LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Poet |
by Hiram Larew |
HOPE For all the cooks Who in the early morning Especially the cold mornings Turn grills on and get batter ready For them and For hillsides Particularly the ones That slope up just enough To bring on panting But not stopping For them as well and For wash cloths The most helpful being cotton and Old ones For all of them Mostly because they are sleepy In a rousing sort of way. - Hiram Larew THE COLOR OF STICKS I'm foolish to talk about this As dumb as a goat tied up But I will anyway Because if I don't I'll bust I believe That there's lots of room to live in Between being okay and being religious I don't think a person has to be spirtual To do favors or pay up or grin kindly or be good on a word I think being generally fair about things Comes more from flat land And surprise bumping intos Than anything else Praying I don't feel is a river with rocks And it's not nearly as perky as that crow That just walked by with wet feet And if I ever wanted to spread the word About something Like others do It would be about the miracle of onions Especially the green ones That seem to be everywhere Around me these days High and low. - Hiram Larew |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 9, No. 5, May 21, 1999 |