"I AM: Proud"--Hiram Larew Shares Pride in Family

"Simple Abundance" watercolor by Jane de Gruchy

Ed.: As part of Studio B Art Gallery's "I AM: Proud" project, local writers and artists were encouraged to respond to the theme. Hiram Larew, a prolific, oft-published poet and loyal contributor to Studio B's anthologies, offers a cornucopia of poetry highlighting sources of his pride. 

by Hiram Larew*

Bud

Somewhere back in my family
My ancestors must have used terms of endearment often
I imagine that when they were straightening
Back up after finishing chores
Or when they were nearly half way across the hillside
They’d suddenly stop
And say Bud out loud to themselves
Sort of like the smell in trees
For them thinking of their special someone
Was probably the purest kind of knowing

I wonder what my long ago family
Looked like
And how much they knew even then about me
I think they knew a lot
And said so to each other
Whenever they had a peach or coughed deep
Or said so long

Between you and me
I can hardly imagine such important words
Waiting any longer
What I know is this
That foot prints get smaller and smaller
That a boiled egg has always been the very best gift
And that hoping out loud somehow somehow turns into summer.

This poem first appeared in SpoonFed.

Losing Birthdays

One of my grandmothers grew
             deep-red geraniums on her front porch
              for everyone strolling by in summer
             to admire
My other grandmother
             trained a rosebush of palest pinks
             and heavenly scent
             up over her back door
I was lost

And so
            there is how just now
            these fields of sunrise forget
            such birthdays
While blackbirds pick and pick
            and ticks climb up
What good am I
            at taking such things inside
These deepest loves and smallest sounds

And I’ve been told that
            wherever he went my imaginary uncle
            caused people to shyly grin
He was strange they all said
But people loved him anyway
             for his dreamy ways
He was just like Johnny Appleseed who
             I still believe
             dropped barefoot seeds
             on every spot
                              that could be found
                              poor or steep
                              year by year
                              from here to then

This poem first appeared in West Trade Review.

Gathered

Our ancestors deserved to harvest the plumpest pumpkins --
As their long summer work finally ended
And as doors were closed against the cold,
Or as leaves turned from green to yellow to gone
And as morning’s frost then became snow,
Our ancestors earned every sweet apple that came their way
And all of the goldenrod too that a field could muster.
And in fact whenever their grins got hummed
Or wherever stories were told ‘round the circle
Or if some eyes misted over when our long agos gathered,
Their savor was surely earned by what they had done
With such skinny abound --
Yes, for the sweat wiped away, for backs bent,
For planks squared or planks scrubbed,
For better times hearted,
For all of their hopes that turned into Fall,
And especially for sacks filled
With the best black walnuts ever found
That were then given as gifts to down-the-way neighbors.

This poem first appeared in South Florida Poetry Journal.

Boy Howdy

Modern life hurts me -
Would that I could die in the arms
Of seed catalogues
Or turn over in a bed and feel
Snow coming in the window

My father taught me to wave at life from
Cherished corners
His coat pockets were really my teenage years

Carry on is how I feel now –

So may these lines become as strikingly handsome
As hands on shoulders
May they cause strangers to look up again and again
May the hope in these lines age well like chewed pencils
Or turn into stale crumbs
That birds will fight over.

This poem first appeared in Broadkill Review.

In Passing

Over the ever fields
Hovering just above the green and rainings
My ancestors from every country alive
Squint bird-like to see me
Or tie loops to finish their calling
And then rows upon rows of bending
They pull me up onto their backs
Over the ever fields
And take me into the skins of apples
The spreading of limbs
The grains of my longing
This is to say I say to myself
Where I will be coming.

In passing
I see how all of the otherwise matters -
There’s the sweet wasted edge of the field at last
And the life I’ve always been after
That’s half way between the law and the wind
In the end
If I am an orphan or wrong
It’s the treetop kind
That doesn’t know any better
Someday I say out loud to myself
I will be careful
But not just yet
Not with the fields cloudy with spirits and daring.

World that there is
There’s little to keep me
No onions or signals or low leaning skies
And as much as I’d like to
I’ll never be branches out over
The fields of my families and betters.

No this part of the ages is pulling and tugging me
As soup does to history
As land does to eyes.

This poem first appeared in The Cosmos Club Journal.

A Better You

What roof doesn’t leak?
Where’s the money that won’t cheat?
How about when stubborn grows tall?
And by the way
               who erased the damn mirror?

Ancestors run the trains at night –
                their hobo stars and whistles
                chill your mornings
                like winter’s whiskers.

So what’s to do?

If there’s a better you in there
                you best prove it quick
                before hounds sniff you out
                before bugs bite right down
                to your juices.

*Hiram Larew's poems have appeared widely. As founder of Poetry X Hunger, he's bringing a world of poets to the anti-hunger cause. www.HiramLarewPoetry.com and www.PoetryXHunger.com

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