Steve

Of Cleanliness and Godliness, the adage appoints;
God will be proximate to the most cleanly joints.
Now, Craig’s place is clean, I mean, his pad is bright!
And Steve lives on Craig’s left while I’m on the right.

The way that I figure, if that old saying’s true,
Then Steve’s digs are painted a deified hue.
Steve must be holy as holy can be,
‘Cause he’s next to Craig’s place, and God is not me!

If I could Write a Book

If I could write a book, my son,
And put it in your hand,

So many things of life and love
I’d have you understand:

Of books to read and hills to climb
And foods you need to taste;
The value of your closest friend,
And time you dare not waste.

If I could write a book, my son,
And, if I could write it well,
One chapter there would stand alone;
One theme on which to dwell.

I’d write of bridges wide and strong;
Of beams that bear their load,
Unwavering in the task assigned,
So, worth their weight in gold!

I’d write of honest men and true,
Dependable and brave,
Who brook their trials like a king;
Noble-born or slave!

But alas, my son, I would write in vain.
This truth you know, and well:
This chapter you must write alone;
Not mine, but yours to tell!

To all my children!

Horsing Around

If I were a horse, what kind would I be?
A raging white stallion so wild and so free,
Leading the herd to new pastures; green,
Sinuous, shiny; a sight to be seen!
Handsome and striking; pawing the air
I’d be the desire of every young mare.

No, not a stallion; a stunning paint war horse
Adorned with bold markings and feathers of course.
Only a brave chief could sit me astride,
Into the battle we’d gallop and ride!
We’d ride at high noon and into the night
Striking fear in the hearts of all who dare fight!

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not of that sort!
I’ve hardly the passion to kick or to snort.
A poor sorrel plough horse is what I would be
No stranger to rider nor harness; that’s me!
Wearing white socks; the work I’d enjoy.
With a star on my forehead; I'm such a good boy!

The Sugarville Sage

There’s a desert sage northwest of here
In a town called Sugarville,
Not on the top of a mountain
Nor even a humble hill.

This sage lives on the desert floor
Where the ring-neck roosters prattle,
Where rabbits hide in the rabbit brush
And the prairie rattlers rattle.

I would walk five miles on wounded feet
Just to spend an afternoon
And listen to wisdom, free of spin,
Out there in the desert dunes.

For this sage sees life as life unfolds;
The dross refused as we progress.
She knows there are no perfect flowers,
But loves them none-the-less.

No agenda; just the truth!
And we listen all the more,
And count it fortune she is here;
This sage on the desert floor.

To Karen, who is truly wise beyond her years!

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!

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?”

The Dark Side of Forty

She was cruising along down the highway of life
With a full tank of gas, bent for action!
She was fast and mean; her chrome had a sheen
And the ride was sheer satisfaction!

She sped on ahead gazing off in the distance
Where her future looked nothing but grand.
The road was just right, the handling tight;
So naive! She did not understand!

Her engine was purring as she started the climb,
The sun overhead softly glowed
'Till she topped out that hill, I remember it still,
And her RPM's suddenly slowed.

The cloud overhead was full of dark dread,
This could well be her last carefree sortie.
Her windows were tinting, her paint job stopped glinting
'Cause she's on the Dark Side of Forty!!


Happy Birthday to my lovely bride! 40 years young!

The Hospital

We were ropin’ one Sunday, way out back of Steve’s;
Runnin’ calves for a while in the cool autumn breeze.
I had just slid my loop o’er a quick little sack,
I leapt from my gelding while he took up the slack.
But I never got up, I went down in mid stride
‘Cause my ‘ppendix had burst, broke open inside.
Ol’ Steve’s a quick study, not some kid playin’ pong.
He could tell in a minute that something was wrong
So he picked up his cell phone and called nine-eleven.
Next thing I saw was an angel from heaven.

She cooed, “Hey there cowboy”, with a voice soft and low.
If I weren’t in heaven, I was all set to go!
Nurse Angel went home after supper at six.
Her replacement was proof that life plays mean tricks.
Nurse Fidget, I called her, would prod and she’d fuss,
It was all I could do not to swear or to cuss.
The doors were all slammin’, the lights would come on,
Nurse Fidget would come in, then she’d be gone.
And just when I thought I might catch some rest,
There was Nurse Fidget, back for some tests.

“Your temperature’s fine, but your blood pressure’s high,
You had best get some rest or surely you’ll die!”
This went on for eons, eight hours or so
‘Til I pressed that white button, ‘cause I HAD TO GO!
The nurse brought a bed pan, then left for a spell.
By the time I was finished, that pan smelled like . . . .
Well, my room had no toilet, no sink, not a closet.
No place at all to conceal that deposit.
So I paged for the nurse to take it away,
But she never did answer, now what could I say?

The stench was just rotten, I mean something was dead.
So I fought through the pain and rolled out of bed.
It seemed like forever before I got there,
But there was Ms. Fidget, asleep in her chair.
“No need to wake her”, I thought, with a grin.
And what I did next, well I’m sure it was sin.
She hadn’t responded when I’d made my request,
So I emptied that pan on Ms. Fidget’s desk.
I was just drifting off when I heard that nurse scream.
But as far as I know, it was all a bad dream!

This poem was written after watching Grandpa Hunt struggle in hospitals for months. Circa 2003

Meadow Lark

Piercing frosty morn
Larksong fills my soul with hope;
Harbinger of spring


Written for our dear friend, Patriarch Young. He loved meadowlarks!

All God's Creations

We walked on the beach, just Daddy and me,

And looked for shells on the sand.

We found a starfish holdin' tight to a rock.

Then we walked down the beach holding hands.

He showed me where clams had made holes in a stone,

We watched how the waves filled a pool.

Then he told me all about fish and such things

and he joked, "Even they go to school,"

We ran from the waves and made castles of sand,

And talked about Jesus a while.

I could tell how Dad loved him, Jesus I mean,

From the tear in his eye and his smile.

We climbed to the top of a really high cliff

To watch the sun hide in the sea.

Then Daddy told me, "Of all that God made

His greatest creation was me."

Written for Kimberly for a Primary talk. 1987