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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