Tag Archives: Ken Hada

poetry

Uncle Roger

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Despite MS
he rises before dawn
puts on camo and worn boots
painstakingly slow
canes his way to the pickup
and pulls his trailered Bad Boy*
to his favorite bend on the creek
leans against the fender
dragging his useless leg
climbs aboard, stalks
to a frost-covered cedar blind
waits the pride of the hunt.

I remember as boys we walked
briskly alongside his cheerful banter
following quail into plum thickets
his good legs and eyes then
helped us learn an ethic
we have never forgotten

And now he still burns
stoking the embers of survival.

In due time, when death
has arrived, when the kill
has occurred, he crawls to the buck
guts it on his knees, wraps
a chain around its hocks, crawls
back to the Bad Boy, winches it
up and on to the trailer,
ties it down, then wills himself
back into the driver’s seat,
drives home worn out –
a tired legacy he honors.

* a battery-powered cart

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A Professor before Dawn

In another time
he would be a cowboy.

He still wears boots and hat,
carries a leather briefcase
up the back steps
before dawn into an office.

A magniloquent moon hanging
above the trees
lights his nocturnal habits.

He turns a key to get the day
going. He will log in,
check email, review lesson plans
and feel the hard bite of the saddle
between his thighs, thinking
about wide open spaces
and the calling that will not
let him go.

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Making Art

Nervous as a skunk
this art-making
takes a lot of nose-first
digging, scrounging garbage
cans turned on their side
clattering in a dirty breeze,
rattling like death caught
in your throat – you crawl
inside, sniff and snoop
until something clings to you –
you grasp at it, try to make it
yours – anything you might use
to coerce an audience,
anything to make trash
seem sweet enough to color
your cagey stripes.

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Red Dirge

red-tipped fescue,
red sumac, ivy,
berries and cedar bark
– even the water is red
like old blood known
in Autumn rituals –
blood as familiar
as it is foreign,
ordinarily strange
like turning leaves

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Mockingbird

You remember a mockingbird sitting
atop bare dying elm branches, singing
every morning, bouncing on deadwood,
limb to limb, faithful like morning sun.

You remember when she left, denial
fell into familiar instinctive patterns:
you delivered flowers, bouquets
of all sizes as if those gestures could
merge with your desperate prayers to save
illusions of happiness, the pretense
that shock and faith make possible.

You remember faint evening breezes
restoring sense as you sat on the porch
seeing the dying elm bare before you.

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CrookedCreek

We could not fully appreciate
the clear water in Sansing Hallow.
We were only boys
but even then we felt something,
we listened to the voices
whispering through the trees.
We obeyed, followed the water

on Saturday mornings in cut-offs,
tee-shirts and cheap shoes.
We slipped through cool water
that soothed briar cuts
casting yellow beetle spins
into the current — down
among the rocks.

Years later we began to realize
the length of the creek, to understand
its value despite those who abused it,
those who took her for granted.
We fought for the creek,
crying with her wounds, marveling
at her resiliance.

There is something pitifully human
the way we fail to honor heaven
so close to home, the way
we look the other way,
afraid to speak out
refusing to change —
unworthy of her shores.

Steam pillowing through the hills
rising from frosty meadows
in November — late Autumn sun
brightens the morning,
seeps through leafless timber
leaving nothing hidden —
nothing at all.

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The Killing Season

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The Killing Season

is upon us now.
The need for blood
stalks
every turning leaf,

Ragweed drooping
in sagging fields
at sunset.
A morning calm

is no match for lust
pounding
in a bloody heart.
It seems natural

this way we try
to master ourselves.
Autumn ritual
prepares

for winter – Sycamores
blush white,
Oaks redden,
streams coil

around sandy stone.
All of us feel
Time slipping.
For us Time

can do little more
than point
to December
that longest day

when thirst
is finally quenched
and full bellies
dream

of spring
budding again,
somehow,
from depths unknown.

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Ryder’s Pond

The school bus could not get us home
fast enough, fast enough to drop
our books, change clothes, mount
bicycles and pedal away holding
fiberglass rods with Zebco 33 reels,
red stringers and a black metal tackle box.

We pedaled like blind angels flying
down and around the long curve
of Highway 7 until we landed
in our adopted home waters –
Ryder’s Pond – a deep Arkansas
farm pond, a watering hole
for registered Polled Herefords.

On the run, we dropped our bikes,
high-stepped through snaky Fescue
until we reached water’s edge
then strung purple worms on hooks
and cast into the shadows.

Two hours later, (late for supper),
pedaling back up the long curvy hill
green bass dangling on red stringers,
knowing men in white or tan pickups
would honk, children would gawk
from car windows zipping past.

We would nod holding handle bars
tight, grinning – our delirious dog
racing us. Proud as preening ducks,
we pedaled hard. Like young braves
returning from vision quests – we
had proven their worth.

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Gone by Morning

Like stone, an old man
sits head-bowed
beside dwindling flame
in memory pangs.

How many nights
has he sat with only
the obscure company
of a truck radio?

How many nights
has he camped alone
by this river-curve
hearing strange sounds –

heart beats
midst keening water,
body aching
for morning?

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