Climb

In a far-away land, far out of my reach
Lies a beautiful island, with a wide sandy beach.
And hiding the splendor of the world there within
Are high rampart cliffs with brier on the rim.

It is there, in that world where most dare not go,
That a dear friend resides, with riches aglow.
For the high rocks, to him, are nothing at all.
He lives for the climb while I fear the fall.

His scarred limbs bear witness; he well knows the fall,
But he’d rather die climbing than not live at all!
I envy my dear friend. . . . For his riches? Oh no!
But for the courage to climb where I’ll never dare go.

I stare up from the beach at the brier on the rim.
And search for the greatness to climb after him.
Somewhere in my soul like that rim o’er the beach,
Lies a rough latent courage, just out of my reach.

Irony in the Sky

White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!

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!

Ego-centrifuge

With iphones, itunes, ipods, argh!
Its always I or me.
In this ingrate, self-indulgent world,
I'm glad we have the Wii!

Turn Me Around

This morning I looked in the mirror
And experienced a curious sight.
The old man looking back at me
Had his left hand on his right.

If left is right and right is left,
Why is not up-side down?
I suppose it would be too difficult
To smile when we wanted to frown!??.

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!

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!