Mert Hatcher, of Huntley, Wyo., died on Jan. 16. He was 91 years old.
Hatcher wrote several poems for WREN Magazine in the 1990s and 2000s. Two of his poems follow.
For more information about Hatcher, go to www.colyerfuneralhome.com.
My Other Love
I love my children’s mother,
But now I must confess.
I truly love another,
Who, you could only guess.
I met her in a small town
Somewhere east of here.
Now don’t shoot me down.
Until all of this you hear.
Her eyes are always bright,
As most her age seem to be.
Her other features are just right.
At least they are to me.
I fell for her clothing of white,
That will never change.
She is pure and clean inside.
I’ll always love those things.
My arms and hands hold her close,
She welcomes my every touch.
We get along so well, because
I love her so much.
She lets me know if I go wrong,
With just a move or two.
It’s so nice to have her along,
As we enjoy the view.
I know she loves me too,
The way she welcomes me.
From now on it will be us two,
Well,…we’ll wait and see.
I thought I would not fall again,
Or have love lead me this far.
We all know it isn’t really a sin
To fall for a dad-blamed car!
Published November 1999
Pa and Ma’s Retirement
The dictionary defines the word ‘retire’ as such: To withdraw a secluded place. To go to bed. To retreat. Take out of circulation, or to remove from position.
The only time Pa withdraws to a secluded place is to hunt. He isn’t going to bed until, and because, he is sleepy. He isn’t going to back up unless he sees a skunk. We are not about to take Pa out of circulation. As for moving from position, only to reach for another piece of fried chicken.
“Well, Ma, here we are, finally retired, after all the years.
I’m so happy not having to work anymore, it leaves me in tears.
Just think, no more up at 5:00 a.m. to be at work on time.
Now we can lie abed till 6:00, and still have lots of time.
No more driving through rain or snow to be at the job on time,
No more sweat when things get rough, or when the work is slow.
I’ll never forget theses days past though, I’ll miss them some.
Although the best was not going to work,
but getting to you and the kids at home.
I’ll look at the young girls more and more,
I may not remember what I’m lookin’ for.”
“Now you wait a minute, Pa, what do you mean by ‘we’?
You’re the only one retired. Listen, and you’ll see.
Yes, you were on the job every day, but lots of driving with sunshine,
and I was glad to have you home, where you were all mine.
Besides all the birth pains a half dozen times,
here’s what I still have to do.
While you’re watching TV in the other room,
with my job all never be through.
I’ll peel and slice, cut and scrape and turn and mix and stir. Sit and measure and taste, fry and boil and squeeze and pick. Can and spoon and drain and wash and ring and dry and wipe and set. Refill and shake and bake, toast and roast, broil and stew and chop and flour. Dip and season, salt and pepper, melt and soften, ladle and hull. Wash and scrub and wax and shine. Pick up and sweep and thicken and grind. So, while I’m stirring things round and round, will you please, kinda move the dust around?”
“Heck fire, mom! We are not retired, just tired!”
For brother Charlie and wife Virginia, published February 2001