ALL ABOARD | Apologies to Frost, Sandburg, Whitman and Bugs Bunny

A couple of weeks ago, I experienced one of my greatest South Whidbey observations during my almost three decades on this non-floating mountain top.

It was so amazing that I raced home, making certain that I did not exceed any of the posted speed limits between my observation and my destination.

Imagine being parked at a stop sign at the corner of Fish and Woodard in Freeland.

Imagine facing north even though it seems east.

Imagine seeing out of the corner of your left eye, a small flying object as it begins to appear closer and larger right in front of you.

Do we dare blink?

Do we duck?

Is this a UFO?

Could it be a motorized model airplane shaped like the Stealth bomber?

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, I offer you this poetic summary of my observational moment, affectionately entitled “The Eagle and The Bunny”:

I saw it doing touch ’n’ go’s, this eagle in the sky;

He’d dive and swoop and loop de loop, he had an eagle eye.

He saw a bunny in the field, the eagle landed, he did not yield;

He grabbed that bunny, oh so tight; I then saw the eagle and the bunny take flight;

Grasped in eagle claws, the bunny soared high, racing as a passenger, against a deep blue sky;

Airborne for the first time, and possibly his last, don’t you know that bunny was having an unexpected blast?

Hopping in the field, finding his own way, suddenly the bunny took flight, on this his last bunny day;

The eagle had landed;

The bunny airborne;

Too bad for the bunny that he ate grass and not corn.

You can bring any little children back in the room now.

Ever since breaking both my legs skiing at Mount Bachelor during the 1979-80 season, I have written poetry to calm my fears. There is something therapeutic about poetry.

I sense a peace in poetry.

Maybe it’s the simple rhyming from my complex mind that serves up a plate of peaceful protection.

Maybe poetry for me is a mind sanitizer, not unlike those hand sanitizers that allege 99.99-percent germ freeness.

Poetry cleanses, like hydrogen peroxide on an open wound.

Poetry soothes, like Grandma’s back rubs.

Poetry simplifies, like the abbreviated minutes at last month’s board meeting.

Poetry, for me today, is much cheaper and safer than a book of crossword puzzles that can drive me into a frenzy of frustration and forgetfulness.

However, during our leaner and meaner years of high school in western Pennsylvania, poetry was not the primary outlet for tension.

Back then, in Oil City, three of us would split a six-pack of Mustang Malt Liquor to achieve that same clarity in our consciousness.

Upon completion, a peace fell over us as we fell laughing on the floor of the abandoned railroad boxcars of the Continental Can Company across from my folks’ house.

Poetry in motion, even if it was sideways.

Dr. Seuss meets Mr. Juice.

The good ol’ daze.

Thank goodness we grew up before poetic justice taught us that to keep poetry alive, don’t drink and drive.

Conductor of Fun Jim Freeman can be reached at

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