Don't Wait 'til its Raining

Life prods us hard in the race to succeed.
But why push so hard when we've more than we need?
Too many men fail to see God’s good favor
Until weather forbids them their toil and their labor.

If the clouds rule the day, with their dark consternation,
Before we will pause to obey inspiration,
Then our verses will echo that tone of foreboding,
And darker we'll wax while our lives are imploding.

So “work while the sun shines”, yes, “work with a will”,
But take a break often and pick up your quill
To write about things that are happy and funny.
Don’t wait ‘til its raining. Act now, while its sunny!

2009

Mid-life Crisis

As youth flows out with middle age,
I find it hard to turn the page.
Life deals the cards and calls our name.
We ante up, or leave the game.

Working, saving, spending, craving

If success is measured by the things we own
By glorious deeds so widely known,
Then I must fold; in shame confess,
“I've lost this hand, I've failed the test.”

Labor, scheming, planning, dreaming

The dreams of youth are so elusive,
Love and fortune, so exclusive,
Time has placed them beyond my grasp,
The lock of age is on the hasp.

Experience, yearning, study, learning

Notions in granite, supplanted anew,
Ideals, so innocent and true
That filled my adolescent thoughts,
Replaced with truth; by patience wrought.

Knowledge, growing, wisdom showing

Life is not over! Not soiled with rust!
The dawn is now! A light to trust.
My coffers fill to overflowing.
My treasures humble, still are growing.

Riches tallied, courage rallied

A home and family; sacred ground,
With spouse and children gathered 'round,
A stronghold, safe from worldly trouble.
My life's net worth has been redoubled.

Go Plant the Seed

I learned a lesson long ago; “What you reap is what you sow.” But what you reap may not indeed Always be just what you need. Confused? No worry! I speak in rhymes. It is people, you see, that change the times. If you plant oats to feed your friends, Well, they’ll want wheat to meet the trends. In the end, it matters not Just who is who, or what is hot! Forget what “they” say, and never give heed. If you want the harvest, go plant the seed!

Written for my daughter when she was having trouble with roommates College.

The Last Ride

One tough ol’ cowboy; a strong, upright man,
He rode many years for the Ivin Hunt brand.
One ev’nin, quite late, as he rode out from town
Some bandits, they jumped him; threw him straight to the ground
“Your Treasure!”, they cursed, “Or you’ll surely be dead!”
And when he refused, they were quick with the lead.
A slug in his hip, near the heart, through a lung
Then they left him for dead, but he weren’t yet undone.

Climbing back on his horse, he vowed one last fight,
And touching a spur, he rode into the night.
Back at the ranch were the loved ones he’d guarded
But he knew deep inside that soon they’d be parted.
He was one tough ol’ cowboy; yes, tougher than hide,
But concerning his family, he was all soft inside.
The pain ... almost blinding, his breath nearly gone
But with unfinished business, he had to press on!

His kin sensed his struggle, but there was nothing to do
‘Til that cowboy rode in and looked over his crew.
Anxious, they watched as he surveyed his place
Then he smiled his approval; Pride in his face.
For the barn door was shut, the fences all mended
The mangers were full; just like he’d intended.
There just weren’t much more for his rough hands to do
So he turned in the saddle and bid them adieu.

Neither trying to stop him nor wantin’ him gone
They silently watched as he rode toward the dawn.
His breath now came easy, the pain gone away
Ridin’ high in tall grass on a bright summer day.
When he’d rubbed down his mount and made sure he was fed,
He heard, “Well done cowboy!” And turning his head
There stood his Savior with arms open wide.
“You made them all proud when you made that last ride!”

In reverent tribute to my Father-in-law at his passing. May 2002

Bitter Dregs

Bitter dregs in the cup of life
That would threaten to taint all your dreams;
Seeds of despair for the shallow and meek,
Are but kernels of strength for a Queen.

Cultured with patience, and watered with tears,
Each kernel, each seed, every grain
Will sprout into greatness, a bastion of strength,
And will rise from its soil of pain.

And as you are lifted in their branches above,
The pain will be left far below.
Your heart will be lighter, your vision will clear
And finally, inside, you will know

That each trial brings blessings, each obstacle, strength;
Though at times you had thought it a lie.
You will see through the clouds of an imperfect world,
And find God's approval on high.

A Paragon of Learning

My dear Mr. Basset, a dear friend indeed,
In the hearts of my children, you have planted the seeds
Of virtue, integrity, and how to excel,
And led them with patience to that vast and sweet well
Of knowledge and learning and social behavior
That will help them someday, to become like the Savior.

No one can know of the sacrifice you’ve made,
Just what you gave up, or the price that you paid
To make Delta North a paragon of learning
Where kids have esteem and their young minds are yearning
To see how far they can go, or to what heights they will reach.
But, I am grateful to you and your colleagues who teach.

It is men such as you Scott, who forged this great nation.
Who were willing to look past their own paltry station
To bury complacency in the wake of their deeds
And follow their vision, to fulfill the needs of the future.

Six children have I who utter your name
With love and respect, and I feel the same!
I wish you the best as you make a new start,
And thank you again from the bottom of my heart.


Written to Mr. Bassett, principal of the Delta North Elementary School upon his decision to move to district management. 2004

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

The Dollar and the Dime

Very early on each work day, I arrive before the hour,
With reports for my perusal, and mail for me to scour.

In a timely way I get the scoop; a synopsis for the boss,
So he in turn can report to his, so he then won’t be lost.

More oft than not when I report, each morning, as I am prone,
I spend half an hour outside his door while he talks on the phone.

To me it seems illogical, a dog-gone waste of time,
In fact it seems we’ve spent a dollar, waitin’ on a dime.

Circa 1999

"The Calf Path (a rebuttal)" after 'The Calf Path' by Sam Walter Foss

Ah, so it was one ancient day
A brave young page did wend his way
O’er hill and dale and soggy moor
To bring good news to his master’s door.
“You’re late!”, he heard, and “Where’ve you been?”
“Why, this news is old; older than sin!”
And on the ungrateful boss did yell
Though the lad had scrambled o’er hill and dale!

And so, this lad with the brilliant mind
Devised a plan to cut down his time
When once again he would cross the moor
To bring good news to the boss’ door.

The path you see, was bent all askew
As many a winding path will do.
Why, it bent around the lush meadows fair
While a pathway, straight, would best get you there.

Next time this lad made the menacing trip
He was crafty and shrewd; he was smart as a whip.
Straight across meadows, he cut corners and such
And bettered his time to the great boss’ hutch!

“Never mind this great news you’ve so swiftly brought!
What is this slander and insult you’ve wrought?
You’ve eroded the moor and bent the grass yonder!”
The lad left, head down, with more questions to ponder.

“Is it better”, he wondered, “to be late with the word,
To do what’s been done and just follow the herd?”
“Or is it much better to do more work each day,
By rounding the corners and straightening the way?”

When next the mad journey, the young lad attempted,
He found that his boss had his shortcuts preempted!
At the wide sweeping bend ‘round the sweet meadow fair,
He found that a guard had been stationed there;
Blocking his detour and, yes, guarding the grass,
A brave knight stood ready, forbidding him pass!

And there where the lad would have skirted the moor
Stood a huge stone castle with a large wooden door.
With walls made of boulders, and ramparts so high;
A new regulation! His young hands were tied!

And so, he was beaten! His methods berated,
He returned to the meandering calf-path he hated!
It was slower by far than the path he had charted
But the price was too costly, when a new path he’d started!
The news got there late, but the boss didn’t care
For the grass was unbent in his meadow so fair!


2008. Written as a rebuttal to "The Calf Path" by Sam Walter Foss

Snippity Snip

Snippity Snip, Snippity Snip,
So Many Things to Snippity Snip.
Buttons and bows and threads by the score,
Too many things for one to ignore!

Poppies and Pansies and Paper-made Posies,
Snip goes the grass on the lawn at Aunt Rosie’s.
Mustaches, sideburns, bangs and long tresses,
Snippity Snip on the cloth for new dresses.

And just when you think the snipping’s all done,
We cut out those pictures in scrapbooks for fun.
We cut and we paste in our document pages,
With ClipArt, we all look like wizards and sages.

Snippity Snip goes the good Doc, M.D.
I‘m secretly praying the old boy can see!
Just think what could happen if he didn’t see clear,
Snippity -“Oops, I’m afraid he’s a steer!”