I Should Have Been a Farmer

I should have been a farmer
Then my days would be my own.
I’d drive a tractor, dawn ‘til dusk
And wonder where time had flown.

Instead of trying to please a boss;
Those demanding corporate smucks,
I’d be wheelin’ in style, in fancy duds
And a brand new pickup truck!

I could cuss at the rain when I’m bailin’
And cuss at the drought after June,
But at least that’s good reason for cussin’
Not like dancin’ that corporate tune!

I should have been a farmer
With ducks and geese on a pond.
I’d burn my dikes in the winter,
From my truck, with a magic wand!

Sure, I’d have to pay the piper
When the weatherman was wrong.
But it sure beats payin’ taxes and
You can’t spend it when your gone!

If only I were a farmer
I’d be boss of my own show,
And I’d spend December in Vegas
Cheerin’ at the rodeo!

I’d skip out on the bishop’s sermons
So I could go change the water.
And all those gorgeous girls of mine,
Well, they’d be farmer’s daughters!

Yes, I should have been a farmer
Then my wife would own art and stuff.
And I would have been a farmer,
But I’m not smart enough!

Rex

Rex was a kind, soft-spoken man
Whom life had dealt quite a blow.
He had lost his bout with the bottle
And had nowhere else to go.
Was it shame, defeat, or deep despair
I could see there in his eyes?
His only goal was a bottle of wine
And solitude his only prize.

His hands were rough and calloused,
His shoulders; strong and square.
He made his living cutting weeds
At odd jobs here and there.
His nose and cheeks were ruddy
And yes, he stank quite badly.
He never asked for handouts
But accepted them most gladly!

Most folks just ignored old Rex
Or curtly shunned him aside.
No one wanted Rex around,
Let alone asked him inside.
Few men ever gave him work
Or accepted his humble bid.
But one man did. My father did.
My father always did!

Dad sensed the chains that bound old Rex
And he tried to set him free.
He would hire Rex to clear out rag weed;
Thick as Christmas trees.
He’d start out back in the horse corral
Or down by the big gas tanks,
With few possessions and fewer words
Rex would nod, and mutter, “Thanks!”

Rex wasn’t the fasted hand around
But he was steady, sure, and true.
He seemed to take pride in the work he did,
And it showed when he was through.
He kept a file in an old rucksack
So his edge was always keen.
A lot of men can clear out weeds
But he’s the best I’ve ever seen!

Dad taught a Christ-like lesson then,
Whether he’d intended to or not;
A lesson etched in my very soul,
A lesson I haven’t forgot.
And when I stand at the judgement bar,
And the Lord reviews my text,
I pray that He will see in me
What my father saw in Rex!

To my Father, a true example of Christ-like living!

Why Do I Write?

I write and I smile, I write and they nod,

And yet, you still ask me why.

I write to tell stories, I write to have fun,

Must I tender a thoughtful reply?

I’ve been in the grip of the darkness,

Where courage is squeezed from your heart.

Like a python constricting a rodent

It seldom releases its mark!

For now, I am free of this monster

But I feel it, just outside my senses

So I’ve chosen the vantage of poets

No hypocrisy, no guile, no pretenses!

For a poet sees rainbows on a dark rainy day,

The raw truth is all that’s exacted.

A poet sees life through the eyes of his God;

White light through a prism refracted!

I write, because out here the sun shines;

Possibilities spread far and wide.

Please, let me bask in the sunshine

Lest I am dragged back inside!

Two-year Campout

Nineteen years young,
My songs yet unsung,
And Wahoo! I’m off to Japan!
With nothing to speak of
But the gospel I love
And a dog-eared old lesson plan.

I wasn’t too holy,
The language came slowly;
Like sap oozing out of a tree.
But line upon line,
The verbs came in time
As those tough conjugations prized free.

Though its hard, some would say,
Day after day,
Training the tongue and the ear
Worse yet; the conditions
(Oh, how I petitioned!)
We’d endure for the space of two years!

I wonder no more
Why a decade before
They started us all out in scouting.
They knew in advance,
It was our only chance
To survive this quaint mission outing!

Those times in the woods,
When I pulled up my hood
And slept on the ground, nothing more.
How could I know then,
There would be a time when
I would just sleep on the floor?

A scout’s keen desire
To cook on a fire
Prepared us for those times to come
When we’d turn on the gas
To make French Toast (How crass!)
To feed our companions and then some.

Battling bugs
That hide in the rugs,
And always we toiled two-by-two.
We were always taught
When out tying knots
To stay with our buddy! It’s true!

We did chores from a roster,
And no one can foster
A more equitable system than that!
We ate bad cuisine
Without making a scene,
And we bathed from a gas-heated vat!

The toilets; no plumbing!
The rains kept on coming!
I wanted to throw in the towel!
But we all made it through,
Thanks to, you all know who;
The Savior, and Lord Baden-Powell!

Boiling Over

We left the kids with a sitter
With hot dogs in the fridge,
And went for a cool quiet evening
At the restaurant up on the ridge.

The lighting, subdued; the ambiance, mellow;
The evening was going just fine!
We were halfway through the entree’
When I heard my cell-phone whine.

You guessed it . . . . .  the sitter!
The tone of her voice was most grave,
“How am I supposed to cook hot dogs
When you don’t have a microwave?”

Helaman M.D.

To those dedicated physicians throughout the world
who watch over our missionaries!

On the battlefield, with sword and shield
His two thousand sons stood tall.
Holding deep in their hearts what their mothers had taught,
With faith that they would not fall.

And wrapped in the mantle of Captain,
With the knowledge of battles long past,
Helaman stood at their forefront
To encourage his sons to stand fast.

At the end of the day; what price would they pay?
He walked through their ranks with deep dread:
Though each stripling man was weak from the fray,
Not one soul among them was dead.

In the latter-day fire, armed with grit and desire
Our sons and our daughters embark
To seek out the meek, and preach the good word,
Planting seeds in each humble heart.

And clothed in white lab coats or comfy blue scrubs,
With their knowledge gained over the years,
A small corp of doctors stand patiently waiting
To heal, and to calm parents’ fears.

They stand at the edge of the battle,
In the shadows where not many see,
‘Til they answer the call of the wounded;
Our latter-day Helaman M.D.