by Steve Gaines
the morning my Grandfather died
he was painting picnic tables
making his way slowly down a long line of them
aluminum colored and pealing in the sun
badly wearing their too many years
he was bringing them back to a shining new life
and he was quietly dying on his way
one foot in front of the next
one breath on top of the last
slower and slower
by Steve Gaines
my grandfather is both real to me
and a ghost I never knew
an old man
and the young 19th century “adventurer”
he used to tell me about
over cups of black coffee and camel cigarettes
he had to sneak out to smoke
there was a picture
that told the story…
the young footless nomad
with his cornet and the look of leaving again…
the picture sings still in my own sixty year old memory:
by Steve Gaines
1975
gray hair…
gray face…
still handsome
dead among the tears
and the small talk
and the prayers
sons and daughters…
progeny by the score
standing silently
uncomfortably
in the mortuary’s silence and sighs
in a loud corner two brothers talk
about corporate finance
Continue reading → The Funeral
by Steve Gaines
1984… 1995
once…a very long time ago…
in a world more cynical and simple…
where I never fed off the big questions
I met a fellow creature of my world almost every morning…
…a street person
patched together like a rag doll with too many pieces missing
sad looking and unwashed… once a blonde…
once… from a time beyond wishing it back…
a member of the species woman
but the street had used her up
and put an emptiness in her eyes…
shinning through even the early morning darkness
we shared meeting in the street lights…
by Steve Gaines
this far flat space
land of long-distance sunsets
and storms that approach forever
along a darkened horizon
this Nebraska
wheat field flat
and home of the longest straight stretch
of highway anywhere
fifty-five miles without a bend
by Steve Gaines
post-bypass…
written February 21, 1995
across my room in the other bed
behind the drawn curtain
lies an old man dying without his beard
clinging noisily to one more night of life
by Steve Gaines
July 3, 1954
On my 18th Birthday
A Memorial to an Ill-Spent Youth
It was so long ago
and I seldom bring it back these days
surprised to look at that age of adventure
from this distant couch
unable to recapture that careless attitude…
reluctant to admit the inability I suppose…
but here goes anyway
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