in Drabble Form

I

Black is the Color

~ * ~ * ~

Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair

He sings of her,
but I dream of him.

Her lips are like a rose so fair.

He smiles and the sun
shines through the clouds.

And the prettiest face and the neatest hands.

Strong jaw, beautiful voice,
and eyes that see right through me,

I love the grass where-on she stands,

His fingers pluck the guitar
with a touch I crave.

She with the wondrous hair.

Does he see me?  Does he know?
I walk away, his voice fades.

Black is the color . . . he with the wondrous hair.

~ * ~ * ~



II

Joe’s Dilemma

Joe, don't.
Hoss, I have to.
A step closer.  No, you don't.  There are other ways—
Not this time.  Back off, brother.
Nope, can't do that.
I said leave us alone!
Again, closer, hand outstretched.  Give it here.
I can't.
You have to.
You don't know what he's done, Hoss.
Whatever it was, it ain't worth it.  Hand it over, now.
Oh, it's worth whatever happens to me.
Joe, please.  Pa just won’t understand.
Pa?
That's right.  You don't want to hurt Pa.
Sigh.  All right.  You win.
Give me the paintbrush.  You okay, Adam?
Just get me a rag . . .



III

The Hardest Thing I Ever Had To Do . . .

A boy, four, asking curiously, Where’s my mother?  A peaceful
lake, willow-shaded.  Horse’s harness jingles as the father tries
to explain what is still a stabbing, dragging wound.

A dirty shack, middle of nowhere, Nebraska territory.  Horses still
hitched to wagons outside, Indian war cries ringing.  Almost seven,
eyes dark with knowledge yet asking hopefully, Where’s mama?

Clean-swept yard, neat corral, sturdy barn.  A young man dismounts,
horse blows noisily as he walks to the house.  His steps grow hesitant
from finely-honed senses: something is terribly wrong.  The father
stands voiceless in the door.  Pa . . . where’s Marie?



IV

Adam’s Revenge
 
What?  No, I don’t expect Joe back anytime soon.
Because he was at the saloon.
Oh, he’s a big boy, he can take care of himself.
One beer.  I’m sure he’ll stop at one beer.
Card game?  Yes, there was a card game.
He won’t play – never has two cents to rub together anyway.
Well, yes, I loaned him a little.
Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.
There are some very nice young ladies there.
They’ll watch out for him.
Me?  No, he’s all grown up.
Says he doesn’t need me to watch for trouble.
I think he's right.
G'night, Pa.



V

A Picture of Adam

Hands
Long fingers – to fire a gun, repair a fence, sketch a building.
Rough palms – to calm a horse, hold a book, smooth a fever.
Strong – to throw a steer, flatten a bully, cradle a pup.
Touch me.

Wrists
Twisting – to escape an Indian friend.
Limber – to strum a guitar.
Flexible – to twirl a rope, a gun, a girl.
Dance with me.

Arms
Solid – to build a home, keep a peace, console a brother.
Powerful – to work a forge, swing an ax, hold a land.
Long – to carry more wood, bridle a tall horse,
To touch the stars.
Hold me.



VI

Hoss’ Meditation

Them two – at it again.  Just don't know what to do with 'em.
First it's Joe an' his paintbrush.
Then Adam, who ain't worried 'bout his little brother.  Nope, not at all.
Never saw Pa turn quite that color before.

Don't know why they cain't get along.
They're both men to have at your side, backin' you up.
That Adam can sure freeze a feller with just a few words.
An' Joe either makes folks laugh,
or draws on 'em so fast they just set back an' give up.

Here they come – looks like they need coolin' off again.
SPLASH!



VII

Marie

Love her? Never!
"Adam, please."
"No!"
"Ben, don't push.  He's right."
What?
"Adam has to—"
"Do nothing."  Green eyes to hazel.  "You don't have to love me."
Angry velvet brown eyes.  "Marie!"
"It hurts.  I won't do that to him."
How does she know what I didn't know myself?

Love her?  Maybe.
"Another brother?"
Warm smile.  "Yes, son."
Good.  But this is hard.   "Marie?"
"Come upstairs and see."
He's tiny . . .
"Let him go, Ben."
"But he's—"
"Crying?  He won't be so afraid now."

Love her?  Oh, yes.
"Did she know, Pa?"
Wise dark eyes, tearful, too.
"Yes…she always knew."



VIII

My Sons

My sons.  Men, supposedly. Can’t tell, to look at them now. 
Who’s wetter and who’s madder?

Joe’s been at his brother for days.
And looking back, I can see I fell into Adam’s plotting.

Even Hoss is affected.  The horse trough wouldn’t have been my solution,
but Inger’s boy is strong and direct.

Maybe I’d better say something before this gets out of hand.

Wait.  Is that laughter I hear, heading toward the house?

Don’t you dare come in here dripping wet!
Hop Sing just cleaned up and I don’t want him headed to China!

My sons.  Still my boys.



IX

All The Pretty Little Horses

~ * ~ * ~

Shhh, little boy.
No more crying, no more bad dreams.

Hush-you-bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy, little baby.

Big brother will sing you asleep.
Just like your Mama.

When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses.

The gentle ones, little brother.
Never the wild ones, never the dangerous ones.

Blacks and bays, dapples and greys, coach and six-a-little horses.

I'll always protect you,
I'll always be there to help you.

Hush-you-bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy, little baby.

That's right, sleep.
Wish there was someone to sing to me . . .

~ * ~ * ~