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Old man rocking in his chair
night taking from the day
tomorrows haze.
This morning his life to bay.
The walk we take
through Alfalfa fields,
rough in wind bent face trees.
A hive of honey,
the leaves falling in the wind
a wet sky the light sun ray shinning
through braided clouds.
In my Grandmother's house
next to the cookie jar,
an old picture of a hen,
and her rooster sitting in the school yard.
Bullet your old Shepherd,
and all those darn cats,
running in and out of the barn,
while you were milking.
I remember taking,
the old rusty beige urns
down to the creek.
To keep them cold, until the Dairy truck
would come by to pick”˜em up.
Your gaze Grandfather was enough
to dare any of us kids into doing our chores,
of course you knew that.
I really enjoyed
the rides on your old tractor
and playing Cowboys and Indians,
out in the back pastures.
Setting up ambushes, for my cousins
when they would come over to play.
The elk
on the west ridge where we hunted
he’s older now, Grandfather;
and you know
I reckon, you were right.
They don't give a dam.
Good Fishing
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Comments
This is a mirror of my childhood in every way, for I grew up on a farm in the Northwest. All of these things occured. Joseph, you have the greatest voice in your writes. Your diaglogue is perfect. It is very crisp and clear. The shape and form of this write is very powerful. The effectiveness of the images are so very strong. I thank you for sharing this lovely work of art.
RLPoetress ; ))
Raquel Leah from United States