Truckee Life in Poem
Just a couple a verses from my days living in Truckee, CA.
Cry in the Exurb Greenbelt
Glistening pines filter sunlight
Upon lupines and mule ear daisies.
Birdsong announces my passage
Along the trail for my daily hike.
From a house just yards away,
A cry for “kitty” morphs into yahoos
And yowees, then screams of despair.
Should I run to the rescue?
Call the police? Or was it even real?
Joyful squeals rimed with dismay,
What premenstrual drama plays out here?
No masculine growl, no shatter of glass,
Nor crash of chairs against a wall.
Is she baying at the morning crust of moon?
Is her yawp in the woods like handprints on stone?
Did her comb embed itself in tangled hair
Or did an extra pound or wrinkled tee proclaim
That fat and crow's feet betray her glory and fame?
Whatever cause, it fades as I walk by, shaken,
Her tantrums dissipate amid sounds
Of foresters' chainsaws and construction.
Grand Entry
Banners snap
two lines of riders canter into the arena
ringing to the left and right
converging in the center
horses sidling head to rump
one horse struggles with the form
until they all stand neatly in a row
then she explodes from the gate
sprinting on her white horse
spangled with blue, red and silver
the Flag ripples over her head
as they circle past the crowds
the horse keeling over in the turns
finally stopping in the center of the arena
the announcer follows the Anthem
with an ode to a
Young Girl on Horseback With Old Glory.
I don’t know why this stuff always smacks me
right between the eyes
my sternum vibrates, ready to shatter.
This time, that Young Girl is my daughter
her mount an elderly dude horse
she carries that flag with a pride
I’ve never seen in her before.
No matter how disgusted I am
with the clowns who run this country
a rodeo grand entry always gets to me
especially when I think of those little girls
galloping at full tilt on huge animals
that frighten little boys.
And the Flag, that flag is mine
quite separate from any ruler
it waves over the ground that buries my ancestors
it draped the coffin of my father
who lined up with hundreds of men at dawn
to push up and jumpjack until breakfast
all stripped to the waist -- except him
his religious garments raising ire in a sergeant
who called him forward
eager for the lucky chance
to humiliate this Mormon bastard
until a tap on his shoulder from the captain
stopped him
“Remember what you’re fightin’ for, Sergeant...
and it ain’t Betty Grable.
The announcer drones to the climax
as the riders follow the queen
back through the gate
and the games begin
visiting queens join her
herding calves and steers back to pens
little girls talk to the royalty
through chain link
dreaming some day to become like them
aglitter with tassled shirts
silver crowns gleaming from their hats
horses carrying them against the wind.
At the end of it all, my daughter declares
“Okay, I’m over it.”
she returns to work the next day
along with her sterling mount
to guide dudes through the aspen grove
where it is said that if you touch their trunks
and make a wish
it will come true.