|Boey modeling wire hay rack.|
I once wrote a poem during a particularly hard time in my training program about taking Boris with me to an evaluation committee.
BORIS BUTTS THE BULLIES
Boris greets guests as we never would:
on hind legs, head curving down to deliver a wallop.
So there! he says. Me first! When we walk in line,
Me first! The guests shrink back and
wait in polite silence for corrective action.
And certain guests wait and wait.... until it occurs to them
That I’ve gone wild and
this black goat is not just an attraction!
Could I? Would I DARE take him with me to Certifying,
my black voice of authority?
For that day he’d wear his horns and together
we’d rear up and curve down, delivering some blows
settling once and for all
issues of Presence and Power.
Then, on our way out,
we’d jump on the table
and eat a flower.
My husband and I built our home some years ago, the goats present each day as we watched builders laying concrete block walls, then plastering them. (One day Boris came out with his head covered with plaster; I got out of there fast!) Concurrently, as we built our new home, my husband and I both experienced deep renewal. The following poem came from that period.
|Boris running through the living room.|
I AM RUNNING MY GOATSfirst appeared in Psychological Perspectives, Volume 44, pp. 12-13.
I am running my goats through your house,
the one you dreamed of years ago with its blood red
Tibetan cross courtyard, square and symmetrical, tended by whimsical monks.
I am running my goats through the stone passages, walls thick
from two wythes of block , over 100 yards of concrete ,
and my goats with their flips of after thought tails
wander the corridors of your dreams,
the abandoned concrete factories way up at the top
and tenants you did not know.
I am running my goats along the scaffolding still stretching the north face
of the steep side. Hooves clicking like high heels, they slowly peruse the house
from the outside in, looking into the guest room from two stories up, into Casey’s room
from 20 feet high. Or are you running your goats through my house? Your goats who dance on hind legs in the dining room I never had, yet here it is, windows opening
onto rolling meadows like those I grew up running through, a streak
of prairie morning fog. You are running your goats in my kitchen guarded
by two ancient Valley Oaks, tall and sturdy, the record of their many
scars in their bark, in the broken and dead branches now inhabited.
You are running your goats by my window seat, deep and shaded, where the knoll across the east meadow promises the landscape I dreamed of as a young child,
the landscape just beyond that pulls you into it, promising more,
and you enter, Yes! Yes! ...more ... Yes! ...Yes! Don’t stop, a little further...
You are running your goats...