North Fork Crazy Woman

On my way to Casper she crawled out from under the bridge
waving her green North Fork Crazy Woman sign at me
It didn't really say,"creek", but it had to be one, right?

All these forked-women crazy you think?

Could have been a girl, not even a woman for all I know.
After she went good or bad crazy, dressing crazy
or maybe just sounding that way, she wound up here.

Surely the men judged her crazy, the women folk
would have called her something else.

She'll always live on in these parts,
they never kill her kind.

Welcome Wagon

                                                                         









I came tight packed in Mayflower boxes, and ready for my next front porch. The “new boy” from somewhere else.

Snoopy didn't make it to Texas, the last time I saw her she was licking the packers face.

This porch  had  front row seats for the blue-black thunderstorms and lightning. Day or night I never-ever tired of their Snap Crackle and Boom.

Mom’s morning  alarm clock scrape, scrape, scraping the day’s burnt toast  would wake and call us to years of Shreveport strawberry fig preserves.

Mimosa tree houses and cardboard forts, bayou's, horny toads and carded spokes fueled on honey-butter white bread sandwiches. I even taught Quacker how to fly before we gave away too.

Full-immersion hot Texas suit & hat Sundays, finally freed  to turn the knob on our front door and loose a house full of pot roast air- just welcoming us with her open arms.

Heck it was only 5 hours to Grannies house for Dr Pepper and thick cut ham,  tongue licked and salted tomato sleep.  Her fire-fly fairies protected us till dawn.

Dad could drive for hours lunched on a  bottle of Coke with peanuts floating inside – his roads knew no end.His Georgia Express could make it between the twin dark ends of one long day.

Me and a shortened 5 iron shagged a million smiley-cut golf balls for him. I so loved the sound and feel of those cleats and the turf-smack of that small club.

Years of  August sucking us and the towels dry of puddle-sopped water. Those never ending football 2-a-days. Hoping to make the old man proud and stay alive till the cool fall  nights.

Sometimes you won the coin flip and got the tip of dinners tongue- Oh what a tender prize.

More often than not paddled and kissed with words of love; half sticks of gum and a hug. 

Boneyard

                                                                                                                                                                 
   

                                                            

Captains long wrapped in canvas 
rot or the seas dilute their ash.

Ice and old automobiles melt

and rejoin the others to yet live again.

Squirrel and man, the deer and bird

will all crumble someday, dust returned to dust.

Even barns succumb to earths embrace

and fall slowly to their pyre.

But not so with old boats. Culled 
and unwanted  they lie wasted 
around the rocky shores, 
their eyes reddened by the waves.

Their derelict hulls slumber half raindrop 
full of skies in league with the sea.

The briny dead weep for them 
to slowly trickle home.

Only river rocks know such slow death.

A lapping mother's whetted tongue, ever licks
them thinner still. Their silvered ribs

rest upon her plate, draped in umbered 
rusting skin.

Loosen your bodice from all restraint

and free the tarnished brass.
Oh you rusting ladies of the sea, 

a table is set for you

Your maw now bids you home to sup
the ocean eats her own

There

Wanting to be there          
so much
that I am not really here                
all the way.

If I just knew where
there           is.

Maddy's Crow Songs

Night Crows:

Little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows,
all must sleep at night.

Is our home in this tree, is it over there?
I guess we'll have to look every where.

Last night we slept in a cedar, night before in a fir.
Tonight we'll sleep in the elm tree, way up high that's for sure.

'Cause little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows-
all must sleep -Good Night.

                                                                      

Morning Crows:

Little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows,
all must rise and shine.

We flap our wings and stretch our feet,
wipe our eyes and clean our beaks
It's almost breakfast time.

On with our slippers and down the stairs
we run to the table - we're in our chairs.
Oh Boy, it's time to eat!

'Cause little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows,
all must rise and shine

These two little songs I wrote for my daughter Madeleine in 2002.  She was just a baby. We would stand out on the deck and watch the crows fly each evening and morning. She would lay in my arms and watch them so intently until they were out of sight.  She seemed so mesmerized I had to capture the moment.

We started and ended many a day just that way.