Belagani Boy (Navajo for 'white person')
by Hal Swift ~ Sparks, Nevada
To my friend and family doctor, Quinton Thomas, M.D.
I wanted to be a Navajo brave
when I was a little kid.
But it was somethin' that wasn't to be,
no matter what all that I did.
I was German and Irish, my parents said,
as well as English and Scot.
I had an Indian outfit and moccasins, too.
But Navajo? I was not.
Now, I felt lucky that some of my classmates
were Navajo boys through and through.
They let me hang out with 'em now and again.
which was somethin' it pleased me to do.
They even taught me some Navajo sayings,
"Haga oh nay-ay" was one.
They said it's the way that their folks say "So long,"
but I guess they were havin' some fun.
Well, yeah, I did notice that when I said it,
it brought a big laugh from the group.
But I didn't mind, 'cause it made me to feel
like I was part of the loop.
After seventy years I'm in the office
of a Navajo doctor I met.
On the way out the door I says "Haga oh nay-ay."
I can hear the ol� boy laughin' yet.
"What's so dang funny?" I asks my new friend,
and waited to hear what he'd say.
"Girls say Haga oh nay-ay," he tells me,
"the men always say Haga shay."
"Daggone it! Why didn't my buddies tell me?
Or at least to have give me a hint?"
And Doc says, "Oh, I guess they wanted
to save you embarrassment."
"Well, Doc," I says, "You could be right,
but then, you could be wrong.
Because I got a notion it's why they all laughed,
whenever I said 'So long."
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Rabbit That Barked
by Hal Swift ~ Sparks, Nevada
This happened in Claremont, Indiana
where my folks had a garden each year.
You had to walk down a hill almost to the river
where the water was nice and clear.
One day, I was walkin' the path down the hill
makin' noise as was my habit.
Not expectin' to scare any animals up,
when I seen this wild-eyed rabbit.
Not wantin' to spook 'er, I said howdy-do,
but she barked and was shaking 'er head.
She looked mean enough to scare off a hog,
so I didn't just flee, I fled.
At the bottom of the hill, I told my dad,
and he set me down on a log.
He said, "Now Bud, y'know rabbits don't bark.
are you sure this wasn't a dog?"
I said, "Now, Dad, I'm tellin' the truth,
that rabbit was gonna attack.
I'm supposed to help Mom, but I'm waitin' for you,
before I go walkin' on back."
Of course, Dad said sure, he'd walk with me,
but he stopped first down by the crick.
It didn't help none, when I seen what he'd done.
He'd picked up a big willow stick.
Dad walked with me, and why that rabbit didn't show
there wasn't no rhyme nor reason.
Well, he told Mom, and the story got out.
and I took a lotta teasin'.
But I don't regret even one little bit
all the teasin' that this thing sparked,
because the bottom line, when all's said and done,
is I seen a rabbit that barked.
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Hand-Me-Downs (Wearin' my big brother's clothes)
by Hal Swift ~ Sparks, Nevada
I had only one complaint about growin' up
as my parents' youngest son.
And that's the way my pants'd fall down
whenever I tried to run.
See, the reason was, they weren't my pants,
they belonged to my next-up brother.
But I had to wear 'em no matter what,
you can just go ask my mother.
That's what I did, and she set me down,
and said, "What's the matter here, Bud?"
I showed 'er my knickers, and said,
"Do you know, how they got all covered with mud?"
Mom's eyebrows raised, and she said, "Well, no,
but suppose you tell me, please."
I said, "Well, you know, when I stand up,
they fall down around my knees."
"And my brother's boots! If I'm not careful,
I can turn right around inside 'em!
I'm tired of these hand-me-downs," I said,
"I tell you, I can't abide 'em!
"And, wearin' that hand-me-down underwear,
just fairly makes me see red!"
My Ma leaned back, and she closed her eyes.
then she opened them up and said,
"I know it's hard, wearin' hand-me-down clothes,
but look at it this way, mister.
Instead of complainin', you ought to be glad
your big brother is not your big sister."
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Cinnamon Toast
by Hal Swift ~ Sparks, Nevada
The homemade dessert that I really enjoy,
is what y'call cinnamon toast.
Of alla the goodies my Maw used t'make
this here is the one I liked most.
Y'start off by toastin' some slices a bread,
then put on the butter real quick.
Y'sprinkle white sugar all over the top,
makin' sure not t'get it too thick.
Shake cinnamon powder on top a the toast,
put it back in the oven an' wait.
Y'let it heat up till the sugar's all melt,
then set it to cool on yer plate.
Next, when y'think it won't blister yer mouth,
close both a yer eyes an' then bite.
If it tastes like a treat that a angel has made,
then y'know that y'got it jist right
Yessir, this goody's my favorite dessert,
this thing that's called cinnamon toast.
I'm thankful m'Maw showed me how it's prepared,
cuz it still is the treat I like most
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Clod Fight!
by Hal Swift ~ Sparks, Nevada
My mom and dad always had us a garden,
way down in the bottomland.
Where the rich, black soil was so doggone soft,
you could spade it up with your hand.
We got lotsa food from out of our garden,
from potatoes to hybrid corn.
We'd all be out there choppin' the weeds,
in the early hours of the morn.
But that's in the spring, and the summer, too.
What us boys always liked was the fall.
When the corn'd been cut, and the stubble was left,
and we'd wait for that challenging call.
"Clod fight!" somebody would suddenly yell,
and us boys would come on the run.
We'd grab corn stubble, start pullin' it up,
and the battle was quickly begun.
Nobody would bother to choose up sides,
you'd just pull that stubble and throw.
We'd clean all the stubble from out of a field,
and ever' last cornfield row.
Once in a while, a kid would get hurt
when a clod got throwed too hard.
But bruises were usually mild as can be,
till you foolishly let down your guard.
When a field was cleared and the dust had settled,
we'd stand there, just lookin' around.
Then someone'd giggle and set us all off,
and we'd laugh till we fell on the ground.
Then, "Clod fight!" we'd hear from a nextdoor field,
and we'd all take off on the run.
We'd start grabbin' stubble and pullin' it up,
and fight till the battle was won.
We'd go home tired, and dirty as pigs,
after we'd ended our play.
I still can remember how good that felt
at the end of a perfect day.
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Springhouse Memories
by Hal Swift ~ Sparks, Nevada
My Aunt Vin's springhouse was one of the best,
made of stones dug out of the ground.
Where food was cooled in a low stone tub
with the purest spring water around.
Ever now and then, in the summertime,
us kids would all disappear.
My aunt would come open the springhouse door
and say, "Any children in here?"
We'd all holler and say, "Not a one!"
then Aunt Vin would come on inside.
She'd look around at all the food in there,
and her face would be glowin' with pride.
There was rhubarb pies she'd baked last night.
There was butter she'd churned last Monday.
Iced tea, lemonade, and buttermilk,
all waited for dinner on Sunday.
Baskets of apples, and peaches and grapes,
each had its own personal shelf.
And, my were they good, 'cause I got to admit
I sampled a few for myself.
Aunt Vin says, "There's some fresh cookies coolin',
right now on the big kitchen table.
What I'd like is for someone to bring in some milk
that is, if there's anyone able."
Six of us children all pleaded at once,
with voices as smooth as pure silk.
"I reckon," said Aunt Vin, "the way that you talk,
you'd all like some cookies and milk."
After all of these years I remember the taste
of those cookies fresh out of the oven.
And I fondly remember those days with Aunt Vin,
and the joy that she gave with her lovin'.
�2005, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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