Poet-ic justice

It's time to celebrate poets and their craft.

Since 1996, April has been set aside as National Poetry Month.

The nonprofit American Academy of Poets has led the charge each year, as libraries, educators, publishers, arts organizations and poets join forces to encourage Americans to take time to enjoy the pleasures of reading poetry.

Throughout the month, The Press Writers Corner will suggest ways to participate in this year's national celebration of poetry.

You can start by subscribing to "Poem-A-Day," offered free by the American Academy of Poets. Join 50,000 readers who already receive daily classic and contemporary poems by e-mail by visiting the academy's website, www.poets.org

You can always share your own poetry right here.

Send your Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, mdolan@cdapress.com.

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID 83814.

TAX TIME

It's time again to tally tax,

and see if I can claim the max.

I like to get them over quick,

because they tend to make me sick.

I see them as a cause for strife,

that comes around each year of life.

I always tend to overpay,

to get some back without delay.

My wife could use a warmer coat,

my boy still needs a safer boat.

I really must replace a car,

but will my refund go that far?

Each year I seem to pay out more,

and doing so is such a chore.

I hope I've kept my records well,

I've done my best, but time will tell.

They changed the form again this year,

and made it rough to just endure.

It always seems to get my goat,

no matter how I change my vote.

I'd put them off if I could choose,

but then I'd really sing the blues.

- Jeff Simonson, Kellogg

TEENAGE BRIDE: LITTLE BIRD OF PARADISE

Perched in the palm of my hand

Peeking between fingers clenched.

Eyes of deep blue pools,

Mirroring a frown - seeming to say:

Loose thy grip that I may test my wings

On my thermals and currents of air.

Looking deep into those radiant eyes I saw distance.

With aching heart I slacked my hold.

My little dove hit the air.

In my Montana cabin - days were long -

Nights were worse.

Always I could hear her mystic song.

Then a pecking I heard

Upon my door. What a sight.

Golden tresses streaked.

This message I heard:

I've chipped ice from polar caps,

Slacked thirst from brackish desert pools,

Drank from pristine mountain streams,

Sipped ocean's salty spray.

Now I wish to slack my burning thirst

from your tap and well.

I looked deep into radiant eyes:

I saw no distance.

Then for a perch

I offered - the back of my hand.

- Larry L. Laws, Dalton Gardens

I'd like to see Pepe Le Pew

surprise the gals on "The View";

perhaps this would shatter

their non - sensical chatter;

What a great way to just say "Pee -ew!"

This was whispered to me by the spider;

You know - the one who sat down beside her

He said that Miss Muffet ;

Is now called Miss Stuff-it,

and her tuffet is decidedly eider.

Once, an old lady named Gail

met a bear on the Coeur d"Alene Trail;

She gave a big shout and

her choppers fell out;

the bear took one look and turned tail!!

- Glenda Nordstrom, Pinehurst

HOBNAIL TOM

By Betty Magnus, Hayden

As he stepped off his appaloosa, his chaps slapped against the cantle of the saddle - spooking his horse.

The mule he was leading shied and bolted, pulling the rope out of his hands. Leaving his horse ground tied, he grabbed the loose lead rope attached to the mule's halter and wrapped it around the hitching post.

He headed my way and extended his hand. He moved his hat back on his head. His grip was strong and I felt warmed by his smile. He introduced himself as Tom Edwards.

He looked ordinary in his plaid flannel shirt with the tears at the elbow. His wizened face peered out from his black hat to reveal an olive completion. On his lower jaw was a small scar that left an indentation in his beard. Crow's feet were just beginning to paint character into his face. He turned and agilely walked over to the loafing shed and picked up a canvas and began to matte the packs for the upcoming pack trip into the Bob Marshall.

I was in Montana because I had left home at sixteen to get away from a father who had not been home much, but who wanted custody of me for the sole purpose of hurting my mother. I came to this Montana soil to take a job at a dude ranch, to find a better life, and I found a treasure greater than gold-an education and an appreciation for life.

Work began that very day; it was time for supper and the guests were arriving from the wilderness. The dinner bell rang out and the meal was served family style with large helpings of meat and potatoes. I discovered how much one can learn about a person over the dinner table. I sat next to Tom at the head table. I just listened to Tom tell stories about hunting and fishing.

During the course of the meal, he introduced me and told humorous stories about all the guests and workers, which made me feel at ease. After dinner we retired to the lodge where we sat around the fireplace, talking, listening to Tom playing his mandolin. He relayed incidents about the hunting and fishing camps. We sang songs, "Red Wing," and "Good Night Irene." I could have stayed there all night listening to those stories and singing.

I was shown my quarters and snuggled down for the night. It was a bit scary to be in an unfamiliar place. I don't think I got much sleep. I listened to all the sounds to get acquainted with my new surroundings. I stayed in the Chickadee cabin, next to the bathhouse, but I felt I didn't need to lock the door.

At the first crack of dawn, I showered and dressed and headed for the main house. As I came across the bridge that separated the main house from the guest houses, three fellows jumped out and pushed me off the bridge into Cooney Creek. I was terrified of course; I felt like an interloper till they pulled me up, sputtering and slapped me on the back, laughing heartily.

I later learned that this was the initiation dealt to any novice who came to the White Tail Ranch. Not only was this a test of character, but it was the "coup of acceptance" into the clan of the Ranch. It was important to me because it meant being accepted by Tom and the crew.

After breakfast, preparations were made to go into the Bob Marshall Wilderness for a ten-day pack trip. I wasn't in on the preparations or planning, but as I saw all the things being carried to the loafing shed, I realized the amount of work that went into preparing for each trip. We were taking a group of families into the wilderness. Tom was not afraid of hard work--his hand had broken many a horse, had stacked a myriad ton of hay, had saddled uncountable horses, and had drawn many a cartoon of the guests.

My job was to make the sandwiches for the 20 guests-each one was to have generous amounts of meat and mayonnaise on each one. Tom said, "There is nothin' I hate worse than a dry sandwich after a ten mile ride." He didn't have to tell me twice; the comment meant the condiments were not to be spared for his guests.

We started at 6:30 a.m. As I mounted my horse, Tom was aligning ten mules and horses for the guests. We were lined out in a special hierarchy-first Tom, the leader, then the 20 guests, followed by the cook and bottle washer, which was me, the wrangler and his string of 18 mules. As we rode along the trail, Tom would call out the names of the different plants and birds. "Now that there is the bear grass, over there is Indian paintbrush or "painted cup"; further ahead is the larkspur, kinnikinnick and mountain laurel. Over there ifyou watch, you may see a mountain bluebird, which is the Montana state bird."

Tom threw in a bit of Montana history with his narrative. I wondered why this educated man had left a job of teaching to buy a ranch where he had to work so hard for a man of seventy. I was in awe of his command of the English language; he said the funniest things about people and nature. Not only was he versed in reciting poetry, but he drew caricature pictures of horses and nature. He loved the wilderness and he loved people. He gave me that insatiable desire to strive for a higher goal, to succeed at everything I tried to do, and to never, never give up. As someone who had never had any fatherly direction, Tom became my hero.

My fondest memories are of the evenings. After evening meal, we sat around a camp fire and all the cares of the society were shed, all shams were unveiled-even the rich let down their hair. It was a special time of sharing experiences. Tom would play his mandolin and we all sing old favorites, while writing script in the dirt with a marshmallow stick. It was around these fires

that my interest and zest for life was born. Tom would expound on little "gems of wisdom" that he had learned while he'd taught at Helena High. "If you want to be an ordinary person, think of yourself as a piece of glass; if you want to be thought of as a diamond in the rough, you must endure many hardships; then, you are rare. It takes just a simple process to become a piece of glass; it takes some sand, mud and pressure for a short period of time and you have plain glass. To become a diamond, it takes years of pressure and stresses; then this diamond is rare." I will never forget that analogy.

"Now, if you want to be rich in life, said Tom, "You must endure some hardships and get educated. It will add polish to a rough cut stone." It was then that I wanted him to be proud of me. Tom instilled in me a hunger for direction in life-to teach others to have purpose in life.

I still long to go back and sit by the fireside and sing "Red Wing" with that quiet-spoken man whose cartoons lured the people to this Montana mountain retreat! Here was a man who was loved; they named a trail for him in the Bob Marshall Wilderness of Montana. I hope that some day you, too, will be able to experience a ride along the Hobnail Tom Trail.