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May Sanders



 In this wild country life of mine
   with rugged western ways,
      there is no place for frills or lace
         or pale pink negligees.

When I spring from my bed at dawn
   to build a whiffle tree,
      I'd make a bet you'd never get
         a mini skirt on me

And when I plow or bale the hay,
   or tame a wild cayuse,
      a gown too sheer would bring a leer
         from cowpokes on the loose

So I wear buckskin, long and strong,
   to shed the scratchy brush,
      not short and thin, tight as my skin
         to make the farmhands blush.

When I retire I'll buy a gown
   of  flowing chiffon, Chum,
      and that's the day I'll yell, "Hay,hay,
         big city, here I come."

May Sanders,  
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Going Home 

I'm going home,
Across the hill and down the lane
I'll find that childhood home again,
and all the years that lie between
will fade as if they'd not been,
and I had never left to roam.

I'll stand upon the worn doorstep
marked by ten pairs of eager feet
the open door will welcome me
and my heart's ease will be complete.
I'll take the path down to the spring
that fills the hollowed sandstone's bowl
and drink its icy waters, then
forget a while that I am old.

Then cross the narrow footbridge where
we ran to feel its dizzy sway
and to the buggy shed where cool,
dim shadows lured us in to play.
And from the loft above each rafter
I'll hear the echo of our laughter.

And so, I went back home.

Across the lane beyond the hill
the old house stood, empty and still.
The windows stared back vacantly,
A door swung, creaking eerily.

The pastures were bare, the leafless trees
sighed softly in the fitful breeze,
The path with weeds were overgrown,
The spring was dry, and all I'd known
was gone, or fallen to decay.

And I was old, so old that day.

Oh, what did I expect to find---
a carefree childhood left behind,
youth's wondrous dreams yet unfulfilled,
or hear loved voices long since stilled?
Why do we try, always in vain
to cross the bridge of time again?

So sleep and dream, dear old birthplace
that help us in your warm embrace.
We'll keep those childhood days forever
in our hearts, but never--o, never
go back home!

May Sanders,  
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

About May Sanders

Tim Fulton wrote to us: The poems I'd like to share were written by my aunt May Sanders.  She was born on a homestead near Silt, Colorado, on East Divide Creek.  Among her many accomplishments was writing.  

May Porter was one of 10 children. She was born in the homestead cabin she described in her poem Going Home. She spent her school years in Rifle, Colorado, married Maxwell Sanders and moved west to a ranch southwest of Fruita, Colorado. She had one son, Harry, who preceded her in death. She was a member of Colorado Cowbells, a lady's riding organization, played piano, fiddle and sang in church regularly. She loved hunting, fishing, writing photography and most of all, ranch life. Her saddest day was having to move to town due to health problems.

In 1978, after moved into town she was persuaded to publish her poems. The poems were copyrighted in 1978 and printed by Triton Press, Boulder Creek, California. May died in 1987.



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