Portrait of Father

I still can see him following the plow

And hear him singing as he mowed the hay.

(Its fragrant freshness lingers with me now.)

Though years have passed, it seems but yesterday

That he arose a little after four

To ride the range to bring the horses in.

Beloved old ballads floated through the door,

His voice in song, amid the farmyard din

That called us from our beds to milk the cows.

How eagerly we greeted each new morn

With varied challenge as a farm allows

Of hauling hay or grain or hoeing corn!

Blithe laughter was a comrade to our work

With wholesome praise. (What boy would think to shirk!)

He said, "My sons, of this earth we are kings

And potentates, and there is in the soil

The breath of life that pulsates as it sings

With living joy as we give honest toil."

His buoyant spirit was still immature

Enough to dream and make of every quest

That daily beckoned us with work's allure

As though each were a special privileged guest,

A journey to the land of dreams-fulfilled.

This journeying with him brought rich increase;

So now when his great father-heart is stilled

We know our work together cannot cease.

We love and understand him even more

And see him beckoning from that Far Shore.

The American Bard

Along the River Path

The sound of laughter pierced my loneliness,
A small boy's treble and a man's notes gay
As the meadow lark's clear fluting. Effortless
Along the river path they came my way,
The boy light-touching flowers as he skipped
Beside his Dad--Wild flowers God had sown.
The tall man stooped to kiss the face uptipped
And gently said, "My little son, my own!"

And suddenly I was a child again
Striding beside my father with my hand
Love-clasped in his. We were two "farmer men"
Exploring all the wonders of our land.
What tender memories to hold of one
Who carved the timeless footprints for his son!

My Father's Poetry

He lived the poetry he heard and saw.
"But weave my crown of gold-ripe wheat," he said.
God's primal handiwork held not a flaw.
The land's broad soul reached out to him and pled
To be released from barren waste. He felt
It breathing as the rich black furrows turned,
And leaping, green with April. As he knelt
Before the autumn's largess--he had earned--
He heard its song of immortality.
Recalling childhood hours, my soul is stirred
To sing of pristine beauty ... Can it be
His poems flowing in my lyric word?