Ready to Dance and Other Poems

By Richard Rooke

The poems deal with the mysteries of childhood experience and the
realizations of adulthood.They also chart the stories of people struggling,
trying to come to turns with their lives when they are caught in the web of
history, war, disease, and time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2003
• ISBN: 9781412217873

Richard Rooke

Mr.Rooke was born in England and emigrated to Canada as a child. He attended University and after graduation taught high school English for many years. He is married and has travelled extensively to Europe, The British isles, Australia, and New Zealand. This is his third book of poems.

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Copyright 2003 Richard Rooke.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4120-1389-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4122-1787-3 (e)

Trafford rev. 09/25/2015

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Table of Contents

The Horse Follower

The Raid

Fishing

Caged Birds

History

The Sheepskin Coat

Midnight Shift

Not Heaven

Ready to Dance

Bee Keeper

Islands

Temple Bells

The Tinsel King

The Glass

Radishes

Riding Waves

Making Bread

The Athlete

Lessons

Park Keeper

Like Paper

Rabbit and Hawk

Beating his Legs

Crossing the Border

Spit and Calamity

Postman

Nature’s Door

Class Reunion

Hunter

Paper Trail

No One Listens

Dragons

Winter Hope

A Walk in the Garden

Long Sleeves

Dream Language

The Broth

Silver Trout

Twig and Thorn

The Boot

Silence Decoded

Ultimate Quiteness

To the two women in my life:

one of the mind,

and one of the heart.

" Life is lived forward,

But understood backward."

The Horse Follower

Spade in hand

I trail the milk horse,

alert to its swishing tail,

powerful brown haunches,

the fringed danger of hooves,

intent on scooping dung

to steam in my tin pail.

I am blind,

focused on the job

of bringing hay broth to my father,

who will spread it

around our rhubarb to ferment,

transforming green stalks

into long thick shoots

which will redden,

thicken in the sun.

When I eat stewed rhubarb

I expect to taste

the steaminess of horse.

I am always surprised

that the sweet red stew

tastes like itself,

and not the earth mould

of barn or field.

I have a lot to learn

about the powers

of horse dung.

I’ll go out soon,

my tin bucket banging,

to find some more.

The Raid

Our short-trousered gang

raided an apple tree,

plump, heavy with promise,

that sat near an alley

behind a fenced garden.

The owner caught us

snatching the unripe apples,

trying to fill our empty pockets

to overflowing.

Furious, red-faced,

he uprooted a wooden stake,

ran after us panting,

brandishing his weapon,

cursing.

I ran away,

fear-footed, desperate,

apples dropping in a spray,

until only one tart orb,

the size of a fist,

remained.

The owner paid no