Write in the sand the names
Of all those who have hurt you,
Then go for a stroll around the bay,
And when you come back the next morning,
The tide will have washed them away.
Write in your heart the names
Of all those who love you,
Then go to sleep without a care,
Since what you write in your heart
Will remain forever there.
Hilda J. Born
Ode to Oliver
(To My Grandson)
Today I beheld my own immortality.
Receiving blanket over my shoulder,
His little head resting against my breast,
Cradled in the crook of my elbow,
His sleeping body stretched out over my lap.
I softly stroked his silky blonde hair.
I traced the outline of his tiny ear
With my index finger
And brushed the tips of my fingers
Against his soft cheek.
I marvelled at his perfect features,
As I had so many years ago,
While his father slept like this in my arms.
Please remember your Nana, my little Oliver,
When I no longer can be with you.
And let me live on in your heart.
Johnny’s Last Roundup
Can’t remember the date of
Johnny West’s last roundup,
though I know the place:
in my friend’s room, down the street,
where we hunkered down,
articulating the arms and legs,
creating the dialogue as we went
about branding and rustlers,
another round of red-eye.
Where are they now, I wonder,
Johnny and the brown horses,
their black manes forever tossing in the wind,
and Jane with her blue buckskin jacket?
Lost in the mist, the missed times,
between childhood and adulthood
when we put aside such things,
though we still may remember
how marvellous it seemed
to have a world in miniature
where we told ourselves
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