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Mountain Musings
Part 4

A Dream Come True
2002

Peg dreamed that we stateside siblings took a trip across the sea
to see baby brother, Dink and his Pat (so British, she!)
It seemed so good a notion that she offered fares for all;
had takers in a jiffy for a trip that would enthrall.
Arrangements made by e-mail were complicated some,
but nothing’s ever been too tough for all the scattered Gunns.
We would depart from Dallas to Chicago and Birmingham,
rent a car and stay in Banbury, avoiding traffic jams.
To start the trip off with a bang, I fell down an escalator
at the DFW airport, not a very good indicator
for the outcome of our over-long, exciting, tiresome flight,
but we survived that eventful day and a rather restless night.
Pat and Dink were perfect hosts as we saw the countryside,
went by train and tube to London for a thrilling tour-bus ride,
spent a day at Warwick Castle that reminded each of us
to be thankful for our modern ways in spite of all the fuss.
At Bourton-on-the-Water, a pretty, tranquil town,
the olden days of England seemed to calm and slow us down.
But best of all was Brackley and the home of  Pat and Jerry
where we dined on English cooking with the help of cute Rosemary.
We met Pat’s brother, John; (Rosemary is his wife),
enjoyed the pubs and Banbury Cross and the laid-back British life.
Thanks to Walt for driving us around on the wrong side of the road,
to Peg for picking up the tab on this charming episode
as well as taking pictures and keeping us in line,
with Mary adding extra pix in the beautiful sunshine.
To Pat and Jerry for the work and worry for their guests,
thanks for scheduling fine weather; we think you are the best!
We loved the “tea,” and learning to play the game of Sevens,
and “making music” once again with my little bud was heaven!

§

Dearly Beloved,

     Every morn as I slowly awaken,
“Are you here?” is the first thing I think,
 “or out on the porch drinking coffee,
 and watching the mountain turn pink?”
     Remember I told you a long time ago,
when speaking of death and the one left below,
that one of the hard things with which to contend
would be loss of a confidant, listener, friend .
Just after the service, the first thought I had
was that Mike’s eulogy would make your heart glad
when I got home to tell you of all he had said,
that your message of hope could somehow be spread. 
     I wanted to share all the sights and the fun
of the tour of old England with the other four Gunns,
and the dozens of cousins I’ve met here and there,
and the Edsel I passed on the main thoroughfare.
     I’m wearing your shirts, so comfy and long,
still pound out and sing your favorite songs,
try to keep up the Blazer the way you would do,
and turn on your “toe lights” when each day is through.
     I know you’ll be happy for this glad event;
your whole big retirement is now being sent
to my bank account, just as you would want. 
You can now rest assured I’m not starving and gaunt.
     We now have a traffic light at the freeway
where we pass underneath going toward Santa Fe.
The Bagel House closed, and the auto parts store,
so there’s no place to rent a U-Haul anymore.
     Just over the hill from our own paradise
live David and Coleen, new neighbors so nice,
in a house with two decks and a marvelous view,
thanks to Tony and Molly, who make dreams come true.
     Kooky Red and her roommate today are engaged
in building a living-room iguana cage
for the fast-growing lizards called Mya and Blue,
so that Dianne can soon have her own bedroom, too.
     With pictures and poems, I made you a book
named just “Old Weird Harold,” which I undertook
when those two sweet grandsons, Joel and Jake,
petitioned me for a special keepsake.
In it they will find some things that you wrote,
of selling the farm and life’s anecdotes. 
Your writing is published now, better than Poe,
with more wit and humor and useful info.
  I’ve started to cover the dining room wall
with things from the farm so we can recall
the good things that happened in those happy years
before we retired and became mountaineers.
     That squirrel is back, digging under the house;
I guess he may think that since I’ve no spouse
to deal with his sneaky but cute rodent ways,
he’ll now have free reign for the rest of his days.
 I’m using big rocks to perhaps slow him down,
and if that doesn’t work, there’s concrete around
to cover the holes like you did at first,
and squirrel stew, maybe, if worse comes to worst.
     It’s not as much fun watching “Whose Line?”
without you to share in the glee.
House cleaning now takes a bit longer,
but I’m so glad your soul is set free. 
I need you so often when problems arise,
but I try my best to look through your eyes
to see a solution just as you would do,
and, often as not, use your Krazy Glue. 
It fixed up the sprayer hose yesterday eve,
and I’m slaying weeds like you wouldn’t believe.
    I’ve done lots of trimming on several trees,
declared holy war on the noxious bindweeds,
transplanted more cactus, am rocking  the slope,
and pamper the grass with water and hope. 
Those scrub oaks have roots much like the mesquite,
so many new sprouts, I can hardly compete. 
So with a small brush and the Roundup I love,
I swabbed every leaf, wearing surgical gloves,
and with much trepidation I’m waiting to see
if it kills just the bushes and not the pine tree. 
Two sunflower plants, as tall as the eaves,
make a natural screen so that no neighbor sees
your spot on the porch with that marvelous view,
the mountains that always remind me of you.
                                                                                        
§

Second Childhood
2004

'Tis fifty years now since I left the game of basketball,
then met my handsome prince that summer, married in the fall.
Much water runs beneath the bridge in that long span of time -
five kids, eight grandkids, bales of cotton, many words that rhyme.
The road meanders up from Texas to a mountain home
where Harry scaled the highest peak, another range to roam.
Adventure, more adventure, til time has turned around,
and it seems the latest happenstance has me homeward bound.
I'm seven years old once again and back at Skinners' shack
where love for basketball began, and still is right on track.
Our first goal was a bucket with the bottom rusted out,
the court all dirt and pebbles, with goat-heads strewn about.
Dink's rubber ball - red, white and blue - a size to fit the goal,
completed our new-fangled sport, and we were on a roll.
I had never been inside a gym nor seen a proper ball,
so the lack of net and hardwood didn't bother me at all.
This ball wore to a frazzle, yet still I plunked it in
til Walter ordered one from Sears, a new phase to begin.
When I was old enough to play on the hardwood floor at school,
I thought I was in heaven, a dribbling, shooting fool.
Too soon, I had to graduate and leave all that behind,
but a new carrer now beckoned, a challenge for my mind.
More than my share of blessings have filled the happy years,
a few speed bumps and twists and turns, much laughter and some tears.
Alone now with my memories, I needed exercise,
and a basketball to play with seemed extremely wise.
A Wal-Mart goal installed out back completes the patio,
and to pop the net is still as fun as fifty years ago.

§

The Joys of Retirement

After twenty years of service to protect the USA,
a stressful job, oft far from home, doing things the navy way,
Jay retired and bought a lovely home out in New Mexico,
a country home with lots of space, where life is nice and slow.
On his dad’s old Farmall tractor, he stirs up lots of dust
as acres of big weeds he mows, staying healthy and robust.
I’d swear he’s ten years younger than when he first arrived,
relaxed and loving every day, glad just to be alive.
When he left the farm to sail the seas, he never would have dreamed
that he’d want to drive a tractor. All in the past it seemed.
“Childress in the rear-view mirror” was happiness back then,
but the sweat of toil mixed with the soil had seeped beneath his skin.
He sits the tractor like his dad, with his beautiful physique,
loves being busy with his kids, treats each one as unique.
With Tammy’s knack for cooking and decorating home,
this humble Texas farm boy has no desire to roam.
In the garden full of roses, wind chimes and hummingbirds,
they gather to relax, unwind, share loving thoughts and words.
With mountains to the north and west, the view is one of peace,
a land of possibilities where blessings never cease.

§

Violated!

With the grace of a swan among the reeds,
she glides majestically,
as though without a worry or a care.
She offers words of comfort,
experience and wisdom,
the burdens of her weary friends to share.
But more than most, she is aware
that lurking down below
is a crocodile just waiting for the kill.
His every move is orchestrated
to observe his prey,
his hungry stomach’s appetite to fill.
She bravely reaches out for help
to overcome abuse,
and finds herself entangled in a web.
More abuse is heaped upon her
by cops and courts and friends.
Her faith and strength begin to slowly ebb.
The abuser, so sadistic,
seems to have more rights
than the innocent, the victim of his rage.
To avoid his own emotions,
he must transfer the pain
to another body in a wild rampage.
Escaping from his clutches
only escalates the anger,
the evil, calculating, twisted mind.
He schemes and plans and plots her fate
as though she were a pawn,
and no safe territory can she find.
His hope is to consume her soul,
turn her into a robot
who hastens to obey his sick commands.
Til one of them is dead and gone,
she never can escape
the brutal fury of his tongue and hands.

§

Bird-Sitting with Kokopelli

As I sit at the computer, on my shoulder sits a friend
whom we all call simply Koko, whom I volunteered to tend.
He is green, blue, red and yellow, with a big curved parrot beak,
 and a large vocabulary, and sometimes an angry shriek.
His wolf-whistle makes a grandma feel she’s only twenty-one,
and he’s quite an entertainer, full of melody and fun.
From his cedar perch he wanders off to see the neighborhood,
and refuses to return to base when Mama says he should.
She is off to visit other friends in Albuquerque town,
so I offer him some tasty fruit to try and lure him down.
He eats a bit of berries, some banana, nothing more,
pays attention to my prattle like he’s laying it in store
to improve his education, maybe quote a rhyme or two.
We may even add some new lines to a book before we’re through.
Once when I was working in the yard, he sat up in his tree
and practiced his wolf-whistle, a compliment for me.
I ignored him, never looked his way, just kept on pulling weeds.
He tried all his repertory, an impressive lot indeed.
Soon his whistle changed positions, and as I looked around,
he was waddling on his short legs across the rocky ground,
for his wings back then were clipped a bit, preventing flying far.
He had called my bluff, I ceded his position as The Star.

cgtrent@att.net

Home

Happenstance

“Hurry-up-and-wait” could define many jobs,
and would drive lots of folks up the wall.
At the DPS office, I had time to write,
hardly ever became bored at all.
Then my sister Peg sent a poem Mama wrote
in the old days, before she was wed.
It was lovely, like Mama, a prize I would cherish,
and a light bulb clicked on in my head.
Hey, I can do that! I says to myself,
a new way to spend idle time.
Old memories flooded my mind in a deluge,
and easily flowed into rhyme.
Sent some to the kids with my regular letters,
and Nita came back with a note:
Why not write your history down in this fashion?
(A notion that quick got my vote.)
The collection grew thick; I soon volunteered
to entertain elders with samples.
A long backward look at the old days seemed precious,
with a bevy of living examples.
Explored the great publishing world, got an offer,
with me as the salesman, of course,
as they held the reins and most of the money
while I rode the wild bucking horse.
No, I’ll find a way by myself, thank you kindly,
but sure didn’t do it alone.
With much good advice and a borrowed computer,
I ventured into the unknown.
Got the first copy done and took it to Kinko’s,
brought home scads of books for to sell,
but neighbors weren’t buying, not even the oldsters.
At Flomot I did very well,
went to their flea market and then to homecoming,
each subsequent book gaining ground.
Retirement has brought forth another edition,
home edited, printed and bound.
Three more in the oven should keep Harry busy,
my editor/printer and spouse.
So thank God for mothers and sisters and children,
retirement and mountain playhouse.

§

History Repeats

Robin Hood remains alive and well,
his legacy secure,
still taking money from the rich
to buy votes from the poor.
Without regard for rule of law
or precious common sense,
the end now justifies the means,
at humanity’s expense.
The constitution of our land
is trashed by Mr. Hood,
with massive ego-wisdom,
under guise of “public good.”
Disdaining moral principles
for which our fathers died,
he has displaced God and decency;
we’re on a downhill slide.
He loves to call the U.S.A.
the only “super power,”
but we’re just a super bully,
making weaker nations cower.
Like wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing,
his band of merry men
are killing off our freedoms
with a weapon called a pen.
As we worship at the altar
of fortune, beauty, fame,
Friar Tuck has picked our pockets,
and we’ve only self to blame.

§

I’ve Always Loved a Puzzle

He was an enigma, a paradox, a puzzle,
our Harry who knew he was crazy weird.
When Debbie started calling him Bill Cosby’s “Old Weird Harold,”
he knew it wasn’t bad as he had feared,
that maybe after all, he was loved, perhaps respected,
 even though he hadn’t earned it, he was sure.
So he proudly wore that tattered badge which showed his sense of humor
and kept his sense of family secure.
His humility was awesome, but it also caused some problems
as I tried to figure out his busy mind.
His concern for others’ feelings kept him always looking inward,
ever striving to be courteous and kind.
Sometimes his good intentions were not obvious to me,
and it took me years to understand his meaning.
Perhaps he wanted to avoid being somehow too judgmental,
make my attitude (so true!) to seem unfeeling.
He didn’t care for games, so I thought (by my experience)
that maybe he just didn’t like to lose.
But he also didn’t want to win and hurt somebody’s feelings,
as in school days when he sometimes felt abused.
He didn’t like my “braggin’ wall” with all the kids’ awards;
 it might make someone else feel insecure,
or even pictures of them hanging boldly everywhere.
He was no prideful braggart, that’s for sure!
He disliked those awkward times when somebody bragged on him
in front of others who might be compared.
There was lots of cause for boasting, but he wasn’t even tempted,
although he liked to know that people cared.
His deep concern for others often robbed him of enjoyment,
taking every little care to the extreme.
To make him more contented, truly happy with himself,
was my lifelong, (and frustrating!) wildest dream.
Through his months of slowly dying, he worried not of self,
but how is was affecting those he loved.
He would likely be embarrassed by the fuss that we have made
as he watches all our antics from above.

§

Texas Rambling

In far West Texas we can visit
towns like Wink and Pecos
or Pyote, Toyah, Kermit,
wherever chance may take us.
It’s mostly desert, lots of sand
with cactus, sagebrush, heat,
though here and there an oil well
pumps to its own drumbeat.
The roads are long and traffic-free;
few tourists here are seen.
No trees or mountains break your view.
The air is fresh and clean.
I spent some time there recently
to visit precious friends,
and was welcomed in with open arms
at the home of caring kin.
One of the rarest sights I saw
across the barren plain
came in the form of droplets,
a stranger they call rain.

§

The Feminist Lie

It’s alright, hon, just do your thing;
you’ll never have to pay.
Old Uncle Sam and Mama
will make it all ok.
There are no consequences
if you should break the rules.
Those Right to Life fanatics
are just a bunch of fools.
They have the crazy notion
that choice should come before
you shed your clothes and jump in bed,
your “freedom” to explore.
Your comfort and convenience
are more important now
than the life of unborn babies
who can’t vote, anyhow!
If we have to tear him limb-from-limb,
well, that’s no never-mind!
Or suck his brains out of his head;
who could think this is unkind?
Ignore those righteous zealots,
tell your conscience it’s ok
to kill for selfish reasons;
there is no hell to pay.

§

Time Flies

Ain’t it funny how slow two minutes can be
when zapping a bowl of stew,
yet how fast the days and weeks go by;
fifty years can seem so few.
Time is one of our greatest blessings
but also can be a curse.
We sit so long in Doc’s waiting room
that we end up feeling worse.
“Hurry up and wait” is the motto
of America’s harried throng.
We spend time exercising
to buy extra time to live long.
The human mind can’t comprehend
a place where time stands still,
where no aches and pains and wrinkles exist,
no need for weight bench and treadmill.

§

Weird Harold’s Wisdom

We modern mountain folk are like the hardy old originals
about as much as Tabby and a puma,
with luxuries unlimited (some even have a pool),
a sign, perhaps, of excess of mazuma.
Just like the city dwellers, our garbage is collected
at 8:00 a.m. on Wednesdays every week.
No burning is allowed, like we did it on the farm,
and in seven days the stuff begins to reek.
Weird Harold would arise at five and have a cup of coffee,
then drag the little dumpster to the road.
I asked him why not wait til dawn, since there was no big hurry
to meet the trash man with his heavy load.
“The time to do a thing,” he said, “is when you think about it,”
good strategy for old folks such as me,
whose memories have gone to pot (much like our fat mid-section),
when our “want to” and our “can do” don’t agree.
Oft now I hear his voice when my actions need a-stirring,
to catch the thought before it fades away.
It helps keep my activities so interesting and varied,
as tomorrow’s jobs are scheduled for today.
My bedside table holds a pad and pencil at the ready
to write a line of poetry that hits
as I lie and mull and wonder before sleep draws me in,
since experience proves I won’t remember it.
See? I just took a minute to give the plants some water,
enjoy again the peacefulness of snow,
give achy joints some exercise to keep them “sorta” limber,
and peck a few tunes on the piano.
I’m seldom rushed or harried, handle problems as they come,
to keep my attitude plumb optimistic,
creative juices flowing to put fun in every day,
and love enough to make me altruistic.

§

cgtrent@att.net

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