A Country Rag--Rustic Refrain
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Midi: Runaway Train






A Country Rag Rustic Refrain -- December 2000




by Jane Blair

(Click here for bio and poetry published earlier.)

Eagle Feather II




Wayfaring Strangers



My mother used to hide us --

my little brother and me --

when she saw one of the

unfortunate ones heading our way.

A "Tramp" or "Hobo" is what

they were called back then,

the men who traveled in boxcars

and camped together

beside the railroad tracks,

cooking supper in an old tin can

when nighttime settled in.

Hungry men they were --

for food in exchange

for doing chores around the yard

or the barn.

Chopping wood

or whatever else might need doing

at the time.

Mama would put on a clean apron

and meet them at the kitchen door

where, ragged cap in hand,

they waited, respectfully,

to be fed.

Thank you, Ma'am, they would say

when Mama handed out a plate

heaped high...

the homecooked food

always served with a smile.

My little brother and I would peek

from our hiding place in the other room

for we were intrigued by these

Knights of the Road.

Always hungry, always courteous,

always grateful

for any small courtesy.

It was said that some sort of

"mysterious sign" had been marked

on a fence post nearby

letting these Wayfaring Strangers know

this was a good place to stop.

That they would be made welcome here.

But if such a sign was there,

my little brother and I never found it,

Afterwards, Mama would lean back

against the locked kitchen door

and call out in great relief,

"It's alright now!  You can come out!"

Mama was ever the gracious hostess

and our guests never knew,

never guessed,

that what she was really doing

was protecting her cubs

with all the ferocity of a she-wolf!





The Rain on the Old Tin Roof



So dear to my heart are the memories that come --

Pardon me if I reminisce --

About scenes in our home by the railroad track

And one of the best is this...

The Rain.

The sound of the rain on our old tin roof.



Pop was a man with twinkling eyes

Who gently dried my tears

When I went to him with my childish woes,

Skinned-up knees -- and unnamed fears;

Pop knew how to make the hurt go away --

And to show me his love with more proof

He'd open wide the attic door

And we'd listen to the rain on the old tin roof.



Many years have passed and Pop's gone away --

But sometimes I still feel him near;

His warm, gentle strength like a blanket of Love

Surrounding me yet -- and I hear

His dear voice saying, just like he used to do --

Sister, remember how we'd listen to

The rain on the old tin roof?




Nature's Nobleman I rounded the corner And there he was... Settled comfortably on the narrow ledge In front of the big plate glass window. One foot, Encased in a worn and broken shoe, Rested on the sidewalk. The other, Minus shoe and sock, Was tucked up beside him As he massaged the streaked and grimy appendage. Tousle-headed, His long graying hair Stuck up in pointed tufts, Dusty, As though he might have slept On a trash heap Somewhere the night before And had only just awakened, For the hour was yet still early. His clothing, A faded dun non-colour, Was rumpled and none too clean. The baggy pants, Suspended by a length of twine, Were tied about the waist. Yet there was a quiet dignity About this man. A feeling that he was at peace Within himself And with the world. That he had met the world head-on And had come to terms with it. I went on my way And left him still sitting there, Rubbing the grimy foot. A Little Patch of Ivy A man died today lying in a little patch of ivy On Pennsylvania Avenue. One of so many Such Homeless Ones, seen so often nowadays, He had fallen asleep there sometime during the night, His meager possessions gathered close around him. A patch of ivy makes a softer bed, you see, Than the concrete sidewalk just inches away. He looked so peaceful when I passed by, But how unusual that he would still be sleeping With the sun already so high; others thought so too And were trying to shake him awake, But his soul by then had already taken flight. I chanced by again a little later, After they had taken him away -- A man in green coveralls, wielding a large, worn broom, Was erasing all signs that this had been someone's Last resting place here on earth; and all that remained Of the slumbering one...the only trace... Was a slight depression In a little patch of ivy.





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text ŠJane Blair, graphics ŠJeannette Harris, December 2000. All rights reserved.
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