Hand Stained Red
2008.02.18
The lines on your face are drawn
By the Hand of God
To remind that nothing
Stops the hands of the clock
Pictures on a page that are lost
In a drowning flood
Can't remind me of the face
That I once loved
The lines on the road are drawn
By the hands of men
To take us nowhere
And bring us back again
The heart on my sleeve that beats
For you has bled
And the blood on my arm has left my
Hand stained red
Father's Feet
For Roy Maywood Goudy | 1903-1984 |
If I close my eyes, I can still see you.
Your weathered hand, resting on the hickory
Leaning there watching the dogs
That will run tonight up on the ridge to entertain
I miss you dear
I understand the winter's morn' and every cold end
Working hands to the bone till the final trumpet
Called you home
A barn still stands
Its walls are like a man
Worn through use and weather and years
Time and again
Though it remains
It's little but a frame
But a perfect memory of the man lives on
The night has turned to morning's dawn
The fire's died and all the dogs have come home
The barn wood calls your rough hands on
Would you mind if I got up with you and tagged along
Now I stand on this ground, this farmer's dirt
Tonight my heart lets tears to water the earth
Because only thorns do now grow here
On this farmer's field where my father's feet once stood
Summer Days Passing
2007.04.25
I rode in the cab of your old Chevrolet
Out to the stock sales every Saturday
Where lines of the cattle stretched out like the sea
The auctioneer called as you sat there next to me
I rode on the back of the old wagon bed as the
Bailer let fall all the hay it was fed
The dust as it rose with the chaff that was blown
By the wind in the field in the late afternoon
Come on Summer days,
Oh I miss everything
Winter's gone so you can come
So won't you come on Summer days
I hear the cicadas sing in the trees as the
Sun lets its last rays fall beyond the wheat
To come once again with the first heeler's crow
Summer I missed you more than you'll ever know
Homemade ice cream and the wind in the trees
The flies as they walk on the torn window screen
Old walking stick help me
Run in the woods and jump in the crick
Come on, won't you come on Summer days