my identical twin sister is well-loved in a small town
she has been a nurse to most of the inhabitants
Corydon, Iowa where the average age is 72.
They all ran to her house when she fell off a ladder.
I am not sure what got them there
A scream? A thud? Or inquisitive neighbors looking out windows
But the ambulance pulled up and could barely get through the throng
There are 2800 people in Corydon
Most of them were surrounding my sister
Falling off a ladder in a small town
Different than falling off a ladder anywhere else
The summer after high school
friends and I met girls
from town at the lake.
My friends jumped in and out
of the water— I swam
in the lake’s cool embrace
but paused to talk
to one of the girls,
Vickie, I believe.
We were young and anxious
we were boys but men
waiting to go to college
with a touch of anticipation
but in moments
spent with them
we forgot.
Small talk came easy
on idle week day afternoons
while clouds drifted by
in open skies passing
over a placid countryside.
We often pondered out fate
but for now, this was where
we were meant to be.
Late in the afternoon
nothing was said
when we went to our cars
but we knew we would
be back.
A soft breeze whispered.
Cornbelt residents rise with the sun,
Seeking geometry in soybeans.
Space aliens zoomed through the galaxy,
Just to crease someone’s corn flakes.
Intelligent life from distant stars
Avoids the formal radio waves.
They use advanced crop wrinkles
To converse with good ol’ Mother Earth.
Galactic wayfarers don’t stop at NASA,
They etch their figures in farrow.
A communication from outer space,
Which could be wiped away by a combine.
Two small-town farmers named Dave and Roy,
Armed with flashlights and sheets of plywood,
Chuckling quietly into their beers,
Designing an entirely new universe.
UFO investigators tote their gear,
Science-ing the folded wheat.
Either the universe is trying to talk to us,
Or the bar kicked them out too early.
The spring after work
on the highway ended
I came back
and spoke with the cashier
a lady at the gas station
as if a friend.
The morning awakened
with snippets of conversation.
I stood at the counter.
As if we could pick up
where we left off last fall.
Other assignments waited.
The burnt smell of coffee
lingered inside.
Locals came in for a cup.
Conversations of locals filled the air
and they treated her like a daughter
while light of the new sun shone.
She said that now she was going
with the mechanic in town.
Tires of passing cars and semis sang.
I am from Iowa
the corn state
we have corn princesses
corn queens
Mrs. Corn
Miss Corn Pone
Corn festivals
corn pudding
corn dogs
corn-on-a-cob
Corn City
South Dakota has our corn palace though
the two- ton Iowa steer gave me a ***** leer
over hear, dear, come be my ever-loving peer.
Smile sheer, he wore rings in his nose and right ear.
I resolved not to go near until I had consumed my beer.
Nothing to fear bellowed the steer. Over hear dear, over here!
She poo-pooed her constituent quickly
with, “Well, we all are going to die”
like a queen talking down to the peasants
from her castle way up in the sky
She expressed no concern for the voter
or her plight should she lose Medicaid
with an arrogant wave she dismissed her
and revealed that they all had been played
So the people who put her in office
called her out with a chorus of boos
and the threat to remove her forever
this is known as Republican Blues
Snow, snow, drifting down on little towns and farms,
Snow, snow glistens on the oaks’ and maples’ arms.
River, river from the north, with thaw of ice it flows,
Mighty Mississippi, past my little hometown goes.
Blooms, blooms, pretty blooms, and lilacs scent the air.
Blooms, blooms paint the land beneath a rainbow fair.
Hills, hills, soft and rolling, low and grassy mounds,
Hills, hills, some are ancient natives’ burial grounds.
Stars, stars, flitting stars that wink in twilight skies,
Stars, stars, tiny stars are summer’s fireflies!
Corn, corn, fields of corn, so wide and green and high.
Corn, corn, stalks of corn keep reaching to the sky.
Leaves, leaves dance on streets while children walk to school,
Leaves that tango, red and gold, as days and nights grow cool.
Home, home, harvest home, where crops are gathered in,
Home sweet home, as I recall, is hearth of kith and kin.
You cannot take the country out of a corn-fed Iowa girl
You cannot pull the straw out of her teeth
You cannot take the “yahs” and replace them with “yeses”.
You can try to pull her off the tractor, but she will not come easy.
You can try to get her to stop eating fresh sweet corn
But I would not give you a nickel for your life afterwards.
WINTER IN AN IOWA CORNFIELD
Why start nattering about lucky tracks
Neath a tarnished night of a waning storm?
Haystacks in a disciplined platoon wait
With hooded coats, caves of hibernation,
Standing in formation with watchfulness.
Six columns and six rows of perfection
Thirty-six baled soldiers in transition
Marching forward in a biting snow storm,
Blindly floundering in a final surge.
A good resistance fighter is lonely.*
Haystacks in the Snow, Grant Wood (1941)
* Winter in Wartime, Jan Terlouw (1972)
Weird tourists from Iowa took readily to New York City
Taking photos of the sights, thinking they were witty.
Aren’t they cows? Someone asked on Fifth Avenue.
One is, the other is a bull, said his cousin, Boo.
The cow and the bull turned and one gave a loud moo.
Pretty soon they were chasing a frightened Boo.
That’s why I wish tourists would stay out of New York City.
Especially bulls with horns, who gore people not so pretty.
In the state of Iowa girls basketball is the biggest sport.
Bigger than golf, football, baseball or any other that you’d sort.
We are basketball players before we settle down, an Amazon wife said.
And sometimes a player afterwards, said her son, Leland Lee Ted.
His mama scoffs at his reply, she beats him at horse after school.
Never letting up a bit, winning is the girls’ basketball creed and rule.
Husband will not play her, he has seen her tough it out since she was ten.
The one thing that she insists on doing is always taking the big win.
I grew up in a small rural Iowa town
my parents were spawn of farmers
we had “farms” out in the country
we did not live on them but we planted them
our summers were spent hoeing, weeding, raking.
a child I teach stopped me. “There is a hoe in this story?”
Loud laughter. They know about hoes apparently.
I have to explain about the other kind of hoes.
we planted our crops in straight rows made by a tractor
then put a neat wooden cross at the end of each row
telling what we had planted there – radishes, carrots, lettuce,
there is nothing like a homegrown tomato or a homegrown radish
store bought produce cannot hope to compete.
We used to label our Iowa garden at the end of the rows with seed packets.
We would plant the row first, sprinkiing the teensy seeds and covering them.
Then we would nail the seed packet to the stake at the end of the row.
Like little soldiers we saw peas packets, carrot packets, radish packets.
Lettuice packets, potato packets, green bean packets, rows and rows of them.
Mom always threw in two rows of flowers - usually marigolds and zinnias.
Dad rolled his eyes, but I think he liked them too; we kids did also.
Our table always had fresh vegetables, berries and mushrooms from nature.
The rest of the field next to the garden was left to plant corn. Big juicy corn.
We lived in Iowa, so we never had to label corn; everyone recognized it.
It is a cold morning in Iowa
Not bitter like January knife wind days
But cool enough for a jacket
I wish I had brought one out here
Silence is everywhere
Which makes the day seem colder
I think of my red sweater and my pink jacket
But then the hens begin to cluck
My cold is nothing compared to their hunger
They have to have nourishment if they are to lay
I blaze on, sprinkling feed about my feet
which are also annoyed by the five-thirty chill
Where is the sunrise? With her warming rays.
The farmer's almanac must have been wrong.
I thought it was scheduled for 5:38 this morning.
Sunrise greets my back as I head to my house.
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