Soaring With Muse

In coastal garden,
A gathering of poets
-airplanes taking off.

Copyright 2009

In Honor of Fathers Everywhere

But First, On Being a Father

For a very Special Daughter

Drawing the Moon
By Edward S. Gault

You came up to me
With your little red book
The one you put the stickers in,
And a crayon.
You told me that
You wanted me
To draw the moon.
So I drew a line for the horizon,
Long vertical lines became trees.
A river flowed down through them.
Then I drew stars.
Finally, I drew the moon,
And filled in the sky dark blue.
Because you wanted to see me draw,
And there would come a time
When you will not care what I can do.

For my father, Linn Gault

Childhood Window
By Edward S. Gault

In my room
There floated a balloon
Just inside the door
From the circus the day before.
In the window sill
There grew a bean plant
From a milk carton
That we planted in school.
Through the window I cold see
The swing set and the apple tree.
In the center of the yard
There was this huge tractor tire
That my father and I got from the auto shop
And painted blue.
It was my sandbox.
There was a white dog house too.
In the very back of the yard
Was my digging hole
To make mud pies,
To bury treasure,
Or to go to China.
So when school was out,
I would rush home
And continue my adventures.

For Edward Harris (1916-1993)

Edgewood Drive-In 1967
By Edward S. Gault

I can’t remember which one it was now-
Maybe Cinderella.
Or maybe Snow White.
It was the one with the elves
Or maybe it was the one
Where the birds deliver her veil.
I wasn’t watching the feature film
But kicking up the dust in the playground
Where I fell off the roundabout
And scraped my knee
I saw my grand-dad in the projection room
Where he gave me a band-aid
But I was in and out all night
Between the play ground,
The concession stand,
And the projection room;
Which had the most intrigue
For a boy of five,
With its’ big machines and alien tools.
My grand-dad had met Rock Hudson once.
But Rock Hudson didn’t get to hang out
In the projection room.
Only I could.
Then there were the greasy fries.

For H. Scott Gault (1913-1977)

Last Flight
by Edward S. Gault

It had to have been around eleven
When my my father came in
And told me that grandpa had died.
He was only sixty-three,
So it didn't seem possible.
The shock disabled my tear ducts.
Images began to come-
The quilt work landscapes I would see
From the window of his little piper plane,
As I helped him to steer it
Over the horizon.
He would not need a plane
To see those things now.
When I came back, I saw the blurred image
Of my white knuckled hands
Pulling at the bed frame.

(this was previously Published on 4/17/08

Copyright 2008

Flying High

For the Writer's Island Prompt: Flight

Last Flight
by Edward S. Gault


It had to have been around eleven
When my my father came in
And told me that grandpa had died.
He was only sixty-three,
So it didn't seem possible.
The shock disabled my tear ducts.
Images began to come-
The quilt work landscapes I would see
From the window of his little piper plane,
As I helped him to steer it
Over the horizon.
He would not need a plane
To see those things now.
When I came back, I saw the blurred image
Of my white knuckled hands
Pulling at the bed frame.

Copyright 2008