The carp-pool lane

A FISH TALE

Small fish should abide by the rules
And swim in their own fishy-schools
But if they should tire
It’s all right to hire
The service of river carp-pools

9/91 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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The meeting place

DOWN AT THE COUNTRY STORE

  

A group of friends meet once a week

To tell tall tales and more

While busy playing games of Whist           

Down at the country store

 

All six are in their seventies

And friends from days of yore

They drink a bit and chew a cud

Down at the country store

 

They liked to spit, but never miss

An old brass cuspidor

There they cuss without rebuff

Down at the country store

 

When they were young they made a pact . . .

An oath, to which they swore

And they discuss that very thing

Down at the country store

 

They laugh a lot about the past

From chuckle to a roar

What’s said is often whispered there

Down at the country store

 

I’ve seen a tear slip from an eye

And drop down to the floor

When one retells an old old tale

Down at the country store

 

They help each other when there’s need

No matter what the chore

Then pat each other on the back

Down at the country store

 

7/26/05            Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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Was this a true tale we kids were told or not?

    UNCLE JEB’S LEG

 

When Uncle Jeb was in his prime

And chose to settle down,

He found a piece of land up north,            

Several miles from town.                                    

                                

He’d say it was “the good old days” –

A nearly perfect life,

For he was busy every day

On a homestead for his wife.

 

Across the lake were lodge-pole pines,

Just perfect for his needs.

He rowed across to cut some down,

Then trudged through waist-high weeds.                                             

                                               

He cut down three, to float across,

Not so with number four,

It knocked him down and trapped his leg

There on the forest floor.

 

Since Jeb was trapped and injured

At waning of the day,

His Collie, Shag, stayed by his side,

To chase the wolves away.

 

But night’s dark curtain, beckoned..

The wolves would soon come back.

Though Shag would fight his best for him,

He couldn’t lick a pack.

 

Jeb unsheathed his skinner knife

To set himself free, …

Cutting through the mashed bone

Just below the knee.

 

He crawled and slithered to the boat,

And rowed himself back home,

Then rode a horse ten miles to town,

Down trails he used to roam.

 

That’s Uncle Jeb’s  story

About how he lost his limb..

I believed it when a child – but,

Could it be a tale GRIMM?

 

8/28/05      Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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