The Other Side Of Cowboy




    I LOVE U
    by John Luffman ~ Acworth, Georgia

    The first �I love you,� whispered low
    So no one in first grade would know,
    But on her treasured class photo
    In block letters above his head
    Wrote �I LUV U� in crayon red.

    The next �I love you,� in fourth grade
    Was on a Valentine she made-
    Arrow and heart in scarlet shade
    And gave it to the impish boy
    Whose heart could scarce conceal its joy.

    �We love you, Number 43,�
    A banner held for all to see
    Whether defeat or victory~
    All season long she led that cry,
    But sometime changed the We to I.

    �I Will Always Love You,� was played,
    Toasts were proposed and prayers were prayed
    And vows to each other were made
    At rites that formed husband and wife,
    To cherish and to love for life.

    From fighting half-a-world away
    His picture made the news that day
    And at her door someone would say .....
    The Chaplain in Marine dress blue
    Said �I regret to inform you .....�

    The last �I love you,� whispered low
    So those assembled there would know,
    At Arlington in sleet and snow
    On cold gray stone above his head
    Wrote �I LUV U� in lipstick red.

    �2008, John Luffman
    This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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    The Mystery Of The Ficus Tree
    by John Luffman ~ Acworth, Georgia

    Why does every doctor�s office have a ficus tree?
    Do ficus growers call them up and offer one for free?

    Could it be they�re required by law and given so much space
    That chairs for two more patients could be squeezed into that place?

    Surely no hard-luck patient who�s a bit short of the fee
    Was asked to bring their ficus for payment security!

    They might have been farewell gifts from the Boards and Presidents
    Of hospitals where they served as interns and residents.

    Might drug reps use their carts with wheels to bring free ficus in?
    Most doctors I know would prefer a scratch pad or a pen!

    They look so very much alike; could there be just one tree
    And nurses move it room to room, one step ahead of me?

    Is ficus care included in the Hippocratic Oath?
    I think that�s just for humans but it should pertain to both.

    Are they artificial or real? The doctors know, I trust.
    I touched one yesterday to see, but all I felt was dust.

    If they�re live, who waters them and adds Miracle-Grower?
    I�ve never seen water puddled beneath them on the floor.

    One look under the mulch would tell; did this tree potter choose
    Real dirt or that green, crunchy stuff that funeral homes use?

    I�ve read that ficus trees only six inches tall when sold
    Can grow to four feet tall or more when only three years old.

    So here�s another doctor�s office question now from me.
    Which is older, their magazines or dusty ficus tree?

    �2008, John Luffman
    This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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    No Man's Land
    by John Luffman ~ Acworth, Georgia

    October 28, 1864

    CSA Private Lucas Brand,
    Under General Lee's command,
    Received a letter yesterday
    Written six months ago in May.

    His Sally wrote of men in blue,
    Asking, Could they be soldiers, too?
    For no reason, they burned our hay
    Then took our ox and cow away.

    "Our winter will be bleak, indeed;
    They made broth with my garden seed
    And as our brave son faced them down
    One threw him roughly to the ground."

    The only food he'd had since morn
    Was twenty grains of weeviled corn,
    Then on an evening forage found
    Two rotting apples on the ground.

    Had he not been a volunteer
    Scorn would be his for year on year,
    But on hearing his fam'ly's plight,
    		 ........
    Corporal Thomas Scott in blue
    "Cap'n Tom" to his fishing crew,
    Dwelt on the rocky coast of Maine
    And had no thoughts to leave again.

    But ev'ry man in Harbor Town
    To fife and drum had rallied 'round,
    Answering Lincoln's urgent call
    For one million new troops by fall.

    Promised a ship to ply the coast,
    He instead manned a sentry post.
    Promised enlistment of one year,
    One year past that was very near.

    A newspaper that he had found
    Said ne'er-do-wells raided his town
    And torched his largest fishing boat,
    Then set the others free to float.

    Thinking of his home, child and wife,
    Ruing battle and loss of life
    And using stars to guide his flight,
    He made his plans to leave that night.

    Gathering his cup and canteen
    He sought a noisy, bubbling spring
    That flowed from rocks and swirling sand
    In that small strip called No Man�s Land.

    As footsteps neared, one said, �Who goes?�
    �Friend,� was replied, �I have no foes.
    This Civil War I disavow
    And start my homeward journey now.�

    �And I,� was the other�s reply,
    �Else my wife and my child will die.
    Though we wear coats of diff�rent hue,
    I hold no bitterness for you.

    �Had I rations with you I�d share
    But our supply tent now is bare.�
    �Godspeed,� said both as they set forth,
    One facing south, the other north.

    Clouds opened to a moon so bright
    It bathed the No Man�s Land in light,
    Allowing two pickets to see
    What they thought was the enemy.

    One saw the color of the foe
    In harvest moon�s bright yellow glow
    And shot the soldier center chest,
    Sending him to his final rest.

    The other guard, taking quick aim,
    Thought one who knelt was of the same
    And fired a whistling Spencer shell;
    Mortally wounded, he, too, fell.

    As sun burned through the haze next day
    Two ever-resting bodies lay.
    Six Rebs in gray, six Yanks in blue
    Were picked for the interment crew.

    The seafaring fisher from Maine
    Would never cast a net again.
    He who doted on family
    Would not return to Tennessee.

    �Ah, such is war,� a Colonel said,
    His one arm saluting the dead.
    He drew his sword and in the sand
    Outlined two graves in No Man�s Land

    �2008, John Luffman
    This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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    The Clock
    by John Luffman ~ Acworth, Georgia

    With steady, rhythmic tick and tock
    My grandparent's old oaken clock
    Still counts both sad and happy times
    And signals me with bell and chimes.

    Grandmother saved my heirloom clock
    From flames that burned a downtown block,
    Including their small home and store
    On Christmas Day, Nineteen-naught-four.

    Financial ruin came to them
    And made a sharecropper of him
    Until he served with millions more
    In Europe in the trench-fought war.

    She dreamed of shielding him from harm
    By stopping their clock as a charm,
    So it was stilled 'til in their lane
    She saw him hobbling with his cane.

    She stopped the clock in World War II
    For sons and others that she knew,
    And for grandsons, nephews and more
    Called during the Korean War.

    I sailed two years on peacetime sea
    But found she's stopped the clock for me
    And on the day of my return
    Asked me to start the pendulum.

    Father Time's clock had not stood still;
    I found her weak and very ill.
    She beckoned me to "sit and rock"
    And when I left to "take the clock."

    When in just two years she was dead
    I stopped the ticking in her stead,
    And when Vietnam tours were through
    More kin returned, and safely, too.

    And now the clock is stilled once more
    As we fight terrorists in war.
    One in Iraq is from our clan
    And one serves in Afghanistan.

    I pray the prayer offered by Gran
    --Our circle be complete again--
    --To have peace universally--
    --To consign wars to history--

    --That world leaders would hear our cry--
    --That our young people should not die--
    Please let me hear the tick and tock
    And have no war to stop the clock.

    �2008, John Luffman
    This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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