Feeling whimsical today….
She stood behind the leaf on the branch above the knot
on the tree trunk, near the river where he fished and where he got
bitten by the dog that had come from down the road
from the farm that raised the chickens, he had learned of when it snowed
last winter….a month before the thaw.
She watched him as he cleaned his hand and bandaged it up tight
in shadows through the morning mist in the coolness of the light.
that slithered down between the trees and fell upon the ground
and splashed along the water’s edge, hitting all it found
as she watched him pause at what he saw.
She was sure he didn’t see her but his gaze was firm….her way
and she peeked beneath the moistened leaf and gasped at the spray
that drenched her hair down to her toes and made her wings to stick
and she lost her balance and hit the ground…. with a spark and light and click
so loud that she was sure….that he knew.
She moved with caution ‘round the tree as he started to walk her way
and the birds all started whistling loud and the fish began to play
and caught his attention and he froze in time, then turned and went on back
and got his pole that was lying there…. against the sleeping bag and black
dog that now seemed harmlessly…..’blue.’
A fairy has to watch her ways, yet learn of all she can
but safety is the fairy thing; that is the fairy plan.
And knowing she was lucky; she watches from afar
as he pats the dog with his bandaged hand and chews on his cigar
and casts his pole across the blaze of morn’.
© copyright 2012 t. j. gargano
Eric von Schmidt’s “Here Fell Custer”
At the foot of the hill, north of the stream
where the grass had been trampled down,
he halted his horse…stunned by the scene,
at the foot of the hill, north of the stream.
“Give me my field glasses…I hear a scream.”
he yelled at his scout….in frantic frown
at the foot of the hill, north of the stream
where the grass had been trampled down.
On top, on down where they covered the hill,
and laid in the grass, pale white,
except for the grasses, all was still,
on top, on down where they covered the hill.
In the dark of his glasses was a test of his will
and he shivered with terror at the thought of their plight
on top, on down where they covered the hill,
and laid in the grass, pale white.
Off to the east to the side of the ravine,
Where it was first, that he saw the horse –
a claybank… hurt and bleeding, his rider unseen,
off to the east to the side of the ravine.
The state of the bodies, all stripped… was obscene;
And he stared at them, shaking, with a heart of remorse
off to the east to the side of the ravine,
where it was first, that he saw the horse.
As they crossed the Little Bighorn and swarmed in mournful cry
charging into history up that hill
Crazy Horse was yelling “It’s a good day to die!”
As they crossed the Little Bighorn and swarmed in mournful cry.
That Custer stood his ground… is a fact one can’t deny.
When you study it…you can almost hear the cries….still…
as they crossed the Little Bighorn and swarmed in mournful cry
charging into history up that hill.
© 2012 t. j. gargano
In early spring, they appeared almost every night ’round dusk for nearly a month, to the point that I would sit and wait for them and was disappointed the one evening, they didn’t.
Two Wayward Geese
At dusk they come low….. banking out of the west
‘cross the creek near the barn, where the cattle all rest,
then over the trees just east of the house
looking down in the yard at the cat and the mouse
before turning left and angling north.
They’re hard to see, just two spots in the sky,
but it’s easy to hear their loud, noisy cry
as they angle now west over the highway below
and back o’er the creek….. flying over it low
as they constantly squawk back and forth.
Two wayward geese the flock left behind;
escaped the hunter down in the blind
looking around for a new place to stay
with a whole lot of water and a safe place to play
and be safe from predators all around.
They circle three times, just before dark;
their path is near perfect, nary missing the mark
in precision flying that boggles the mind…
their wings never touching…..in close align
their flight into darkness…..profound.
I wait every night for the beckoning call
of these two wayward geese and their display of gall
that pierces the quietness of the calm prairie night
interrupting all pattern… of what’s in their sight
as they scream in high pitch from above.
I know I will miss’em when all’s said and done
and hope it’s not ended by the sound of a gun
this routine they fly over the creek every day
at dusk when the twilight is fading away
when they slip through the darkness…..in love.
T. J. Gargano