Chad Norman

The Defiant Pelters

Out of so many early Springs one melded
why the granary stopped being a place to play
for boys anxious to unload pockets full of stones
with a watchful farmer's love of barn swallows
and his devout request not to knock any down,
their nests built in the rafters above the grain.

Three wide sets of defiant eyes looked up
at Bert as he slowly explained how eggs
were up there, in their homes, in their beds,
warm and waiting under either mum or dad,
how eggs were to be broken by the babies,
each would use their beak to find its family,
and no one, especially them, all his grandsons,
who he knew could be known for not listening,
missed a chance to hear the first joyous cheeps.

A silence stayed behind as Bert's shadow shrunk,
moments each boy felt fear make it hard to move,
offer the choice to forget, and the urge to plunder
lifted each throwing arm into the “ready” position,
tiny hands gone white, clenching sharp stones
to be the first defiance each boy offered nature,
a willful barrage against their grandfather's wish,
Bert in love with the birds he knew to be healing,
their return an end to the absurd months of Winter.

A Nap on the Day of Rest

A night in the old farmhouse meant the mice
spent hours racing in rooms between Bert's snores,
the walls were helpful as each creak & snap
added to the sounds his home saved for night.
Fear left as he spoke out to what had to be a dream.
As his grandson I knew morning waited with the bible,
the mysterious rush to church, his huge hand used
to shake the shoulder old quilts no longer embraced.

As his family fitted into the car the farm stood tended,
the bawling bull calf, tied, unaware of the next sale.
His old prayers answered, new ones catching a ride
like the shaken hitchhikers we would usually question.
His private delight, the organ's welcome, led us in to
where our pew filled with rays of the forecast heat.

He stood in the aisle as we sat in a row like other boys,
without a thought to look at anything but the cross,
thinking about the hurry, the blurry rush, sweat in sleeves
under the stiff suits worn each week for a necessary hour.
For some reason I lean forward, forehead on cool hymnal,
I dare to look at him seated at the end of the family pew,
those huge legendary hands interlocked on his sunlit belly
rising and lowering as my disbelief knew he was asleep.

A PRIVATE NIP

Some days time spent in the bathroom
came about simply due to a man's choice,
Bert knowing the stashed quart of rum
part of a lineup, empty Governor General
bottles on what should have been the shelf
his grandsons wouldn't choose to discover
knowing to stand on the toilet was a way
to find a new height, a new mystery solved,
or a choice Gladys would somehow sense
believing such a silly climb was unsafe
and only a certain curious grandson, one
rightly named Fingers, would decide on
seeing if such a height and mystery held
anything, like toys, ballgloves, a game
with coloured properties to sell and own.

As long as there was a bathroom, empty,
offering a silence and chance to be alone,
Bert chose to leave some of the day behind,
the farm, the herd, the family, the lost pipe,
for a private nip, looking out the window
across the chewed-off acres of a pasture
inherited from his father, a man who knew
how to stop time for a son to sit on his knee.
Perhaps other memories were visited as the rum
became the warmth in both heart and mind
Bert saw turn into his reflection's fond smile.