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"By the Way''
By Esther Kem ThomasVolume IV
Published by the Old Swimmin' Hole Press
Greenfield, IndianaCopyright, 1948
By Esther Kem ThomasTo My Children
In Your Backyard
There's mighty good ground for growing a verse
In your backyard;
A fellow may fret and fume and curse
If the words come hard
But searching and trying,
It's soul-satisfying
To end up by snagging that just-right word
To say what your senses may have heard
In your backyard!Perhaps it's some kids or a patch of shade
In your backyard,
Or the crunch that the ice-cream freezer made
When you turned it hard,
Or patterns of laughter
That keep living after
A friendly good time; or left-over sun
That clutters the grass when a day is done
In your backyard!You may have a fenced-off, private square
For your backyard
But a swinging-in gate marks a friendly path there
Beaten smooth and hard,
And the ones going through
Prompt a fellow to do
Some exploring of words to make captive the worth
Of the good, fertile living on that plot of earth
In your backyard!Amateur Gardener
If you're planning on a garden
Might I say, when you begin it,
Have a corner of the plot
With something up and growing in it!
I've a feeling lettuce beds were made
To spur a person on
If he gets one in the ground almost
Before the frost is gone. . . .
He'll find his back will scarcely ache
Above the onion sets,
And planting peas and beans and com
When, looking up, he gets
A sight of lettuce pushing through
And greening up its rows
To prove that when a garden's in
Is when a garden grows--
Say, could it be with happiness
The one most apt to win it
Keeps a comer of his life with something
Up and growing in it? . . .Spring Song
If I'd the wisdom of a bird
I'd sing
About a straw, a twig,
A piece of string!Bird Lore
I like to lie upon the lawn
And choose the limb I'd sit upon,
Aloof and prim, away up high . . .
I'd stick my head up in the sky
Or bide upon that leafy 'third,'
Were I a bird!I like to listen to bird song,
And wonder as they go along
Which one I'd choose to gaily sing
Or if I would enjoy the thing
Without,a single, meaning word,
Were I a bird!Or maybe, having been one time
A human being, would I climb
Upon a branch where I might see
Into my neighbors' privacy
And sing what I bad seen and heard,
Were I a bird?Tilts
There's a tip-tilted nose singers croon about
And a combative tilt on the green;
Then the swank, rakish tilt of a sailor hat
And the tilt of a pay slot machine,
But the tilt of all tilts
With which none can compare
Is the "cain't he'p it" tilt
Of a Kain-tucky chair!Spring Cleaning with Little Willyum
When Mom sets Grandpa out to air,
'N ties a towel aroun' her hair,
'N gits that long look on her face,
Dad sez home seems to be a place
Where men 'n dogs 'n dirt's alike--
He sneaks away, I grab my bike,
An' even Shep is scared to death,
A-pantin' like to git his breath,
An' hidin' by the water spout,
With jest his eyes a-lookin' out--
Say, 'Home Sweet Home' comes awful dear,
Especial' when Spring Cleanin's here!Rugs rolled up 'n curtains gone,
Chairs a-gettin' covers on,
Tables piled, 'n drawers pulled out,
Buckets, mops, 'n brooms about--
Dad sez, 'you women might confess
You rant aroun' an' make this mess
So's you can tell a difference when
You git'er all put back agen . . .'
Mom bmmps 'Sir, you stay home today
An' figger out a better way
I've things lined up fer you to do . . .'
'N then she reads him off a few;
All Dad can say is jest 'Yes, dear,'
To be safe, when Spring Cleanin's here!Shucks, life 'n limb ain't worth a dime
At our house when it's cleanin' time--
Wy, Dad, wuz limpin' fer a week,
An' him 'n Mom'd hardly speak
A-cause he jumped in bed one night
Without first turnin' on the light,
'N wow! It weren't the bed at all
But springs leaned up agin the wall,
'N he wuz skun frum here to here,
'N like to broke his back pert near,
Nen Mom she laughed, 'n Dad wuz mad
But, afterwards, he said he had
A notion if a fella fell
FIRST day of cleanin', it wuz swell--
Jest set 'n hurt; but Mom sez, 'Who?'
An' give him settin' jobs to do
It ain't no time to laugh an' sneer
At my Mom, when Spring Cleanin's here!If I wuz cleanin' house, you bet
I'd see how much dirt I could get
But Mom, she's proud as she can be
An' calls us in to look an' see
How much dirt ain't to be cleaned out
When rugs 'n stuff is shoved about,
But Mom gets hurt 'n in a stew
If Dad can't tell where she's cleaned to
When he comes home, so I go meet
My Dad a-comin' down the street.
An' tell 'im where! ... Nen he'll say, 'My,
Bet I could tell ya, if I try
Where you cleaned to--it's right up there!'
Dad winks at me an' roughs my hair,
An' Mom, she's pleased as anything! . . .
Ther's tricks to cleanin', in the spring!Then, when it's done you gotta do
Yer livin' like a Kangaroo--
Jump over rugs, jump over floors,
Hands off the paint, don't touch them doors,
Wipe off yer feet, stay outta there,
I broke my back to clean that stair,
Don't touch that woodwork, wash yer face--
Jest ain't no livin' anyplace! . . .
When things is clean, it's fight 'n fight
To dirty 'em fer livin' right!
But, bye an' bye, Mom sez she's glad
She's got menfolks like me 'n Dad--
So strong! . . . Dad grins 'n sez, 'Yes, dear,
Especial' when Spring Cleanin's here!'The Thomas System
My husband who is bald on top,
And apt at 'punny' phrasing,
Suggested, "Dear, if you must write,
Write something--well--hair-raising!"Planting Time
A child walks in the furrow of a man,
And crumbles up the soil with bare brown feet,
Seeing not how far distant he can scan,
Intent upon the furrow and complete; the plow,
Swerving or straight, his path marked by
Disturbing the earth to claim a quickened seed,
One with the Plan that quests not when nor how
Future maturity is fed and freed. . . .
Bare feet and earth and seeds--a trinity--
Working today into the day ahead--
How can he cultivate Eternity
Following one who plows with unaimed tread?
Pusher of plows, be mindful of your span--
A child walks in the furrow of a man!Perception
Give me no greater purpose than to 'see'
That, by my seeing, beauty is reality,
And, by admitting 'now I am content,'
I am receptive recognition spent
To make a moment live or beauty 'be'--
Is there a greater purpose than to 'see'?Quickening
Down by the river there's a sycamore
With its scrawny fingers stretched up to the sky!...
Oh, it picks and picks away
At the worn-out clouds of gray
Till the Springtime-blue peeps like a giant eye!Down by the river there's a restless wind
Working with the fingers of the sycamores
And it sweeps the raveled shreds
Into back-washed thunderheads
Whose inverted blue seas touch imagined shores!Down by the river sloughing ice-lagoons
Melt and tumble through the weeds along its course.
Trees and wind and sky and earth
Claim attention from the birth
Of a gentle Springtime from the loins of Force!Proof
Proving how the movies have
Influenced one of mine,
She said, "They brought Him gifts of gold
And myrrh and Frankenstein."Optimist
The morning sun comes beaming in
To pierce the dream I'm dreaming in;
The sounds of day come winging through
To rout the sleep I'm clinging to--
I'd give a lot, yes, all I've got
To sleep, to dream, to even snore
A little more!But someone lets the puppy out
To get me with his cold, wet snout,
And children whisper loud as shrieks
And wallow in a bed that creaks;
The garbage man bangs clean the cans,
And neighbors rattle pots and pans;
And pigeons cruise by chatty twos
Across my roof in hobnailed shoes--
I groan, I sigh, again I try
To sleep, to dream, to even snore
A little more!Somehow the day comes seeping in
Whatever room I'm sleeping in--
The front, the rear-Oh, never fear,
The sun looks in to grin and jeer
At me a-sighing, dozing, trying
To sleep, to dream . . . to even snore
A little more!Barefooted
Do you like to go barefooted?
I do, too . . .
Off comes a sock
And another old shoe
And you wriggle your toes
In the summer air--
Oh, feet are such fun,
'Specially bare!Ten squeegy toes
Mince over the yard
In the prickly grass,
And a stone is hard
And sharp as a knife
If you don't take care,
But feet learn the way to walk
'Specially bare!Oh, God made the green grass,
The rain and the sun,
God made each little rock,
Everyone--
He made the earth
And the summer air,
And He made these feet of ours,
'Specially bare!Little Girls
The little girl next door to us,
A field of corn away,
Comes down of afternoons to see
Our little girl, and play--
She stays till five and when I call
That playing time is through,
She comes and asks me, "Missuz,
Can I stay and eat with you?"She asks would I call her Mom up,
A field of corn away,
And sometimes should I hesitate
To see if she may stay
Because our dinner looks so small,
Its portions one too few,
It seems enough when she says,
"Can I stay and eat with you?"Our little girl goes visiting,
A field of corn away,
Each morning she goes up the road
To her friend's house to play:
Although I've warned her, I suspect
When playing time is through
Our little girl says, "Missuz,
Can I stay and eat with you?"May Basket
Wall paper, scissors, and flour paste
To greet the month of May--
Let's slip along a backward path
And shrug the years away!The older children cut and shaped
Each gay-sprigged paper cone,
The youngest maybe stood and gaped
Or tried to shape its own;Then, knowing every woodland haunt,
We crawled on briar-scratched knees
To pick Spring Beauties, Violets,
And frail Anemones;Or Lady Slippers, wildwood fern,
And Kitten Breeches, too;
Sweet Williams, heavy on their stems,
And fresh as morning dew;The paper cones were flower-filled,
And paper handles dried,
Then down the dusty road we trudged,
Arms loaded, side by side. . . .No greater pleasure have I known,
Nor would I dare to ask it
Than knocking on each friendly door
And calling out "May Basket!" . . .Memorial Day
Now is the cherished moment to remember
The ones we knew and loved who have gone on
To their Eternity. . . . We could not grieve
For their estate, but only that they leave
The earthly paths their feet have walked upon!Rich are the ones whose days are webbed and tangled
With friendship paths, crisscrossed, though some may end
Before their wont . . . The path they left is clear
And, looking, we can know 'once they were here,'
For into theirs our living footsteps blend!Thinking is quiet as the bush of nightfall . . .
A poignant moment this whose measured pain
Is real in memory. . . . Time can't erase
A thought, a precious moment, or a face,
Or, once heard, take away a learned refrain!This is our special moment to remember--
Remembering makes of life a vast emporium
Where we may go and live again its shelves
Of treasured moments, cherished, in memoriam!Old June
A new-look, ruffled petticoat,
A stage-prop summer moon--
He adds a new-born phrase or two
To June and croon and spoon;
That first-taste kiss of hungry lips
Exhilarates the senses--
Who could foretell, for love so new,
The same old consequences?A brand-new ring is slipped in place
And old, old vows recorded:
From honeymoon to three-room flat,
Each step is self-rewarded--
Let toast burn up and eggs lie chill
While coffee, creamed, condenses
As love, unique, floats blind-eyed to
The same old consequences!Another June, the same old moon--
The 'cause' of Aristotle
Has young love pad on weary feet
To warm the baby's bottle;
And June-time romance is confused
With life in present tenses
When man and mate cooperate
To 'rear' the consequences!A night in June, a low-swung moon--
The old and new combine
In beautiful confusion of
Man's choice and love's design--
And yet, had we the right to say
How love in June commences,
Who could contrive a sweeter way--
Or better consequences? . . .Essence of Romance
In her sparkling adolescence
She possessed the effervescence
Of champagne and jewels and twinkling stars at night;
Scorning modern incandescence,
She used nature's phosphorescence
To beguile and win her man by pale moonlight!Now, a state of idle-essence
Has replaced the effervescence
Which, continued, might have charmed the kitchen sink,
And the nighttime phosphorescence
Has been dimmed by incandescence
As she reads--and dribbles crumbs in bed, I think!Now Is Mother's Day
Anything that puts one in
A fervent, prayerful mood,
Or stirs the good in men, or tends
The fires of gratitude,
Or wakes in him attention to
The keeping of his brother
Is pictured, in a worldly way,
As tribute to a Mother!Any act of tolerance
Or patient faith to be
Is tribute to the faith I know
A Mother had in me. . . .
Any good I may achieve
Is fostered by another--
What she expects of me, I'll try
To be it, for my Mother!Help us, then, by word and deed,
Fulfill her expectation
For, born of Mothers, is the fate
Of home and state and nation. . . .
There's hope for worlds made up of men
Who, dealing with each other,
Forget not God and tolerance,
Remembering a Mother!One Mother
They say that on the Streets of Gold
There are no hungry, tired or cold;
No hurts to kiss, no wrongs to right,
No coughs to doctor in the night;
No curls to wind up with a pin,
No cookie jar to be dipped in,
No bedtime rules to be obeyed,
No timid ones to be afraid! . . .
There's not one soul in need Up There--
One soul to need a mother's care. . . .Now to my human way of thought
It seems a mother's heaven ought
To have a child or two in need
And some dependent mouths to feed,
And trusting little hands to hold
The while she walks her Streets of Gold;
But who am I to doubt His might
When here on Earth my life's so right? . . .
I'd wager, in Eternity,
If he accepts a soul like me,
There'll be a little one to spare
Who sort of needs a mother's care!Everyday Mother
Which of the many, many days
Shall I select as best?
Which incident is singled out
As better than the rest?
One day of her suggests to me
Another and another--
For which one can I on this day,
Say, "Thank you, thank you, Mother!"Maybe once, years back it was,
A little girl cried, "Mom!"
And nursed a bump or bruise until
The gentle, healing balm
Of kisses drove the hurt away . . .
I recollect another day
She banded me my broken doll,
All mended 'good as new,'
And, by her magic, once again
The sun came shining through
My childish tears, and tears and smiles
Made rainbows of each other--
For this then, on her day, shall I
Say, "Thank you, thank you, Mother?"Down through the years I've handed her
Stray parts of 'me' to mend
And, in the workshop of her heart,
The ragged edges blend
'As good as new'--I'm confident
Should I think of no other,
She'll know I say of every day,
"Thank you, thank you, Mother!"By These Things
I've washed stacks of diapers,
Sopped up wet noses,
Done those things being
A mother imposes;
Struggled through Chicken Pox,
Measles and croup;
Spread jam on bread
For the neighborhood troop--Now scenes are shifting
From babyhoods' need,
But freedom? . . . I find myself
More bound than freed!
From these bonds of love
I'm beginning to see
How I'll need them always
More than they need me!Corn Fed
Some folks aspire to symphonies,
And some an opera box--
Oh, I've learned when to chew my gum
Or wear my bobby sox,
But for downright enjoyment,
And it may sound crude, I know,
I'll take a sack of popcorn
And a moving picture show!I've crunched my way through M-G-M's,
News reels and Mickey Mouse
And come out with a greasy face
And popcorn on my blouse;
Now, if the corn I've nibbled up
Were planted row on row, oh,
The acreage I've covered at
The moving picture show!Futility
A wife-like feminine reproach
Is scarcely worth the bother
When stated, sour-sweet, "You're old
Enough to be her father!" . . .The Shaver
I couldn't have been more upset
If, fifteen years ago,
I'd looked at Junior's countenance
And seen his whiskers grow
Than on that day he lathered up
His face from brow to tip
And got his Christmas razor out
To shave his upper lip!This first attack I couldn't bear--
He zigzagged through the lather . . .
I winced and watched for blood, then left him
When he said he'd rather
To stand outside and picture there
Each suicidal dip
When Junior got his razor out
And shaved his upper lip!I swiped away a furtive tear
When he was safely through
And proudly felt the stubbled field
Where boyish fuzz once grew. . . .
I wonder if it's silly like
For Moms to lose their grip
When Junior gets his razor out
To shave his upper lip? . . .When I Was Ten Or So
When I was ten or so
I owned a woods--a river, too,
And overhead, it all was mine,
That vast expanse of blue;
Horizons were unlimited
Where I could see and see--
Oh, I was rich in God's estate,
This all belonged to me!My world was drifting, leisurely,
When I was ten or so;
Why, I've spent hours, still, alone,
And watched the river go:
I knew its shallows and its deeps,
Its gentle undertow;
The place to wade and where to swim
And how the currents flow.I was a great explorer, then,
And on my hands and knees
Crawled into thickets, dank and cool,
And had my special trees
Where I would climb and sit aloof
Like some prodigious bird;
I knew the make of every nest,
And each bird-call I heard!To reminisce brings longing thought,
A wish to once again
Go wandering through that estate
I claimed when I was ten.
But threads from which we weave our dreams
Shrink with each passing year--
I wouldn't want my river dwarfed
Or my woods to appearA fringe of trees along a stream;
It was so big to me--
I'll carry in my heart the way
My childish eyes could see!
And when the times seem strenuous
In memory I'll go
Meand'ring through the days I knew
When I was ten or so!Tolerance
A wolfish whistle may sound rude
And yet, somehow or other,
One can't be too intolerant
And be a whistler's mother!The Fourth
There was a time THE FOURTH was said
In letters six feet high,
And hearts would lift and eyes would fill
When bands and flags passed by,
And smell of powder, sizz of fizzlers,
Whoosh of speeding rocket
Were good, red-blooded footnotes to
The Independence docket! . . .
Loud burst the dawn with firework's noise,
Dog's bark, and babies' cry,
And even kids knew why there was
A first Fourth of July!There was a time old men would nap,
One-eyed, to 'ketch the pup'
Who slipped a 'cracker' underneath
To blow the old men up;
And ladies minced along the streets
By squealing, fearful spurts
To shake the popping penny ones
From out their high-held skirts;
Oh, mothers cautioned, men exulted,
Everyone knew why
Exploding thankfulness went wild
Each Fourth of each July!This year there'll be, for safety's sake,
A picnic in the park,
And, barring rain, a fine display
Arranged for after dark;
Between times, Dad will nap while Mom
Explores the picnic ground,
And kids, in safety, bunt up kids
To swing and play around. . . .
Yet, safe and sane Americans,
Remembering, may sigh
For that inner BOOM-DE-AY that marked
The first Fourth of July!Future America
When marching feet and bands
And flags passed by,
We freely gave, to teach them
How to die! . . .
Now for this self-same youth
Would we not give
Ten times as much to teach them
How to live! . . .The County Fair
Oh, off we go to the County Fair
Where symphonies can paint the air
With gaudy pictures, tinsel rimmed,
And flanked by hot dogs, pickle-trimmed! . . .
Side-show barker, ice cream vendor,
'Cessionaire and tin-pan mender,
Souvenir and gew-gaw seller,
Jewelry artist, fortune teller;
Music, men and noises scream
While down the midway people stream,
Single, paired, or by the dozens,
Families, uncles, aunts, and cousins;
Children pulled and pushed--I swear
The whole wide world's at the County Fair!The knee-high young'uns 'saw' and cling,
And ride, ride, ride on everything! . . .
Music blares and pulses pound;
Big eyes rim the merry-go-round,
And the ferris wheel, on its downhill swoops,
Ties squealing stummicks up in loops! . . .
Laugh, you people, young and gray,
For in this bedlam who's to say
Who does what, and who's to care
When the music plays at the County Fair!It's funny how folks look and look
At what folks grow and what they cook--
At how they sew--what prize they 'took!'
That's fair time for you--look and look!
There's garden truck in pairs and pecks
And jars of fruit with ribboned necks,
And frocks bung flat in empty grace,
And handiwork, and yards of lace,
Each aisle end-flanked by women folks
Exchanging recipes and jokes,
And nursing kids, who drool and stare
Thru the wond'rous days of the County Fair!The water fountains never stop
Quenching thirsts by gulp and drop--
Washing down the cotton candy
And, sometimes, they're mighty handy
Washing kids from ear to ear
Of dust and candied-apple smear;
But the busiest place on the whole fair lot
Is the small, green house in the shady spot
Where Mom waits out, in a 'look away' pose,
Holding one kid's hand while another kid 'goes'--
Oh, it's natural as summertime, sunshine and air
For folks to be folks, at the County Fair!Then, down where the livestock grunts and crunches
Men and boys eat home-packed lunches,
Brush their cows up parlor-neat,
And change the mussed straw at their feet;
Soft-eyed cows, slant-eyed sheep,
Pigs protesting in their sleep--
On bales of straw tired men stretch out
To rest a bit and there's no doubt
To them, rare perfume can't compare
To the stock-barn smell at the County Fair!Oh, let's go out to the County Fair! . . .
There's fun for all and fun to spare--
Come sun, come rain, or dust, or mud
The sights and sounds will thin the blood
Of rich man, poor man--mix the lot
On a gay midway, and what have you got?
Shoulder to shoulder, laugh to laugh,
One half elbows the other half
In a slice of humanity seasoned to share
The sawdust trail, at the County Fair!Late Summer
Locust cussing in the tree
Leaf-smoke in the air;
Streaks of red on yonder bill
Like a warning flare. . . .
Polished mornings, gilt-edged noons.
Evenings, blue-gold fluff--
Could one ever see and bear
And smell and taste enough
Of Autumn's gay extravagance? . . .
Sometimes I dare not touch
Appreciation's height or depth--
There is so much-so much!Pollyanna
If being a Pollyanna means
wincing with an aching back
and, at the same time,
experiencing a feeling of satisfaction
and happiness and contentment
at sight of my freshly waxed kitchen floor
then, I'm a Pollyanna. . . .
Now, if that square of linoleum
were lying, spotlessly, in some other
part of the country,
the feeling would be different
but being a clean-cut square out of my life
where my loved ones walk, eat, and live,
gives it a special significance. . . .
Then, too, it's a part of a community
important to me--
my community is part of a beloved State,
my State is part of our United States,
our United States is part of the world--
the best part! . . .
Now, you can see how important
is the linoleum in my kitchen,
and why I can feel satisfied and contented
with its fresh wax, even while
I nurse an aching back! . . .Modern Fairy Tale
Once on a time, a Bridal Two
When asked 'Do you' replied 'I do,'
And hurried to their humble nest,
Scarce furnished, there to plan the rest. . . ."Some day, Sweetheart," with pride, said he,
"You'll live in ease and luxury" . . .
For weeks and months they saved and planned
To buy a sweeper, run by hand;
(This couple lived before that man
Suggested the installment plan).
A little bean-pot, with a lid,
Was where the extra pennies hid,
And for each dream this surplus went--
Each washtub, chair, or Blest Event;
It seemed each stick of home and heart
Was earned and placed there, part by part.Today love takes a novel twist. . . .
She's whistled, won, proposed, and kist;
They're married on a 'Hers and His,'
And honeymoon on some Gift Quiz.Then, with their prize loot, home they go:--
An ironer, clock, and radio,
A set of dishes, trimmed in blue,
Five rooms complete and nursery, too;
Some pans, a washer, pink layette
For afterwhile; a cocktail set,
A record changer, diamond ring,
An ice-box and a freezer thing;They've all they'll need for days and days;
If not, she'll go to matinees
And win some more . . . Ah, what a wife,
And what a future! What a life! . . .
And then, to make' her world complete,
She won a warmer for her feet! . . .Down through the years, as like as not,
Boxtops will bulge their penny-pot
And gnawed-on pencils twist the clause,
Quote, "I like So and So, because--!"My Debt
I love a bustling, strident day,
I love a quiet night;
I love the dark of countrysides.
I love the city light!I love the feel of walls and doors
Where we may shut ourselves;
I love the sight of sustenance
Upon the pantry shelves!I love the ding-dong of a bell
For church or school or prayer;
I love a book, a lilting song,
A radio and chair!And loving these, I feet a debt
To those whose anguished strife
In sacrifice has hallowed
My America and life!Grandpa
Like a story that's almost been told, he is,
Or a novel that's almost been read,
Or in holding together our pattern of life,
He's the knot in the end of the thread!The cane at his knee has grown aged, too--
He used to be master of it-,
In his lustier days when twirling was gay
He'd use it to swagger a bit;
But today, like a trusty old crony of his,
It waits for his rough-veined hand
To lead, or be led, down a slower pathway
Through a garden where memories stand;
Why, each baby Mary or Johnny or Joe
Has a feature to suit his whim
As his eyes find likeness to bygone ones
In each little her or him,
And it's hard to tell by his wise, kind eyes
If he's looking back or ahead--
If he even can see his importance to me
As the knot in the end of the thread!Surrounded by heirs to his fortune in years,
In his place he's alone--so alone--
No one left to remember the flush of HIS life,
And the vigorous days of HIS own;
HIS boyhood, HIS courtship, HIS glad wedding day,
The birth of HIS daughters and sons--
All grown now, absorbed in their worlds of affairs,
These youthful and straight-shouldered ones
Who turn to him often in fearful concern
For the droop of his frosty white head--
"Here, Papa, I'll help you,"-the pattern of life
Is secured by the knot in the thread!Oh, there'll always be someone to knot up the ends
Whose days have been gladness to share
When he has gone on, not to some Great Unknown,
But only gone on to prepare
A permanent banner for family and friends
Who follow him on his way,
To gather them in like a shepherd his sheep
In Eternal Reunion Day! . . .
See, he's fitting today to the years up to now
From his seat at the table's head
While he holds in its place each relationship
Like the knot in the end of the thread!Reunion
There's something glad and something sad
About Reunion Day. . . .
There's sunshine in a glad "hello"
And shouts of kids at play;
There's fun in tables loaded down
With chicken, cake, and stuff
And one more wedge of pie when you've
Already bad enough. . . .
But looking down the table's length,
A laugh may bide a tear
For someone loved who couldn't come--
Someone who isn't here. . . .Million-Heirs
Let's be million-heirs--
By calculation, let's be rich!
Now, when we pool our dividends
You can't tell which is which
For pay-dirt I walk on each day
May be where you struck gold,
And you may own some shares of stock
In life int'rests I hold,
But that's the way real riches are--
The goods we have and share
Can make an heir of us--
A million h-e-i-r, heir!You may not have a million dollars
In a bank account
But what you've got you wouldn't sell
For ten times that amount. . . .
Oh, some days may ring up small change,
You'd sell out for a dime;
Seems like the other fellow hits
The jack-pot every time,
But, taking stock of your estate,
You'd say, "I'll keep my share--
I've added up my profits, too,
And I'm a million-heir!You wouldn't trade for dollar bills,
If you'd the choice to make,
The good-will in a friendly smile,
Or even one hand-shake;
Were it to be forever gone
You couldn't barter gold
For wealth of home and kids and friends . . .
Why, you already hold
The docket at your fingertips,
If you but see it there,
To claim your life inheritance
And be a million-heir!Vacation
Oh, I went to South Dakota
Where I had a mind to tote a
Cactus home, home, home
from the prairie! . . .If I sound a bit ki-yipee
With a flavor of Xanthippe,
To a cactus on a car seat
I'm contrary! . . .I was busy as a bee
Picking cactus out of me
And of sitting down or squatting
I was wary! . . .To my friends I would suggest
If your travels take you West
Leave the cactus on its
South Dakota Prairie!Home Town
A man might travel many towns
An yet he couldn't beat
The 'pipe and slipper' comfort
Of his own familiar street . . .
Take Washington, for instance,
From Seventh down to Third,
A body wouldn't saunter far
Without a friendly word--Someone to clap you on the back
And question how you are;
Yes, sir, it warms your heart to know
You wouldn't travel far
Before you saw a friendly face
Who looks your way and speaks,
Suggests a cup of coffee or
A soda at the Greeks! . . .I might go Cosmopolitan
A week or two each year,
But half the charm of new highways
Would be returning here
Where anytime I'm hungry for
A smile or friendly word,
I've but to stroll down Washington
From Seventh Street to Third!Indiana
Oh, she's gartered by the sock-top
To the shores of Michigan,
And she wades the beautiful Ohio River,
While her scenery in between
Reflects, from hilltop to ravine,
The indulgence of an open-handed Giver!In summertime, my fancies steal
To Northern Lakes and rod and reel,
Or rolling fields, in spring, to plant my crops;
But, if I'm not a planter,
I can saunter, bike, or canter
Through her sunlit valleys to young mountain-tops!There's her winter-blue of moonlight--
Autumn color for your canvas;
Put the whir of her mechanics in your story;
Weave her sprawling and her climbing
In the meter of your rhyming;
Let your eyes upon her be your offertory!Indiana, with her sock-top
To the shores of Michigan,
And a heel and toe to tread the restless river,
There's a state of pride in being
Hoosier-minded, Hoosier-seeing,
In a state commended by the Mighty Giver!Presentation of Fifty Year Masonic Pin
(by a 17 year old boy to his 86 year old Grandfather)Somehow, it's hard to say the things
I really want to say--
The words may not be fancy but they're true
And, by the way,
The year of eighteen-sixty was
The best I ever had,
For that's the lucky one for me
That gave me my Granddad!The times we've talked and walked and laughed
Are ones I'll not forget;
We've shared a lot of living
But there's one thing I regret--
My seventeen seems so few years . . .
I wish I might have had
The fun of living eighty-six
Along with my Granddad!And, now, tonight I'm mighty proud
To band this honored pin
Of worthy Masonry his life
Is represented in--
And me? . . . In fifty years or more
May I deserve as well
A pin of honor like this one
On my Granddad's lapel!The Painter
When my man works around the house,
Who do you think's the one
Who's worn and raveled to a thread
Before the job is done? . . .
Oh, he'd deny resemblance
In accents bold and loud
To flies that sit on oxen's backs
And say, 'today we ploughed.'He does the work, oh, very true,
And me? I fetch and carry,
Encourage and admire each step
And then, by the ol' Harry,
It's me who does the mopping up
On arches sore and flat! . . .
That's equal distribution, eh?
If so, I'll eat my hat!Now take our pint-size bathroom
He set out to paint one night--
(Oh, I was glad, to start with,
When he said he'd paint it white)
The kids I hustled off to bed
And washed the dishes up,
And left the kitchen shining
Like a polished pewter cup;
But then, before I'd settled down,
He justified my fears--
The painting of the bathroom
With that man of mine appears."There any turpentine around?" he grants,
And tries to bend
A petrified paint brush-- "There is.
It's in--." Well, why pretend?
The oxen can't elude the yoke
That hooks him to the plow--
No use to tell him 'where,'
I'll have to get it anyhow.He makes off with the turpentine;
I take my mending basket,
But here he is again! (I wonder
How he dares to ask it),
"Got any rags?"--I briskly smile,
And sort him out a few,
Then settle down--that is, I would. . . .
"I'll need some papers, too,
To spread around."--"They're just outside . . "
I blithely start to say,
Then I get the papers, AND the stool--
I'm out there anyway! . . ."Now then, if I could find my gloves--
Thanks, dear," as in I hike;
He's on the step-stool, lost in thought--
"Do you know what I'd like?" . . .
"My darling, speak and say!" I wheeze . . .
"A cup of strong, hot tea,
And buttered toast to fortify
The paintin' arm of me!" . . .An hour, scant, since dinnertime--
He paints to please my whim,
So mess my kitchen up I do
To please the likes of him;
Well, since I'm in the kitchen
I decide to bake a cake
To try a recipe--I might as well,
For goodness' sake. . . .
But beating up the oven for one
Cake's a wasteful sin,
So I whip up a pudding
And get out the cookie tin.He rim from his tea as I sort
Through the mixing bowls,
And I've just creamed the short'ning
When that voice of his extols,
"Hey, where's a can or something
I can pour this paint out in?" . . .
So off I go to realms below
To rummage through the tin;
I bring some to him on his stool--
He happily picks one,
And with relief I think, "Well, now
He'll get his painting done!" . . .I break some eggs into a bowl--
I bear the paint brush slaps--
And good sounds, too, that say
He'll likely get it done--perhaps--
Then, "Come see what a difference!" . . .
Off I gallop to the scene--
Three thin, transparent streaks of white
Besmear the old dark green,
And I'm supposed to hide my doubts
As he stands there to gloat,
"Of course, dear, it'll cover
When it gets a second coat!" . . .I beat the cake, I run to look--
I beat, I run, I gaze,
For like an engine needs its oil
That man of mine needs praise--
Between these trips, I whip the frosting
To its final point--
The pudding's done, the cookies, too,
I'm tired in every joint
When, loud and boastful, calls my man,
"All finished! Come and see!" . . .
I stagger in, admire its streaks
In worn-out ecstasy! . . .Oh, I clean up the clutter
To the clatter of HIS bath,
And shine my kitchen once again,
Too limp for righteous wrath,
When from the door he states, "I think
I've done myself right proud! . . ."
And, at that point, I thought about
The little fly who ploughed! . . .
'Twas then I heard, before I got
The towels bung out to dry,
"Say, how about a cup of chocolate,
For a workin' guy?" . . .Inside, I think I suffered from
A slight, rebellious spasm
And wondered if I had a man,
Or just a yawning chasm--
I heel and bobble back into
The realm of food and dishes
And fix a cup to satisfy
My painting husband's wishes!The fly sat on the ox's back--
I've said all this before--
Next time he paints, I'll just relax
Outside the bathroom door,
For as a lady so inclined,
I'm throwing in the towel--
The while he daubs it with a brush,
I'll fling it with a trowel;
That is, I'll sit--but only when
I've fixed and fetched and carried
To feed the endless needs of this--
This paintin' man I married!Delilahs
We took the shirts right off their backs;
We took their pants and call 'em slacks;
We wear their hats and tilt the brim,
Then criticize what's left of HIM!We aproned him in blue and pink,
And led him to the kitchen sink;
We feed him from a quick-snack bar,
And wonder where his muscles are! . . .I doubt if Atlas would donate
His loin-cloth to a grasping mate,
And, girls, those muscles, I don't think,
Were cultivated at the sink!The one is smart, today, who sews
Lace ruffles on her furbelows,
And cooks, and does her dishes, too,
And lisps, "Whose GREAT BIG MAN is you?"Third Street Rhythm
I've lived in sprawling cottages
And fancy bungalows,
In residential quietness,
Content . . . yet, goodness knows,
For anyplace I've lived and left
I've never been a mourner,
But how I'll miss the rhythm of
The Ice House, on the comer!Chug, chug, sing, sing,
Hum a while and pound,
Spewing out its hunks and blocks
And cubes, the year around;
Summertime and folks in cars--
An endless cavalcade
To haul away refreshing lumps
To cool their lemonade!
Windows jangle, doors vibrate,
But what could be forlorner
Than to miss the daily rhythm of
The Ice House, on the corner!Now when I move (or if I do)
To some nice neighborhood
With noise subdued and things genteel
I'll say 'all well and good'
But, ten to one, the plum I'll seek
Like little Jackie Homer
Will be the endless rhythm of
The Ice House, on the corner!Hospitalized
Of all the things I don't like most
It's me in bed! . . . Oh, I can boast
I take my pills and lie here prone
Upon my back, wide-eyed, alone
But for the nurses, trained to do
Mysterious charts of 'what's in who!'
How I arrived here I don't know--
It's shove, SHOVE, SHOVE! from the signal 'Go!' . . .Shoved, head-first, in an ambulance,
Shoved down a sterile ball,
Shoved into bed with proper care--
(I've no say-so at all, at all!) . . .
Thermometer shoved in my face,
And bed-pans shoved, and pace, by pace
The nurses shove stuff in my skin
To bolster up the shape I'm in! . . .Now surgery--it's turn about--
For what's shoved in they'll take stuff out,
And I'm supposed to LOVE that sleep
Doled out to me while I count sheep . . .
An anaesthetic: me, bereft!
When I'm shoved out, what have I left?Oh, well, if I survive this 'bust'
When operations are discussed
It's probable I'll proudly boast
Of all these things I don't like most!Season's Greetings
Good friends and good wishes
Somehow go together
Like popcorn and apples,
And who can tell whetherThe pleasure you get
Or the pleasure you give
Makes the glad Christmas season
A good one to live? . . .Red wreaths at the window,
A gay-lighted street--
What more perfect backdrop
For fellows who meetAnd shout, "Merry Christmas!" . . .
The spirit is bright
As the star when it shone
On that first Holy Night!Old friends and old wishes
Are paired off anew
In a hearty four words,
'Merry Christmas to you!'Merry Christmas
Christmas Eve and folks arriving,
Shouts of 'hello' mixed with kisses,
Arms plum loaded down with presents--
What a Christmas evening this is!
Front door wreaths swing back and forward,
In come Uncles, Aunts, and Cousins,
'And the tree is flanked with presents
In be-ribboned, mounting dozens;
Beds are improvised in alcoves,
Robes and slippers sorted out
For who dares to dilly-dally
When he hears that morning shout,
"Merry Christmas! . . . Santy's been here!"
Upsy-daisy, heads appear,
Sleepy-eyed and frowsy noggined--
"Merry Christmas--Christmas cheer!"Little girls in braids and sleepers,
Middle-sized excited boys
Dance impatiently with grown-ups
Who must see them 'see' the toys!
"Hit the deck!" shouts out the Navy,
"Merry Christmas!" . . . who's to care
If poor Grandpa gets his trousers
Buttoned to his underwear,
And shy Grandma's modest protests
Lose themselves in laugh and shout
When she's bundled in her bathrobe,
Maybe right or wrong side out! . . .
Oh, it's everybody up now--
Light the tree--the day's begun
With a shout of "Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas, everyone!"Holiday
Miss Holiday Spirit
Has taken the town--
A gay, gala lady
In frost-sequined gown;Or maybe on gray days
And bright moonlight nights,
A silhouette study
In sharp blacks and whites;Sometimes on her head
Is a sun-fluted toque,
Or she drifts festively
In a soft ermine cloak. . . .Unpredictable lady
With 'partified ways'--
She's the undying spirit
Of blithe holidays!New Year
So much of the old year I would keep
In precious repetition
Like unbound books of living script,
Each year a new edition:The same good plots,
The loving themes,
The same desires,
The same bright dreams;
Success and failure,
Cloud and sun,
And hope of Life
When this is done! . . .The most I would ask for in the new
Is old as old, perhaps,
But I will be glad in the new if enough
Of the old year overlaps!Opportunist
Of all the 'I resolves' I make
There might be one I WOULDN'T break! . . .We Build Our Tomorrows Today
We may not be clever with hammer and nails,
Or at reading a blueprint of housing details,
Or sawing a board, or using a plane,
Or fitting a door, or a glass window-pane,
But, nevertheless, we're building away
On a house of tomorrow--as of today! . . .
The Great Architect, who planned our creation
Has furnished us with the Eternal Foundation,
But what kind of structure we daily erect
Will be styled individually, so I expect.The size of my house, to the world, may seem small
But I hope, if I get one erected at all,
To keep its doors open to sunshine and laughter
And friends! With a friend, need one fear what comes after? . . .
Someone to laugh with, to work with, to cry with
Or count up the blessings the day hustles by with--
Let my house be battered by life's stormy weather
If, inside, are friendly folk, laughing together!Tomorrow maybe of a varied contour,
Sprawling or shapely, but of this I'm sure,
If it's made up of days, each one lived to the hilt
As potentially good, when Tomorrow is built
It's bound to be good, too--a living display
Of the watchwords, 'we build our tomorrows today!'The Party Line
Seems like a party line's inclined
To rouse the worst in me! . . . I find
When I call out 'hello' and hear
That click, click, clicking atmosphere--
Receivers up along the line
To hear who's calling me and mine--
I get a mental picture, too,
A purely psychiatric view
Of heads, each with its list'ning ear
Who wouldn't be surprised to hear
Me, calling out, "Hi, Missus White,
And Smith, and Jones--you all alright?"
And some days, sure as fate, Miz Jones
Forgets there's only two on phones
And answers "Yes'm--feeling fine--
Just happened to be on the line!" . . .The things I've said--I'm telling you--
To make my calls worth list'ning to . . .
'Twould be a disappointing thing
To tune in on another's ring
And not hear one revealing thing,
So when there sounds that click, click, click,
We start a confidential trick,
Exchanging gossip, phrase by phrase,
n isconnected, headline ways
Like, "Don't tell, will you? . . . not a word!
She did? . . . mmhmmm . . . that's what I heard . . .
And he was mad . . . yes . . . fit to kill . . .
Well, like I say, he pays the bill . . .
What? . . . with a gun . . . and caught 'em, too . . .
Nobody knows but me and you . . .
What time was that . . . Oh, eight or so . . .
Miz Jones, you there? . . . Ask her, she'll know!
Miz Jones chips in, "I'd say 'bout nine . . .
Just happened to be on the line!" . . .A numbers code might work out fine
To fool 'em on the party line . . .
When my man calls that he'll be late
And dinner's in a soggy state,
Or that the Boss is in our town,
Is it alright to bring him down,
I can retort, "Well, six eight ten!
That four two three blank five again?
There's three six eight five on the shelf--
I'm blank! Four seven eight two, yourself!" . . .
Yessir, that code might do the trick
And fix that eavesdrop click, click, click!
Yet diligence like Missus Jones
As displayed at the telephones
Could soon decipher simple me
As easily as one, two, three
And come back at me, "Now, what's nine?--
Just happened to be on the line!"
Sometime I think I'll spend the day
Tuned in on what the neighbors say--
I'll see how many eggs they get,
What hens they sold, how many set,
Who's got the whooping cough or croup
And recipes from nuts to soup;
Who's dieting, who uses 'rinse,'
Whose horse is sick, and household hints;
Who's calling who up every day,
And endless news that starts 'they say'; . . .
My daily life I might enrich
By listening in to what and which
And why and where--I'll be the ear
Behind that clicking atmosphere! . . .
All things considered, I'm inclined
To doubt if I'd be glad to find
My telephone had ceased to be
Of interest to a soul but me--
I'd miss that friendly clicking sign
Of 'comp'ny' on the party line!Eight Year Old
"Heels!" she spluttered to herself,
And wagged her curly head.
"Seems like I ALWAYS open up
The wrong end of the bread!"Neighbors
Some folks can move away and then they're gone,
And when they are you scarcely can remember
The sort of way their life was patterned on
And if they left in August or December,
Or how they looked--how easy they were making it,
Or if their hand was warm and firm on shaking it! . . .
Strange how they took their lives and drifted on--
Once they were here, but when they're gone they're gone!But other folks can leave and still remain--
Seems like their ways, once loved, are here forever;
The way they spoke or smiled is clear and plain;
Their fellowship from yours no miles could sever.
They made their place, and once they finished making it
There's no erasing, blurring, nor forsaking it!
Steady and clear the fires of friendship burn
That heart and hearth shall welcome their return!Groundhog Day
It's doubtful if a time will come
When folks can truly say
They'd trade one day of sunshine
For one of winter gray!To be a sunshine pessimist
Or squint-eyed Gloomy Gus
When February skies are clear
Seems too ridiculous. . . .I'll take my day of sunshine now
And chance the weeks to come;
I'll plan, indoors, the lettuce bed
And fall chrysanthemum.Oh, I'm anticipating Spring
But, if worst comes to worst,
For six weeks I'll be glad I had
A taste of sunshine first! . . .They Say
If he comes out and sees it, then
He'll run back in his hole again;If he comes out and skies are gray,
I'll bet he runs back, anyway. . . .
Well, if that one must hibernate,
I'll have Spring Fever while I wait!Valentines
There on the counter
In artful display
Were all of the nice things
I wanted to say--
One valentine stated (quote),
"I love you, dear,"
And one said, "Be mine,"
And then, over here
Was a sweet, lacey thought
In the bill of a dove,
And gilt letters, "Mother--
With all of my love!"
There's one to my husband,
And one to my son,
One to my daughter,
And some made for fun,
But what most astounds me
Is that there could be
My thoughts all expressed,
By a stranger, for me! . . .
Could it be there are others
With shy tongues like mine
Released every year
By a 'store' valentine? . . .Strike
One little boy was missing from
The backyard baseball game;
The others hit and ran and yelled--
I knew each one by name;
"Where's Art?" I called, "Oh, William--Bill,
Where's Art, your older brother?"
(His answer was a fearful one
To any youngster's mother)
This youthful braggadocio
Hitched up his little galluses,
"I'm stayin' out to Grandma's--Art's
Got Infantile Paralysis!" . . .This wasn't something happening
To someone far away--
This threat was real and striking home;
I couldn't name the day
When Art played last, but in my mind
I saw his sturdy self
The time I dressed his 'fightin' hand'
From off my first-aid shelf--
A busy hand that fought and played,
All rough with pad-like callouses--
One little boy had been struck out
By Infantile Paralysis! . . .Which one is next?--the question chills
The heart of every mother;
Which one? Your Joe? My Fred or Faye?
Or will there be another? . . .
Now Art is gone; his ball and bat
Are propped outside the door;
Perhaps he won't be playing in
Our backyard anymore. . . .
I want to help! and I regret
That, based on self analysis,
A strike close home must prove the threat
Of Infantile Paralysis!This, Too, Will Pass
This, too, will pass! No grief, no pain
But dims, or has its end;
No sun, obscured by clouds and rain
But knows a rainbow blend;
A troublous time may well provoke
A hidden fortitude,
And strength of character recloak
A whimsy, or a mood;
A rippling muscle lies inert
Till burdens pull it taut,
And brooding feeds imagined hurt,
But if our lives are fraught
With confidence and faith and hope,
Bright-hued as prism glass,
The burdened, though they quest and grope,
Shall know, "This, too, will pass!"Truly Yours
Simplicity of thought
I would impart,
And if it strikes a chord
In someone's heart--If someone says, "I know
I've felt that way,"
A need has been fulfilled;
Or if I stayOne moment's grief or sorrow
With my pen,
I'll dip once more in life,
And write again. . . .For he is blessed with
Happiness to share
Who looks at life,
And finds a poem there!