| Hal Swift ~
Sparks, Nevada
|
|---|
Are The Horses Awake Yet?
"Are the horses awake, yet?" Harley asks
I says. "They just could be.
Let's open the barn door, and take us a look,
and see what we can see."
A barn, when it's still all dark inside,
is scary, I guess, at the worst.
But Harley doesn't mind it at all,
and says, "Who gets fed first?"
"I always feed the ol' Morgan first,
if I don't she'll fret and pout.
You feed her last, and there just ain't nothin'
you can do to coax her out.
"Now, Ol' Crowder, there, I'll get his feed.
I don't want you in 'is stall.
You gotta stay on your toes when you go in there,
or he'll crowd you into the wall.
"You can feed Limpy, but don't raise your voice,
or he'll think that he's done somethin' wrong.
Give 'im one of them sugar cubes, there,
or he'll limp around all day long.
"When you're done with him, we better get goin',
'cause your maw says not to be late.
Remember she's in there, fixin' our breakfast,
with bacon an' eggs on the plate."
I says, "Harley, I gotta tell you somethin',
and you know that I never boast.
Bein� here on the homestead with you alongside,
is the one thing in life I like most."
Harley says, "Grandad, you know what I like?
What it is I like most that we do?"
I says, "I give up." And Harley says, "Well,
it's feedin' the horses with you!"
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Belagani Boy (Navajo for 'white person')
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
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)
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
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!
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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Condo Cowboy
This is the story of Mitchell Purdue,
a Condo Cowboy I know.
How he's retired from workin' the range,
an' takin' a pace that's slow.
He's a fella who's worked real hard,
an' done it fer most of 'is life.
But he's sold the ranch and moved t'town,
jist him an' his lov'ly wife.
In '28 when Mitch was born,
his folks was buildin' their nest.
When he was two his Paw got fired,
an' the family moved out West.
The Great Depression hit ever'one,
as it spread throughout the land.
An' here on the ranch when Mitch was three,
he become a real cowhand.
He learned t'ride on a big ol' mare,
a roan that 'is paw'd bought.
That kid an' his horse'd sneak away,
an' ever time they'd both git caught.
You prolly've heard me tell the tale,
that's the mare that Mitch named Bill.
Him an' Richard, his older brother,
laugh at the story, still.
Young as he was, his Paw made 'im work,
to make 'im a real cowpoke.
His Paw used t'call 'im "My Little Man,"
an' he wasn't makin' no joke.
His blisters turned to callouses
when Mitch, he was merely five.
An' hard as he worked, he thought 'is Paw
was the greatest man alive.
An' he probably was, when y'see how the boy
grew up, and later turned out.
Why, that "Little Man" did a big man's work,
as t'that they kin be do doubt.
Oh, he had the usual teen-age stuff,
an' he got took down a'course.
But they's nothin' that youngster couldn't do,
when y'got 'im up on a horse.
I says, "Here y'are a livin' in town.
Don'cha miss the outdoor's call?
No horses t'ride, no stables t'clean,
No chores t'do at all?
"Watchin' while other folks does the work
must feel a little bit strange.
This life in a modern-day condo
cain't be like life on the range."
I says t'Mitch, "Don't y'miss that life?"
He says, "You don't want me t'lie?
A course I do--I miss breakin' broncs, a makin' hay,
an' drillin' wells that's dry.
"An' bein' up all night at calvin' time
is way high up on m'list.
An' gittin' up mornin's at half-past three,
you kin bet that that'll be missed."
Mitch looked out at the fresh mowed lawn,
an' picked up a Zane Grey book.
I said, "Are you sure you don't miss the ranch?"
An' he gimme a funny look.
He leaned back in 'is chair, an' propped up 'is boots,
an' tilted 'is cowboy hat.
"I miss it, m'friend," he said, and grinned.
"But I like it right where I'm at."
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Miz Biedermeier Ain't No Witch
The thing come out in Nineteen-Seven,
and in Thirty-Four still is around.
The "thing" is the Pope, an electric car,
and it travels without a sound.
Unless you count the noise that it makes
with its tires on the gravel road,
when its owner drives right past our place,
with the speed of the old Pope slowed.
Old Miz Biedermeier's driven that car
some thirty-odd years or more.
Some say she drives it, 'cause it's all that she knows,
others, because she's poor.
But it scares us kids 'cause it's pure black,
like all of Miz Biedermeier's clothes.
And Witches wear black, and chase little kids,
that's somethin' that ever'one knows.
We hear that car, we run and hide,
so The Witch can't find us and beat us.
We know if she gets us we're goners for sure,
'cause she'll take us all home and eat us.
My brother and me are struck deaf and dumb
when she stops at our place one day.
"Is your mother at home?" the old lady shouts.
We don't know what we should say.
We sigh with relief, because Mom hears,
and comes out into the yard.
Brother Richard and me, we stay on our toes,
and vow not to let down our guard.
The Biedermeier Witch tells Momma she's brought
a little treat from her house to ours.
That's when Richard and me take off and hide
behind some hollyhock flowers.
Mom goes to the car and talks to The Witch,
but us boys continue to hide.
Mom hollers, "Miz Biedermeier's brought you some cookies,
with peanut butter inside!"
Now that's all I need to change my thinkin',
but Richard says, "No, don't go!
Bud, we don't know what's in them cookies,
besides just cookie dough!"
But, bless 'er heart, Mom doesn't give up,
she makes us come out to the car.
The Witch, Miz Biedermeier, says to Mom,
"How handsome these gentlemen are."
Richard starts grinnin' when he hears that,
and takes 'im a cookie or two.
He turns and hands me one, and says,
"Here, Bud, this cookie's for you."
I guess it's the peanut butter that does it,
'cause none of that gift is wasted.
And Witch, or not, them cookies she brought
are the best I ever tasted.
If this was a cake, the frostin' on top
is something our fear can't mar.
This is when old Miz Biedermeier gives us
a ride in her electric car.
And although it runs as quiet as ever
it just doesn't bother us boys.
As we silently drive up the road and back
us kids make plenty of noise.
But the best thing, I guess, to come outta this
that makes us both feel rich,
is the realization by my brother and me
that Miz Biedermeier ain't no witch.
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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What Was It Like Back Then?
(*Alex Echevaria, evening of August 9, 2001)
Settin' out front in the yard last night,
young Alex* comes up to me.
He says, "I got a few questions to ask."
I says, "Well the answers are free."
Findin' a place to set down, he says,
"What was it like back then?"
"Just how far back do you mean," I asked.
And he says, "Back when you were just ten."
"Okay," I says, "back in Thirty-Eight.
Lemme see just what I recall.
I know they's a lot of folks out of work.
Babe Ruth was still playin' ball.
"Tootsie Rolls cost just a penny apiece,
12-ounces of Pepsi's a nickle.
Model T Fords were still runnin' around.
It was a treat to be given a pickle.
"Seventy pounds of air in a bicycle tire.
I bought my first bike for a dollar.
A tire blew once and I thought I was shot,
and all I could do was to holler.
"Post cards were sold for just one cent.
It was three cents to mail a letter.
There were no free breakfasts for kids at school.
Many sick folks never got better."
We played records on a phonograph,
which was kind of like a CD.
It cost ten cents to go to the movies,
there was no such thing as TV.
Alex's mother calls out through the dusk,
"Hey, Honey, it's time to come home!"
He says goodnight and I sets there a while,
and decides to write this poem.
This is the first time I've thought much about
the way my world was at age ten.
And it pleased me a lot for young Alex to ask,
"What was it like back then?"
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Homemade Root Beer
(The sweet taste of success)
I'll never forget the time us boys
used our basement to make root beer.
Nineteen-thirty-four, I believe,
was probably the year.
We started it all on the kitchen table,
with measurements very exact:
water, and sugar, and yeast, of course,
and the special root beer extract.
Us kids and Dad put in all the corks.
The four of us worked in pairs.
We wound up with thirty-six bottles in all,
which we carefully took downstairs
Dad said the bottles all had to be
in a cool, dry place for a week.
But he said it was okay to visit the basement,
now and then, to take us a peek.
Afternoons, when we got home from school,
us boys would go take a look.
To see how the carbonation was goin',
each bottle was picked up and shook.
We'd just come up from doin' that
on a Friday as I recall.
Mom had some ladies from church as guests,
in the parlor, just off of the hall.
And that's when all of our bottle shakin'
took effect on the carbonation.
The corks began poppin' outta lots of them bottles
in a very impressive fashion.
I don't believe I mentioned this,
but a lot of the men we knew
used a similar style for cookin' real beer,
when makin' their own home brew.
Them church ladies heard them poppin' corks
and thought the worst of our dad.
Mom folded her arms and looked at them gals,
and we could tell she was mad.
"Just what do you think you hear?" Mom asked.
"Home brew," said Mizzez McGee.
The ladies all puckered their lips and nodded,
And she says, "I think we agree."
Our mom says, "Yeah, well how do you know
home brew is makin' that sound?"
The chair lady picked up her wooden gavel
and gave the table a pound.
"Now ladies," she says, "we just mustn't judge
what our dear sister's husband does."
Us boys eased up to the living room door,
to see what the outcome was.
"Don't judge my husband by yours," says Mom.
And if any of you ladies care,
those're bottles of root beer poppin' their corks
and makin' that noise down there."
Brother Carl, steps in right then, and says,
"This is the fault of us boys.
We shook that root beer too many times,
and that's what's makin' the noise.
"Please, Miz McGee," Carl says to her,
"our daddy don't drink real beer.
But he makes the best root beer in town,
it's the only drink we have here."
Miz McGee's heart just melts at that,
and she gives brother Carl a big hug.
"Forgive me, my dear," she says, and then,
"You think you could spare a jug?"
"It isn't in jugs," Carl laughs and says,
"Bottles is all we've got."
Miz McGee says, "If you'd bring some up,
we ladies'd like it a lot."
Mom tells me to go to the kitchen then,
and bring all the doughnuts out.
Home made doughnuts and root beer, too!
It's what true enjoyment's about.
So the meeting ends on a happy note,
Miz McGee tells Mom, "I was wrong."
Mom says, "Well, you're all welcome back.
But next time don't wait so long."
Miz McGee tells Carl, "Your root beer's good,
I thank you for lettin' us try it.
Next time you make some, bring it on over.
My husband and I will buy it."
Us boys had found us a "cash cow" for sure,
and made money on it that year.
I guess you could say that success for us
had the taste of homemade root beer.
�2006, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Player Piano
When I was just about nine years old,
I discovered a piana's joy.
It come in the shape of a "Pee-an-ola,"
a challenge for any young boy.
A player pianna is what it was,
with music on a rolled paper sheet.
They's a bellows that made the whole thing work,
and pedals you pumped with your feet.
In back of where the music rack was,
the pianna had two slidin' doors.
You open 'em up, and you put in a roll
and the fun was totally yours.
They's a place down under the big keyboard,
I could grab and hold on tight.
With my feet I'd pump on the pedals below,
and I could've played all night.
The lyrics was printed on the paper rolls,
and I'd read 'em and sing along.
My favorite was "Red Hot Hen-uh-ry Brown,"
that Ma said weren't a nice song.
So I wouldn't sing the words out loud,
but enjoyed the song just the same.
I'd hum with the music, and waggle m'head,
and made it a kind of a game.
Then I'd forget, and I'd sing out loud,
"That Red Hot Mama you heard about,
took one look at Ol' Hen-uh-ry,
and her fire went out."
Ma says, "I told you once not to sing that.
Pay attention to what I'm sayin'."
I says, "I forgot," and Ma says, "Okay,"
and she lets me keep on playin'.
This was sixty-eight years ago.
The pianna's gone, and Ma, too.
I don't remember the words to the song,
nor some other things I once knew.
But sometimes now, in my old man dreams,
I still am playin' that song.
And sound asleep, I'm pumpin' them pedals
and quietly hummin' along.
�2004, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Spanish Springs Is Changin'
Spanish Springs is Old Nevada,
it's always been ranch land.
It's where a lot of my long-time pals
learned to be a good cowhand.
Three of them and me, last Saturday,
rode out through Spanish Springs.
And I gotta say I'm some put out
at how they're changin' things.
Some cattle's grazin' in the fields,
like maybe a couple of dozen.
But the way they're buildin' houses there,
the place is fairly buzzin'.
The cows look around them nervously,
maybe puzzled by the noise.
And hardly notice the shrill hoo-raws
of a group of rowdy boys.
The boys come from the new-built homes,
put up by the sub-dividers.
The new folks stare like they're some put out
by us common horseback riders.
But we're stayin' on the old sand trail,
and ignore the haughty looks,
of folks whose only outdoor life
has come from out of books.
A lady wearin' shorts and shirt
comes out to her new wood fence,
and lets us know she'd like us gone,
with sophisticated hints.
The four of us all smile at her,
and continue on our way.
We'd have stopped and spoke, but weren't quite sure
exactly what we'd say.
And when we get back to the barn,
we feel kind of like them cattle.
Like maybe we ought to go and fight,
but we know we'd lose the battle.
It's the last time we'll all saddle up,
and ride through Spanish Springs,
because we know just the four of us
can't stop how they're changin' things.
�2004, Hal Swift
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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