OK, let's see.
Two more poems.
Now, do the trick.
This one's called Grandma's man and it
was based on one of my grandfathers
who was what they used to call a fool back in the old days.
Everything he touched seemed to turn out wrong.
And as I mentioned in the poem, he never
ever got things quite right.
He had a good spirit and it seemed
like if he could have just turned completely around
he would have been a great success.
But as it was he was a great failure.
That day she threw the goose over the roof of the cow
shed, put her hand to her lips and sucked cursing.
The world ended.
In blood her world ended.
Though these past 20 years have healed
the bite and that silly goose is preening
in her favorite pillow.
Her husband was a fool.
He laughed too long at lies told by girls whose easy
virtue disappeared when he passed stumble
bum down the Sunday street.
Baled hay in his every 40, cows on his allotted range.
His quick sorrel quarter horse all neglected
for the palms of friends.
Then he began to paint life.
His first attempt was all about a goose that bit
the hand that fed it.
The obstacles were great, insurmountable.
His fingers were too thick to grip the brush right.
The sky was always green and hay spoiled in the fields.
In wind, the rain, the superlative night,
images came, geese skimming to the reservoir.
This old man listened.
He got a bigger brush and once painted the cry of a goose
so long, it floated off the canvas into thin air.
Things got better.
Sky turned white.
Winter came and he became quite expert at snowflakes.
But he was growing wise lard.
His hair white as snow.
Funny he used to say how mountains are blue in winter
and grain and spring.
He never ever got things quite right.
He thought a lot about the day the goose bit grandma's hand.
Life seldom came the shade he wanted.
Well, and yes, he died well, but you
should have seen how well his friends took it.