.
  They speak today of the duel we fought; it’s a legend in that town.

Now I don’t know the sacred laws that govern the reborn.
  I have no clues how Spirits choose which life is next to come.
Can souls pass the abyss in pairs?  Do they go on alone?
  May friends journey together to each new fleshy home?

But today I am an Englishman and I have a noble friend.
  He has a loyal servant, Tommy Coward is his name.
My friend comes from a border town somewhere in North Dakota
  and I swear upon my mother’s grave, his sir name is Lakhota.

I’m a fan of my own poetry
I think it is most fine
I cogitate on every word
I swallow every line

Of all the words I’ve written
I hold each poem dear
No matter stones that you might throw
Nor how rude your Brooklyn cheer

I’d rather read my words of wit
Upon a restroom wall
Than Suffer Will and Chaucer’s
Works; inside some fancy hall

Folks today never talk like that
That train left long ago
So give me five my brother
Make it high; or make it low

Come share my homespun wisdom
I don’t promise it will rhyme
But you won’t need a college sheepskin
To interpret every line

I write words plain and simple
So a child of nine or ten
Can enjoy every story
As he reads them in the den

And I don’t need no critic
To explain or to expand
What the words meant when I wrote them
Because they’re already plain

If I never sell a single book
Well that will be just  fine
For I’m a fan of my own poetry
And will read you every line

When insects play
Do they hide and seek?
Do they close their eyes
And try not to peek?

Do they count to ten
By an old Oak tree?
Do they "Rally! Rally!
All's in free?"

When Insects play
Do they jump a rope?
Do they ride a sled
Down a snowy *****?

Do they ever play games
Like "Truth or Dare?"
Or run with scissors?
Or cut their own hair?

Do they walk on stilts?
Do they "Kick the Can?"
Do they build little castles
Made out of sand?

Do they play football?
Or fly a kite?
Do they chase fireflies
On a summer night?

Do they play the same
Sort of games we do?
do they go to the park?
Or to the zoo?

In the summer,
Outdoors in the sun,
I've watched the Insects
Have great fun.

I've watched them soaring
In the breeze.
Build tree houses
Made of leaves.

I've seen mud daubers
In the day
Making mud pies
Out of clay.

When at the pond
I've watched with glee
How certain beetles
Can water-ski.

And if you have never,
Ever seen
A young prince ant
Courting a queen,

Then you have missed
A wondrous sight--
As ants with wings
Take off in flight.

I would love to have
Some insect friends.
I would like to join
Their insect games.

And I would teach
Them games I play,
If I could be
As small as they!

I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
On a Friday night while sipping Shiner beer.
We drank and danced and mingled and she told me she lived single,
In a small room at the Rustic Pioneer.

What started as a one night stand turned out to be a double;
I finally left on Monday about three.
If I stayed any longer I would have to face the trouble
Of a love affair that wasn’t meant to be.

On a trail not far behind me rode a lawman from Laredo,
With my picture on a poster and a price.
Dead or alive made no mind to the dead I’d left behind,
Who had died cheating at cards or playing dice.

I left her in Colorado; headed straight for South Dakota.
But I lied and said we’d meet in Santa Fe.
Should the trail lead him to her bed and he acted on what she said,
I’d gain several days sending him the wrong way.

But the bravest hearts are fools for love when fate has dealt the hand
And I headed back to Denver at full speed.
I returned there for the misses, who had won my heart with kisses,
Taking no heed of the danger in my deed.

Back in Denver I was taken by the lawman from Laredo.
But there is no hero in this tale of vice.
At a downtown bar in Denver the girl shot me from a barstool,
In her hand she held a poster with a price.

With a bullet in my shoulder, my gun never left the holster
And the lawman moved to quickly save my life.
I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
At a jailhouse altar she became my wife.

In a derby and suit, riding tall in the saddle,
A stranger paraded one day.
He rode through the street of a town in Nebraska,
Astride a magnificent Bay.

Though stately and proud he was oddly attired,
Where cowboys and outlaws abide.
And the gun that he wore, of an uncommon bore,
Hung uncomfortably high on his side

The attention he drew from the unseemly crew
Of misfits (an unsavory lot)
Was cause to give rise to a keen viewer's eyes
Trouble might be more likely than not.

Thugs are known to have fun by the threat of a gun
To a stranger perceived as a dude.
They often get rough and hostile and tuff;
By their nature they're rowdy and rude.

So it weren't no surprise when there came an up-rise
Of cat-calls and whistles that day.
While others just smiled, some were getting quite riled,
As the stranger dismounted the Bay.

He seemed not to care, ignored every dare,
As he entered a bar called "The Shed."
He called for a brew, then changed it to two;
Said,"Take one over there to Big Fred."

Now everyone knew that Big Fred was the worst
of hooligans staying in town.
In Sidney, Nebraska there weren't any faster
When it came to shooting men down.

The bar keeper trembled and shook as he ambled,
Across the floor toting the beer.
The mug was half empty when he finally reached Fred,
Who now gazed at the dude with a sneer.

The bar room grew still and the tension seemed loud.
You could feel with a god-awful dread
That a message was meant in the beer that was sent
By the strangely dressed dude To Big Fred.

"So it's you," uttered Fred. "Thought by now you'd be bound,
To a Deadwood strike, off mining gold.
I had thought you'd forget memories I now regret;
I hoped that trail would finally grow cold."

"It's the Masterson code and the gambler's creed
To even all scores with a rat."
And by those word every Sidney buckaroo knew
That the stranger who spoke them was Bat.

Fred reached for his iron with a lightning fast draw
That never quite cleared the leather
And no one even saw Bat Masterson's draw
That silence Big Fred forever.

I don't know the date, but I was seven or eight
When we moved from the Midwest plains
To the Cascade Range, where the foothills boast
Tall mountains, like Shuksan.

We found a home out there, amidst fresh mountain air,
Where pine forests never end,
In a western land, with a vista grand,
Where the clouds and the mountains blend.

Its deceptive skies fill your mind with lies.
The horizon seems to flow.
Your eyes can't tell the ocean's swell
From the clouds, or the mountain snow.

We traveled out west on my mother's quest
To leave our city life of ease.
She believed in her heart, that with a brand new start
She might heal her from her dread disease.

She sought cleaner air, because her lungs were frail,
With disease, which soon would **** her.
And we rode a train you will know by name;
It was the mighty Empire Builder.

The scenes I saw from the railroad car
Filled my heart with boyish wonder.
I saw wolves and elk and mountain goats,
As I rode those wheels of thunder.

I was nearly asleep as we reached a peak
At a place that's call Gold Basin.
But when our Porter spoke I became alert
To a marvelous revelation.

There's an eight-mile tunnel that goes through the heart
Of a mountain of solid stone,
Which he wanted me to witness for my own self;
It's a sight some have never known.

Porter came back around when we stopped at a town,
Where he said we would stay until nine.
So, should we leave the train, to hurry back again,
Or we'd Risk getting left behind.

I stayed on the train, seeing nothing gained,
With only ten minutes to roam.
There was mom and me, and my sister Sharee',
But My brother went off all alone!

Why Danny left the train is still not plain;
I guess he wanted to scout things out.
He was in a shop filled with souvenirs
When they gave the "All aboard!" shout.

But my brother, Dan, never heard a thing,
He was awed with rich emotion.
His mind was filled with strange new sights,
Not the sound of a train in motion.

When we saw him from from the dining car--
Mother called to pull the brake chain.
Some folks took bets that a boy of ten
Could never out-run a train.

Have you ever felt fear like a winter's chill
On a dog-day's summer night?
Have you lost all hope, knew you couldn't cope,
In the face of terrible fright?

Have your knees ever swayed in a rubbery way?
Have you paled, thinking all's in vain?
Then you'll know about the fright a boy felt that night,
When he raced to catch a train.

Danny nearly fell, but he ran quite well
As he sprinted for the gate
Of the train's caboose, where conductors roost.
They pulled him in like he had no weight.

I was proud that day when folks had to pay
Money lost, when they bet on the train.
Because my brother had won his race against time,
While I basked in the glow of his fame.

And I bask today in a similar way,
When my world gets out of kilter.
I remember how a boy once raced a train,
And beat the mighty Empire builder.

Saddled up to a bar-room stool, at a place on the East side of town,
drinking beer from a can, sat a dangerous man known as One-Punch ***** Brown.
The gals all sidled near him; the guys seemed to leave him alone.
We all knew his reputation and that ***** was bad to the bone.

They say he once knocked out a horse  and his hands could move faster than light.
We all knew how he came by his nickname; with one punch he could end any fight.
I sat at a game with five cards in my hand. I was hoping to fill in a straight.
With a gamblers face, I threw off an Ace and I hoped for a King or an eight.

Now, across the backroom at a table, all alone, just observing the scene,
sat what I'd call, one hell of a lady, with the dignity of a queen.
It was clear she was taking great interest in One-Punch ***** Brown,
by the smile that swept over her features when he signaled the bar for a round.

Though you never would guess he had noticed the lady all dressed in blue,
***** winked to the barkeep and whispered, "And take one over there to the shrew. "
I took it all in as I played out my hand; reading faces was part of my game.
In a moment I saw what most men would have missed; ***** cringed and his smile seemed to wane.

Now, from where I was playing the hand I was dealt, there by the backroom door,
I suddenly knew, as my Ace I threw, they had somehow met before.
I knew by her smirk and by his crooked grin, before this day would be o'er,
that the lady in blue, called by *****, "A shrew, " was intending to settle a score.

My blood ran cold and the tension grew, as I waited the luck of my ruse;
I saw tears wash away the makeup that covered a hell of a bruise.
I realized now why the lady was here and what she had come to do.
God! I wondered why he had beaten her so and I hated what I now knew.

I raised the bet, and sorted my cards; I noticed the hour was late.
I filled my hand with a Queen high straight, for the dealer had passed me an eight.
As I made my spread and collected my win, the lady played her Ace.
She shot three times and, as ***** fell, I saw he was shot in the face.

A hush fell over the bar room and ***** now lay on the floor.
No one else seemed to notice the lady in blue had already slipped out the door.
When they ask if I knew what had happened, when they wanted to know what Id seen,
I said, "All I saw was the cards in my hand; I was holding a Straight to the Queen."

When the wind whispers o'er the prairie
When the grass swells like the tide
When old leathers mew as they tend to do
When they stretch the fresh rawhide

When the sound of cowboy's jingling spurs
Across the canyons ring
When the cattle bawl their haunting call
These are the sounds of spring

And every spring is round-up time
When cowboys earn their pay
Gathering herds together
And locating every stray

This is a time legends are born
As heroes come to light
In stories cowboys love to tell
Around campfires at night

When cowboys die along the trail
Few monuments are found
They're often buried where they fell
Pushing their herds to town

And though no funeral may prevail
To honor one who rode
New songs and ballads may arise
For that's the cowboy's code

And Mistrels sing in stories true
Plucked on rusty guitars
New tales of cowboy heroes
At rest beneath the stars

They caught Tom Dooley in my backyard when I
was only ten.
The posse rode in fast and hard
but he never rode again.

When the sheriff arrived Tom folded his hand for
he knew he was no longer free.
He offered no fight and he didn't run,
he just stared real hard at me.

Though he tried to smile he could barely grin, yet
he didn't say a thing.
He shed no tear when the women moaned or
when some began to scream.

My pa kept tending to his chores,
with a hollow look in his eye.
But mom gave Tom a tearful wave,
like when lovers say goodbye.

Tom glanced at pa and he stared at ma, then he
looked real hard my way.
His eyes said more than a heart could read, or a
tongue has words to say.

They caught Tom Dooley in my backyard when I
was only ten.
The posse rode in fast and hard
but he never rode again.

They hung Tom Dooley from the old oak tree; I
watched them take his life.
They left him hanging and swinging free, so I cut
him down with my knife.

When I was a child I would watch the sky
And see the clouds go rolling by.
And as I looked I would try to find
Faces to match with a nursery rhyme.

Or late at night, in my upstairs room,
I would gaze from my window at the stars and the moon.
And from open window I would search afar
For the man in the moon, or a falling star.

And then I would close my eyes and dream
Of far off lands I had never seen.
And visit imaginary places
And folks with imaginary faces.

I still look every now and then
Hoping to see what I saw back then.
So sit here, child, on grandpa's knee
And whisper to me things you see.

I love my wife
I love my life
I’d never end it with a knife

But if this pain
Don’t disappear
I may lose both from drinking beer

And if the pain
Decides to stay
After my wife has gone away

I’ll probably die another way

In a land where the sun’s always shining,
On an isle where young hearts should be free,
In a hut made of grass waits a lady,
Who’s wet tears make the salt of the sea.

In my youth I once sailed to the islands,
Met a girl who I knew as Marie.
We embraced, two young hearts, filled with passion—
Then I left, but she still waits for me.

How I long to return to the islands!
How I’d love to go back to the sea,
To a place from my past and the passion
I once shared with my lovely Marie.

In my body, now aging and feeble,
I still dream of the place I should be—
In a hut made of grass with a lady…
The passionate, lovely Marie.