Behind the tar-papered henhouse
In the farm’s back edges,
We imagine snakes and mad dogs
As we wade through high grass.
Rhubarb and currants huddle
Outside the garden’s pale;
If you hide here for kick-the-can,
You’ll never get home free.
Over the hill, at the Birketts’
Lurk a bull and nasty geese.
Barbed wire prickles round
Their mucky pasture.
My lonesome memories
Resemble funnel clouds:
The oily green air
Whirls roaring disaster.
When it all settles out,
There’s no trace of the farm –
Its few survivors
Are far away, scattered.
On my desk is a rose
Like the ones Grammy grew;
Her faith bloomed like her garden
A reminder of the light.
Poem reprinted with permission from Finishing Line Press.
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I do vividly remember when Nancy and Howard were resident scholars at CIECR in the fall of 1977. That was one of the best groups during my 30-year tenure at the Institute. Why? Because the Saliers’, Rogers’, Nielsen’s, and Carter’s children (all eleven of them) made it such a fun year. They were so creative and energetic. Congratulations to Nancy on a beautiful poem.
Nancy, I think we met once, a long time ago? I love this poem. And I loved encountering you online.
Are you SURE this memory-laden poem isn’t about the little farm where I lived as a child? I was nearly 10 when we moved there. I was sad about moving from the place where I had been born until I saw the little red barn just up a little grade from a burbling creek that became my closest companion for nearly ten more years. I still think of it with longing! Thanks for bringing back happy memories this morning!