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Works of fiction and poetry by friends of Bamboo Ridge Press.

Bamboo BuckarooBAMBOO BUCKAROO

I am born. . . . If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.



Finding My Mom's Choir Robe

Published by BAMBOO BUCKAROO | Sunday, June 02, 2019 7:55 PM


A poem I drafted this morning.


They sang, Sunday chorus, practiced perfect pitch
always in three pew rows, their robes bright
white, Saturday washed and ironed, starched
to make the pleats sharp as the polished rims
of shining pipes forge edged steel, the quick stops
and fervid pace of pump pedal pressing

An array of urgent hymns, composed down centuries
by ghost writers, composers poised, edge of their seat
for adoration inspiration, fervid supplication, messages
mingling in tradition, perfect harmonies arranged
for exaltation, pen to lip, intent, eyes ever upward
reflected in a Sunday morning’s melody of rise and praise

I was present for it, attending on their strains
of living life for the future, today, all of them gone
their pure raised voices, echo in the hereafter, their choir
of passionate desire, I hear them, still their songs
carved in stone, my memory, voices faint and fainter fade
toward a heaven I may have seen back in my time there



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