Posts
The Saddle
The old swells are cracking a bit
And the cantle worn near clean through.
It’s a wonder it all holds together
After so long of doing what it was made to do.
It’s never been oiled up
To hang listlessly on a rack.
Every so often it gets dusted off
With the rest of the battle-worn tack.
The sixteen-inch cantle shows tree
Where the leather’s been worn down good.
This old saddle is still fighting to hang on
To its leather, rawhide and wood.
The basket-weave pattern
Once stamped with such care
Is now only a faint trail of memory
To those who know it was there.
The horn bears marks of the dally
And the fenders are scarred up well.
The chunk taken out of the skirt
Hints of a story to tell.
There’s a row of notches carved into the right swell,
No one really knows what they mean.
Everyone’s got their hopeful illusions
Of what the first rider had seen.
Many a calf has been slung across its seat
And a few kids have learned to ride.
It’s slick-seated and polished from wear
And it smells of horse sweat and hide.
Once someone added silver conchos
And the stirrups have both been replaced,
The saddle strings barely hold a bedroll
And the maker’s stamp has been erased.
Whether it’s a branding or a calving ride
Or raking down a salty horse
This old saddle has never once failed
To keep a man head-on with his course.
It’s a saddle made for riding
Or even living in if that’s your way,
The blood and sweat and tears ground in deep
For tomorrow and yesterday.
The hard but loving hands that cinched up
Are now old and brittle with age,
But the stories and the memories that old saddle holds
Just won’t fit on a page.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Cowgirl Teamwork
Cowgirl Teamwork
My best friend is a cowgirl,
All ranch born and bred
And there’s usually mischief a-brewin’
Under the hat on Lacy Jae’s head.
We were sittin’ around one Friday night
Not quite sure what to do
When Lacy perked up, said, “Let’s head out,
Shake our loops at a cowboy or two!”
Ain’t no use arguin’ with her
So I pull my boots on quick
And we light a shuck out to the pickup
And to the dance to have our pick.
We go struttin’ in like banty roosters,
Ready to shake tail feathers and crow,
We waited and team penned us some team ropers
As soon as the music got slow.
We shined their belt buckles all night,
Whirlin’ around the floor
Before we grabbed some country wine
And headed for the door.
They introduced us to their cow dogs
And we drove down an old dirt road
To let the tailgates down
And keep dancin’, close and slow.
We mighta let ‘em steal a kiss
After a sip of wine or two,
Maybe let them hold us a little too close
After we made ‘em spit out their chew.
Come sunrise me and mine headed for home
While Lacy laid in the spurs.
Now when I go out a need a new wingman
Because she up and married hers!
My best friend is a cowgirl,
All ranch born and bred
And there’s usually mischief a-brewin’
Under the hat on Lacy Jae’s head.
We were sittin’ around one Friday night
Not quite sure what to do
When Lacy perked up, said, “Let’s head out,
Shake our loops at a cowboy or two!”
Ain’t no use arguin’ with her
So I pull my boots on quick
And we light a shuck out to the pickup
And to the dance to have our pick.
We go struttin’ in like banty roosters,
Ready to shake tail feathers and crow,
We waited and team penned us some team ropers
As soon as the music got slow.
We shined their belt buckles all night,
Whirlin’ around the floor
Before we grabbed some country wine
And headed for the door.
They introduced us to their cow dogs
And we drove down an old dirt road
To let the tailgates down
And keep dancin’, close and slow.
We mighta let ‘em steal a kiss
After a sip of wine or two,
Maybe let them hold us a little too close
After we made ‘em spit out their chew.
Come sunrise me and mine headed for home
While Lacy laid in the spurs.
Now when I go out a need a new wingman
Because she up and married hers!
Blizzard
Blizzard
Buck was ridin’ the fence line
One December day.
It was snowin’ pretty heavy
But it had to be done anyway.
He was ridin’ old Red
And they were plodding through the snow
When it started getting worse
And the wind began to blow.
He thought he’d finish his shift
So he kept on ridin’ out
Into the bowels of the blizzard
And Red went on without a doubt.
When his skin started freezin’
He buttoned his sheepskin coat,
Tied a scarf around his ears
And covered up his throat.
He only had his fencin’ gloves
So he put his hands up in his sleeves,
Still grippin’ on the reins
And watchin’ his own breath freeze.
Red’s was getting icy too,
Formin’ a block about his nose.
The cowboy and his horse kept going on,
Now he couldn’t feel his toes.
He had no idea where he was
Or where he’d left the trail,
He was in a full-blown white out,
He couldn’t see from nose to tail.
By now he was so frozen
That his legs wouldn’t bend.
He couldn’t get out of the saddle
Even if he found shelter from the wind.
Old Red just kept on walkin’
And Buck just held on tight,
Tryin’ to hum a cowboy tune
And calm some of his fright.
They walked for what seemed like hours
And no one knows what happened from there
But when they found them, so near the barn,
It put up quite a scare.
Old Red had frozen still standing,
And Buck, they couldn’t tell.
The foreman eased up slow and steady,
Said, “They must have been through hell.”
Buck was frozen in the saddle,
His hands still on the reins.
He’d tipped his hat to the frigid winds,
Winter’s downright dangerous on the plains.
The boys held a cowboy service
For him and Red, one at a time.
They’ll always remember their ride together,
Just tryin’ to finish the line.
Buck was ridin’ the fence line
One December day.
It was snowin’ pretty heavy
But it had to be done anyway.
He was ridin’ old Red
And they were plodding through the snow
When it started getting worse
And the wind began to blow.
He thought he’d finish his shift
So he kept on ridin’ out
Into the bowels of the blizzard
And Red went on without a doubt.
When his skin started freezin’
He buttoned his sheepskin coat,
Tied a scarf around his ears
And covered up his throat.
He only had his fencin’ gloves
So he put his hands up in his sleeves,
Still grippin’ on the reins
And watchin’ his own breath freeze.
Red’s was getting icy too,
Formin’ a block about his nose.
The cowboy and his horse kept going on,
Now he couldn’t feel his toes.
He had no idea where he was
Or where he’d left the trail,
He was in a full-blown white out,
He couldn’t see from nose to tail.
By now he was so frozen
That his legs wouldn’t bend.
He couldn’t get out of the saddle
Even if he found shelter from the wind.
Old Red just kept on walkin’
And Buck just held on tight,
Tryin’ to hum a cowboy tune
And calm some of his fright.
They walked for what seemed like hours
And no one knows what happened from there
But when they found them, so near the barn,
It put up quite a scare.
Old Red had frozen still standing,
And Buck, they couldn’t tell.
The foreman eased up slow and steady,
Said, “They must have been through hell.”
Buck was frozen in the saddle,
His hands still on the reins.
He’d tipped his hat to the frigid winds,
Winter’s downright dangerous on the plains.
The boys held a cowboy service
For him and Red, one at a time.
They’ll always remember their ride together,
Just tryin’ to finish the line.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Exploring Eachother
Exploring Eachother
The sunset blazes across your face,
Stopping to dance with the sparkle in your eyes
Before slipping its head under the blanket of night
As we ride in from a day of exploring new meadows
And treelines, new life among the last stubborn
Remnants of winter in the Rockies
As the land wakes and warms itself,
Stretching and arching its back to a new season,
Our bodies tired, minds awakened,
Hearts full from the day's adventures,
Exploring not only the land, but each other,
Feeling out new territories and seeking new possibilities.
I swing down from my saddle,
My legs more accustomed to the leather
Than the fresh air they felt
When we shucked our jeans and boots
And shattered the glassy surface
Of the lazy current at the bend in the river,
Splashing and rolling like otter pups,
A thousand hands of icy water slapping us across the face,
Baptizing and scrubbing us clean of the sediment of winter,
Soothing the dull ache of old pain,
Carrying it downstream and away from my heart.
The breeze wrapped itself around my legs
Like an infant's hand to his father's finger
And sent my brown curls dancing across my face,
Hiding from you the girlish blush that painted my cheeks
Each time you looked at me the way a man looks at a woman.
I nuzzled my head into your chest like a foal to its mother's side
As the sun drank the last tiny diamonds from our skin.
I counted the colors of the wildflowers
Like I counted the colors in your eyes,
Stealing glances at your chiseled features
And strong form, royal and masculine
Atop your tall sorrel.
Your warm smile and easy laugh
Soothe me, opening my heart
To ponder taking a risk again,
The way a man might ponder whether the water
Is deep enough to leap from a cliff.
This is the way it's meant to be--
Two free spirits embracing each other
In reckless abandon…
My body sighs into yours each time
You take me in your strong arms,
Challenging me and tempering me, all at once.
My soul is suddenly aloft, soaring overhead,
Awaiting the inevitable power-dive into a headlong tumble.
I am headstrong and bold, but you make me shy and mild.
My skin screams for your touch,
Impatiently waiting until the next time
You reach for me.
My hair messied itself in your fingers
As I listened to the cadence of your heart
As we rested by the river and you gently kissed my forehead
Setting my own heart aflutter like a great flock
Of redwings taking flight.
I mourn that the day is over and soon I must
Face the awkward parting of ways
After our intimate touching of souls.
I can't help but wonder--
How long will we gently trod in each other's lives,
Dancing around the fire of exclusivity?
For now, exploring you is enough.
The sunset blazes across your face,
Stopping to dance with the sparkle in your eyes
Before slipping its head under the blanket of night
As we ride in from a day of exploring new meadows
And treelines, new life among the last stubborn
Remnants of winter in the Rockies
As the land wakes and warms itself,
Stretching and arching its back to a new season,
Our bodies tired, minds awakened,
Hearts full from the day's adventures,
Exploring not only the land, but each other,
Feeling out new territories and seeking new possibilities.
I swing down from my saddle,
My legs more accustomed to the leather
Than the fresh air they felt
When we shucked our jeans and boots
And shattered the glassy surface
Of the lazy current at the bend in the river,
Splashing and rolling like otter pups,
A thousand hands of icy water slapping us across the face,
Baptizing and scrubbing us clean of the sediment of winter,
Soothing the dull ache of old pain,
Carrying it downstream and away from my heart.
The breeze wrapped itself around my legs
Like an infant's hand to his father's finger
And sent my brown curls dancing across my face,
Hiding from you the girlish blush that painted my cheeks
Each time you looked at me the way a man looks at a woman.
I nuzzled my head into your chest like a foal to its mother's side
As the sun drank the last tiny diamonds from our skin.
I counted the colors of the wildflowers
Like I counted the colors in your eyes,
Stealing glances at your chiseled features
And strong form, royal and masculine
Atop your tall sorrel.
Your warm smile and easy laugh
Soothe me, opening my heart
To ponder taking a risk again,
The way a man might ponder whether the water
Is deep enough to leap from a cliff.
This is the way it's meant to be--
Two free spirits embracing each other
In reckless abandon…
My body sighs into yours each time
You take me in your strong arms,
Challenging me and tempering me, all at once.
My soul is suddenly aloft, soaring overhead,
Awaiting the inevitable power-dive into a headlong tumble.
I am headstrong and bold, but you make me shy and mild.
My skin screams for your touch,
Impatiently waiting until the next time
You reach for me.
My hair messied itself in your fingers
As I listened to the cadence of your heart
As we rested by the river and you gently kissed my forehead
Setting my own heart aflutter like a great flock
Of redwings taking flight.
I mourn that the day is over and soon I must
Face the awkward parting of ways
After our intimate touching of souls.
I can't help but wonder--
How long will we gently trod in each other's lives,
Dancing around the fire of exclusivity?
For now, exploring you is enough.
Through The Storm
Through the Storm
Cinch up your stampede strings,
The wind chill is 30-below.
With a good cold snap in Wyoming
Comes wind and ice and snow.
Dig out that sheepskin coat
And somethin’ better than fencing gloves.
I’ll put on a pot of elk chili
And that cider that you love.
Plug in the pickups tonight,
They don’t start so well when it’s cold.
This is a night to bring in the dog,
After all, he’s gettin’ old.
Find the Coleman lanterns,
The power sometimes goes out,
Replace the weather stripping,
It’s gone bad without a doubt.
Cows are calving in this storm,
Of course they won’t go to the shed.
We’ll lose many a calf this year,
A fact that’s heavy in my head.
Will our hay crop last?
Will the crick stay froze?
I hate the chore of haulin’ water
With frozen fingers and toes.
But winter’s not all bad,
I can hold you through the storm.
When the house is dark and cold
We’ll keep each other warm.
I’ll make your breakfast in the morning
And have your coat by the door,
Give you a quick kiss goodbye
Even though I’m longing for more.
You’ll come home when the work is done,
Cheeks red and close to froze
But I’ll have your supper hot and waiting,
The dryer ready for your clothes.
You can thaw out in a hot shower,
I’ve got your towel all warm,
Then we’ll open a good bottle of Pendleton
And you can hold me through the storm.
Cinch up your stampede strings,
The wind chill is 30-below.
With a good cold snap in Wyoming
Comes wind and ice and snow.
Dig out that sheepskin coat
And somethin’ better than fencing gloves.
I’ll put on a pot of elk chili
And that cider that you love.
Plug in the pickups tonight,
They don’t start so well when it’s cold.
This is a night to bring in the dog,
After all, he’s gettin’ old.
Find the Coleman lanterns,
The power sometimes goes out,
Replace the weather stripping,
It’s gone bad without a doubt.
Cows are calving in this storm,
Of course they won’t go to the shed.
We’ll lose many a calf this year,
A fact that’s heavy in my head.
Will our hay crop last?
Will the crick stay froze?
I hate the chore of haulin’ water
With frozen fingers and toes.
But winter’s not all bad,
I can hold you through the storm.
When the house is dark and cold
We’ll keep each other warm.
I’ll make your breakfast in the morning
And have your coat by the door,
Give you a quick kiss goodbye
Even though I’m longing for more.
You’ll come home when the work is done,
Cheeks red and close to froze
But I’ll have your supper hot and waiting,
The dryer ready for your clothes.
You can thaw out in a hot shower,
I’ve got your towel all warm,
Then we’ll open a good bottle of Pendleton
And you can hold me through the storm.
Broke To Ride
Broke to Ride
“Darlin’, that horse ain’t broke to ride,”
I heard the boss say to her,
She was just a bit short but looked like the sort
That enjoyed the taste of danger.
She sidled on up to the chute
And squinted in for a look,
The eyes she saw were blood red but she just scratched her head
And the boss reached for the gate hook.
Well, she climbed up with her saddle
And slung it across his back,
Cinched him up right, smirked “That’s alright,”
And gave the spotted rump a smack.
She screwed on her hat
And took a deep breath
Sunk down and took a deep seat, we were in for a treat
Just hopefully not sudden death.
That girl raised her arm
And she set them spurs deep,
Gettin’ ready to ride she hollered, “Outside!”
And that bronc hit an angle somethin’ steep.
But this wisp of a girl stuck with ‘em,
Jump for jump she assailed,
He whirled back around and her rowels went to town
As he tried to touch nose to tail.
Us boys sittin’ on the fence
Hooped and hollered with glee,
“Ya think she’s done this before and is evenin’ the score?”
Slim drawled over toward me.
That ‘ol caballo rocked,
She spraddled and fired back,
No use for style but she had a pile
‘Cause she made ’em look like one sorry sack.
The hoss that’d dusted all our britches
Was bein’ rid by some girl!
Never seen the like in all my life, like lickin’ butter off a knife
I swear I heard her holler, “Now you boys take a whirl!”
She folded ‘em up like an empty purse
And we all felt like we’s beef, plumb to the hocks,
She quick him a-buckin’ and heads went to duckin’
‘Cause she’s vaquera to the stocks.
We knew we wasn’t worth a barrel of shucks
When she conquered that old horsehide.
She led him over to the fence and I saw the boss wince
When she said, “Now he’s broke to ride!”
“Darlin’, that horse ain’t broke to ride,”
I heard the boss say to her,
She was just a bit short but looked like the sort
That enjoyed the taste of danger.
She sidled on up to the chute
And squinted in for a look,
The eyes she saw were blood red but she just scratched her head
And the boss reached for the gate hook.
Well, she climbed up with her saddle
And slung it across his back,
Cinched him up right, smirked “That’s alright,”
And gave the spotted rump a smack.
She screwed on her hat
And took a deep breath
Sunk down and took a deep seat, we were in for a treat
Just hopefully not sudden death.
That girl raised her arm
And she set them spurs deep,
Gettin’ ready to ride she hollered, “Outside!”
And that bronc hit an angle somethin’ steep.
But this wisp of a girl stuck with ‘em,
Jump for jump she assailed,
He whirled back around and her rowels went to town
As he tried to touch nose to tail.
Us boys sittin’ on the fence
Hooped and hollered with glee,
“Ya think she’s done this before and is evenin’ the score?”
Slim drawled over toward me.
That ‘ol caballo rocked,
She spraddled and fired back,
No use for style but she had a pile
‘Cause she made ’em look like one sorry sack.
The hoss that’d dusted all our britches
Was bein’ rid by some girl!
Never seen the like in all my life, like lickin’ butter off a knife
I swear I heard her holler, “Now you boys take a whirl!”
She folded ‘em up like an empty purse
And we all felt like we’s beef, plumb to the hocks,
She quick him a-buckin’ and heads went to duckin’
‘Cause she’s vaquera to the stocks.
We knew we wasn’t worth a barrel of shucks
When she conquered that old horsehide.
She led him over to the fence and I saw the boss wince
When she said, “Now he’s broke to ride!”
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Karaoke Cowboys
Karaoke Cowboys
College: nights you’ll never remember with friends you’ll never forget.
The boys I run with are a pack
Of mangy critters, to say the least.
Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish
If I’m dealin’ with man or beast.
There is, however, one event for which
We all scrub up and go to town--
Every Thursday night we hit Joker’s Bar
Cause karaoke night comes around.
We hit that place like a hurricane
Tearin’ through Budweiser and George Jones
But when the Crown and Coke comes out
Johnny Cash meets the Rollin Stones.
Even the quietest of the posse antes up
And belts out a tune or two,
Surprisin’ us all to hell and back
With a liquored up I Will Always Love You.
Sweet Home Alabama and Addicted to Love
Are staples of our vocal attack,
And then one real out-going pard of ours
Lashes out with Back in Black.
Now, ‘ol Marc is real passable
On stuff like A Boy Named Sue,
It’s when he shimmies through Ricky Martin
We’ve gotta tell the bartender, “He’s through!”
James just sits there quiet,
Runnin’ the machine.
He might kick in on a chorus or two
Or crack a joke in between.
We all get our dance on,
Of that I’m bad I’ll admit,
Shinin’ a new buckle most every song
But I ain’t complainin’ a bit!
‘Ol Cody’s a fancy two-stepper,
We go whirlin’ across the floor
But by the end of the night his timing is off
And we go draggin’ him out the door.
We don’t really care if you can’t sing,
We aren’t claiming to be stars.
Why do you think the best karaoke
Happens in small-town bars?
We all like to have a good time,
Maybe meet somebody new,
Have us a couple of drinks
And sing a song or two.
So its $3 pitchers
And shots all around
Every Thursday night at Joker’s
When the karaoke cowboys come to town.
College: nights you’ll never remember with friends you’ll never forget.
The boys I run with are a pack
Of mangy critters, to say the least.
Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish
If I’m dealin’ with man or beast.
There is, however, one event for which
We all scrub up and go to town--
Every Thursday night we hit Joker’s Bar
Cause karaoke night comes around.
We hit that place like a hurricane
Tearin’ through Budweiser and George Jones
But when the Crown and Coke comes out
Johnny Cash meets the Rollin Stones.
Even the quietest of the posse antes up
And belts out a tune or two,
Surprisin’ us all to hell and back
With a liquored up I Will Always Love You.
Sweet Home Alabama and Addicted to Love
Are staples of our vocal attack,
And then one real out-going pard of ours
Lashes out with Back in Black.
Now, ‘ol Marc is real passable
On stuff like A Boy Named Sue,
It’s when he shimmies through Ricky Martin
We’ve gotta tell the bartender, “He’s through!”
James just sits there quiet,
Runnin’ the machine.
He might kick in on a chorus or two
Or crack a joke in between.
We all get our dance on,
Of that I’m bad I’ll admit,
Shinin’ a new buckle most every song
But I ain’t complainin’ a bit!
‘Ol Cody’s a fancy two-stepper,
We go whirlin’ across the floor
But by the end of the night his timing is off
And we go draggin’ him out the door.
We don’t really care if you can’t sing,
We aren’t claiming to be stars.
Why do you think the best karaoke
Happens in small-town bars?
We all like to have a good time,
Maybe meet somebody new,
Have us a couple of drinks
And sing a song or two.
So its $3 pitchers
And shots all around
Every Thursday night at Joker’s
When the karaoke cowboys come to town.
Cowboy Heroes
Cowboy Heroes
The round corral was my playpen,
I had ropes and spurs for toys.
I'm blessed to have grown up free in the West
Where my heroes have always been cowboys.
I never had a pony,
Always had a horse.
Quittin' was never tolerated,
I learned to stay the course.
When other kids were swimmin'
In the town swimmin' pool
I was splashin' in a stock tank
With the cow dogs to keep cool.
When they were playin' little league
I was at junior rodeos
Learnin' to run a hole in the wind
And rope 'em horns to toes.
Other girls had dresses
And I had hand-me-down chinks
But to this day I love 'em
And don't care what prissy girls think.
A boy didn't break my heart the first time
But the loss of my old roan did.
Workin' brandings and ropin' chutes
I proved I was one tough kid.
I missed my senior prom
Because it was calvin' time
And the hired man was sick
So the responsibility was mine.
I tried to manage college
After graduation
But I figure the ranch
Is where I'll get my education.
I don't have much use for psychology
Unless I philosophize cows,
And I ain't takin' trigonometry,
No way, no how.
I could care less about art history
Because the most beautiful thing you'll see
Is a sunset painted by the hand of God
Where wild horses still run free.
Humanities would be pointless
And the only biology I need
Is the kind I already know:
That of bovine and steed.
About the only hankerin' I'd have
To get a higher education of sorts
Is for the late night dancin', cheap beer,
And the thrill of college sports.
Oh sure, there's more cute guys
Than I'll find out here with the cows
But I don't take too well to city boys
Who won't live by the sweat of their brow.
I've got a longin' for a cowboy
That will sweep me off my boots,
One with a few good horses
That can rope and work the chutes.
I'd like him to be tall
With shoulders like a bull,
A narrow waist to fill his Wranglers
And hands that have some pull.
A man with a pretty smile and gorgeous eyes
That will pull me under their gaze
And make me feel complete,
A man I'll love the rest of my days.
I suppose I'lll wait right here
‘Til my knight in shining spurs comes along,
Then we'll raise up a couple youngin's
In the country where we belong.
The round corral will be their playpen
And they'll have ropes and spurs for toys,
They'll be blessed to grow up free in the West
And their heroes will always be cowboys.
The round corral was my playpen,
I had ropes and spurs for toys.
I'm blessed to have grown up free in the West
Where my heroes have always been cowboys.
I never had a pony,
Always had a horse.
Quittin' was never tolerated,
I learned to stay the course.
When other kids were swimmin'
In the town swimmin' pool
I was splashin' in a stock tank
With the cow dogs to keep cool.
When they were playin' little league
I was at junior rodeos
Learnin' to run a hole in the wind
And rope 'em horns to toes.
Other girls had dresses
And I had hand-me-down chinks
But to this day I love 'em
And don't care what prissy girls think.
A boy didn't break my heart the first time
But the loss of my old roan did.
Workin' brandings and ropin' chutes
I proved I was one tough kid.
I missed my senior prom
Because it was calvin' time
And the hired man was sick
So the responsibility was mine.
I tried to manage college
After graduation
But I figure the ranch
Is where I'll get my education.
I don't have much use for psychology
Unless I philosophize cows,
And I ain't takin' trigonometry,
No way, no how.
I could care less about art history
Because the most beautiful thing you'll see
Is a sunset painted by the hand of God
Where wild horses still run free.
Humanities would be pointless
And the only biology I need
Is the kind I already know:
That of bovine and steed.
About the only hankerin' I'd have
To get a higher education of sorts
Is for the late night dancin', cheap beer,
And the thrill of college sports.
Oh sure, there's more cute guys
Than I'll find out here with the cows
But I don't take too well to city boys
Who won't live by the sweat of their brow.
I've got a longin' for a cowboy
That will sweep me off my boots,
One with a few good horses
That can rope and work the chutes.
I'd like him to be tall
With shoulders like a bull,
A narrow waist to fill his Wranglers
And hands that have some pull.
A man with a pretty smile and gorgeous eyes
That will pull me under their gaze
And make me feel complete,
A man I'll love the rest of my days.
I suppose I'lll wait right here
‘Til my knight in shining spurs comes along,
Then we'll raise up a couple youngin's
In the country where we belong.
The round corral will be their playpen
And they'll have ropes and spurs for toys,
They'll be blessed to grow up free in the West
And their heroes will always be cowboys.
The Garcias
The Garcias
In memory of Scott Miller
KIA Iraq
Those old spurs had hung there in the back of the barn
As long as anyone could remember,
The old man hadn't drudged up all those memories
'Till one bitter day last December.
The new boy he'd hired on
Was admirin' them there on the wall,
And the chaps that hung alongside 'em.
Just admirin' was all.
But if he'd known the darkness in the steel
And the pain carried in that set,
He'd a-stayed far back from 'em,
As far as he could get.
"My son's…" the old man said, blue eyes misting over.
"Those old garcias rang like Christmas bells back then.
Makes this time of year hard, missin' that boy…
"He set down on a bale, ready to tell the story again.
"Was back in '69 he got drafted to the war in Vietnam,
But before that he was on his way to bein' great.
He rode saddle bronc ponies, set 'em pretty, too.
He snapped 'em out better than any in the state."
The young hand could see the pride in the old man's eyes
And he whistled low, "Musta been some man…was he your only kid?"
Sadness again filled the boss' face as he just said, "Nope.
Had a daughter, too. She was ten when we closed her coffin lid.
Drunk driver hit her and my son, just before he left for the war.
Never quite forgave himself for livin' but hell, he was only 19.
That was a hard year for me and the wife,
Reckon the hardest we've ever seen.
Son, you shoulda heard those garcias
When he raked the ponies down.
The day he broke 'ol Whirlwind
That boy was the talk of the town.
All he ever wanted to do was ride those horses,
Heart and soul against horsehide and buck.
It hurt him to leave but he didn't shirk the call,
In Da Nang his platoon ran out of luck.
They awarded him some medals and we buried him with those,
But I've kept his old spurs to look at once in awhile.
Never could quite move 'em from where he left 'em...
And garcias are out of style."
The old man wiped a tear and stood among creaking joints,
"Don't know what'll happen to 'em when I'm gone,
Might as well take 'em down and store 'em,
But I'd sure rather see my boy strap the set on."
The young hand offered to buy the spurs,
And the chaps that hung there, too,
But the old man just shook his head,
Said, "Nope, then I don't know what I'd do.
I reckon they'll just hang there on that hook
Until they put my wife in her place next to mine
In the spots we bought so long ago,
Alongside Josh and Caroline."
Those old garcias still hang in the barn,
No one dares to take them down.
On the sides in gold they just say "Josh"
And every so often the hands hear a jinglin' sound.
They know it's them old spurs
But no one'll swear if it's true.
That boy gone for so long is still ridin' saddle broncs,
Just out of sight of me and you.
In memory of Scott Miller
KIA Iraq
Those old spurs had hung there in the back of the barn
As long as anyone could remember,
The old man hadn't drudged up all those memories
'Till one bitter day last December.
The new boy he'd hired on
Was admirin' them there on the wall,
And the chaps that hung alongside 'em.
Just admirin' was all.
But if he'd known the darkness in the steel
And the pain carried in that set,
He'd a-stayed far back from 'em,
As far as he could get.
"My son's…" the old man said, blue eyes misting over.
"Those old garcias rang like Christmas bells back then.
Makes this time of year hard, missin' that boy…
"He set down on a bale, ready to tell the story again.
"Was back in '69 he got drafted to the war in Vietnam,
But before that he was on his way to bein' great.
He rode saddle bronc ponies, set 'em pretty, too.
He snapped 'em out better than any in the state."
The young hand could see the pride in the old man's eyes
And he whistled low, "Musta been some man…was he your only kid?"
Sadness again filled the boss' face as he just said, "Nope.
Had a daughter, too. She was ten when we closed her coffin lid.
Drunk driver hit her and my son, just before he left for the war.
Never quite forgave himself for livin' but hell, he was only 19.
That was a hard year for me and the wife,
Reckon the hardest we've ever seen.
Son, you shoulda heard those garcias
When he raked the ponies down.
The day he broke 'ol Whirlwind
That boy was the talk of the town.
All he ever wanted to do was ride those horses,
Heart and soul against horsehide and buck.
It hurt him to leave but he didn't shirk the call,
In Da Nang his platoon ran out of luck.
They awarded him some medals and we buried him with those,
But I've kept his old spurs to look at once in awhile.
Never could quite move 'em from where he left 'em...
And garcias are out of style."
The old man wiped a tear and stood among creaking joints,
"Don't know what'll happen to 'em when I'm gone,
Might as well take 'em down and store 'em,
But I'd sure rather see my boy strap the set on."
The young hand offered to buy the spurs,
And the chaps that hung there, too,
But the old man just shook his head,
Said, "Nope, then I don't know what I'd do.
I reckon they'll just hang there on that hook
Until they put my wife in her place next to mine
In the spots we bought so long ago,
Alongside Josh and Caroline."
Those old garcias still hang in the barn,
No one dares to take them down.
On the sides in gold they just say "Josh"
And every so often the hands hear a jinglin' sound.
They know it's them old spurs
But no one'll swear if it's true.
That boy gone for so long is still ridin' saddle broncs,
Just out of sight of me and you.
Calving In the High Country
Calving In the High Country
I was born for this.
Cold leather creaks as my saddle
Warms itself beneath me.
I’m not the picture of refinement
In my heavy shearling coat,
Wild rag wrapped at my throat
To turn away the bite of the air.
Winter howls its way through my bones,
Calving in the high country.
My 30-30 in its scabbard
And my hat screwed down to the wind
I knee my pony to a trot,
Warming us both to a new day.
A snowshoe hare breaks cover
In front of us
With my heeler pup in hot pursuit
But my little roan is sound,
Unfazed by the flurry of snow and fur
That shattered our frigid peace.
My breath freezes in the air
And hangs there like smoke;
My life is so insignificant
In these mountains.
It could disappear like my breath
And be just as unnoticeable
To the rest of the world,
Too busy fighting traffic
And playing slave to a timecard
To stop and breathe deep
The smell of fresh snow on pines,
Too rushed to appreciate the bounty
Of a Dutch oven supper
Slow-cooked over hot coals.
My saddle is my desk
In this, the God-fearing high country.
I don’t do the work of an executive
Or hold any title of importance;
My business suit consists
Of fencing gloves
And the battle-worn Stetson
My granddaddy once wore.
The mountains are my boardroom
Where I conduct the business
Of survival of my high country bunch.
I am the CEO of my one room cabin
And sole proprietor of three hundred head
Of fine black cows, each giving me
The gift of a calf on which
I stake my livelihood.
My money is not on paper,
Hidden in stocks and bonds,
No 401k account or IRA,
My money is made of hide and horn,
Not prey to the NASDAQ and the DOW
But instead to winter and wolves,
To the cougar whose tracks I crossed just now
Alongside the frozen crick.
I undo the strap on my scabbard
As the familiar uneasy feeling
Of a predator creeps up my spine.
I’ve seen not hide nor hair of him,
But I have felt his amber eyes
Boring into my soul as I ride
To check the herd.
The high country brings with it
A sense of danger.
Sometimes I think that’s why
I love it so,
The solitude and the quiet,
But also the adventure,
The sense of freedom and
Sheer feeling of being alive
In this wild place, untamed
And inaccessible,
Much like myself.
I come up on the herd
And see already the red stain
Marring the white blanket
Of powder all around me.
Another calf sacrificed
To a wolf made a pet
By some lobbyist in Washington.
I see a flash of silver in the treeline
And slide my rifle out,
Slowly chambering a round
And watching, waiting.
My roan knows the drill well,
He is gun-broke and still.
With patient scanning
I find him, sitting quietly in the trees.
I level my rifle and take aim
At the activists and lobbyists
Who threaten my livelihood,
My existence in this country.
I finish my ride and turn for home,
Feeling no worse for the wear.
My cabin is warm,
My supper will soon be hot,
And I will bid farewell to another day,
Calving in the high country.
I was born for this.
Cold leather creaks as my saddle
Warms itself beneath me.
I’m not the picture of refinement
In my heavy shearling coat,
Wild rag wrapped at my throat
To turn away the bite of the air.
Winter howls its way through my bones,
Calving in the high country.
My 30-30 in its scabbard
And my hat screwed down to the wind
I knee my pony to a trot,
Warming us both to a new day.
A snowshoe hare breaks cover
In front of us
With my heeler pup in hot pursuit
But my little roan is sound,
Unfazed by the flurry of snow and fur
That shattered our frigid peace.
My breath freezes in the air
And hangs there like smoke;
My life is so insignificant
In these mountains.
It could disappear like my breath
And be just as unnoticeable
To the rest of the world,
Too busy fighting traffic
And playing slave to a timecard
To stop and breathe deep
The smell of fresh snow on pines,
Too rushed to appreciate the bounty
Of a Dutch oven supper
Slow-cooked over hot coals.
My saddle is my desk
In this, the God-fearing high country.
I don’t do the work of an executive
Or hold any title of importance;
My business suit consists
Of fencing gloves
And the battle-worn Stetson
My granddaddy once wore.
The mountains are my boardroom
Where I conduct the business
Of survival of my high country bunch.
I am the CEO of my one room cabin
And sole proprietor of three hundred head
Of fine black cows, each giving me
The gift of a calf on which
I stake my livelihood.
My money is not on paper,
Hidden in stocks and bonds,
No 401k account or IRA,
My money is made of hide and horn,
Not prey to the NASDAQ and the DOW
But instead to winter and wolves,
To the cougar whose tracks I crossed just now
Alongside the frozen crick.
I undo the strap on my scabbard
As the familiar uneasy feeling
Of a predator creeps up my spine.
I’ve seen not hide nor hair of him,
But I have felt his amber eyes
Boring into my soul as I ride
To check the herd.
The high country brings with it
A sense of danger.
Sometimes I think that’s why
I love it so,
The solitude and the quiet,
But also the adventure,
The sense of freedom and
Sheer feeling of being alive
In this wild place, untamed
And inaccessible,
Much like myself.
I come up on the herd
And see already the red stain
Marring the white blanket
Of powder all around me.
Another calf sacrificed
To a wolf made a pet
By some lobbyist in Washington.
I see a flash of silver in the treeline
And slide my rifle out,
Slowly chambering a round
And watching, waiting.
My roan knows the drill well,
He is gun-broke and still.
With patient scanning
I find him, sitting quietly in the trees.
I level my rifle and take aim
At the activists and lobbyists
Who threaten my livelihood,
My existence in this country.
I finish my ride and turn for home,
Feeling no worse for the wear.
My cabin is warm,
My supper will soon be hot,
And I will bid farewell to another day,
Calving in the high country.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
What A Cowgirl Wants In a Man
What A Cowgirl Wants In a Man
A decent looking truck,
Coordinating paint would be nice,
A house in good array,
Free of pests and mice.
A well-behaved dog,
No paw-prints on jeans,
Won't beg at the table
And he cuddles, he's not mean.
He can iron his clothes,
No chew to be found,
And seldom will he make
An undesired sound.
His horses behave
And he opens every gate,
He can take you out dancin'
Or cook you a steak.
You're comfortable with him
In every situation,
He knows when to work
And when to vacation.
He's clean and well-kept,
Shirt always tucked in,
And when it's time to rodeo
He's in the box to win.
He can shape a hat
And he'll do the dishes,
He knows when to be in charge
And when to bend to your wishes.
He's always on time
Unless held by work or snow,
Then he brings flowers and a kiss
Because he can't help it, you know.
A half-crooked smile
And he's downright pert,
He'll stay as long as you like
But a good leavin' view don't hurt!
A decent looking truck,
Coordinating paint would be nice,
A house in good array,
Free of pests and mice.
A well-behaved dog,
No paw-prints on jeans,
Won't beg at the table
And he cuddles, he's not mean.
He can iron his clothes,
No chew to be found,
And seldom will he make
An undesired sound.
His horses behave
And he opens every gate,
He can take you out dancin'
Or cook you a steak.
You're comfortable with him
In every situation,
He knows when to work
And when to vacation.
He's clean and well-kept,
Shirt always tucked in,
And when it's time to rodeo
He's in the box to win.
He can shape a hat
And he'll do the dishes,
He knows when to be in charge
And when to bend to your wishes.
He's always on time
Unless held by work or snow,
Then he brings flowers and a kiss
Because he can't help it, you know.
A half-crooked smile
And he's downright pert,
He'll stay as long as you like
But a good leavin' view don't hurt!
Cowboy Kids
Cowboy Kids
If you've ever been to Wyoming
You've surely seen these kids,
The ones that can drive when they're six
And go to an auction and place bids.
Cowboy kids have tiny Wranglers,
Little boots and miniature chaps,
They wear their daddy's rodeo buckles
And 10X Stetson hats.
These cowboy kids can rope and ride
And always saddle their own horse,
They've been driving the tractor since they could walk
Or were tall enough to see their course.
They're quick enough with a loop
And can push cows through a gate,
They've already got a good cowdog
And can clean a man-sized plate.
Some of 'em dip Skoal
When they're awful young and green,
They know some colorful language
And they're gritty, tough, and lean.
They've had a wreck or two along the way
Ended up bumped and bruised,
They wear Carhartt coveralls
And their work gloves are well-used.
They've never needed a babysitter,
They can dang sure take care of themselves,
They know exactly where everything is
In the chaos of the feed store shelves.
They can try to play sick from school
But never get out of doin' chores,
They know better than to do things half-way
Or leave open the barn doors.
They're up at 4am on Saturday
And not to watch cartoons,
They're out in the pasture with daddy
And have worked through their share of full moons.
They can drag a calf to the fire
And fare just fine on cow camp chuck,
They'll dust off their own britches
When the get beat by a hoss that bucks.
Cowboy kids are a breed all their own
And one that will ever die out,
As long as there are cowboy parents
To teach them what this life is all about.
If you've ever been to Wyoming
You've surely seen these kids,
The ones that can drive when they're six
And go to an auction and place bids.
Cowboy kids have tiny Wranglers,
Little boots and miniature chaps,
They wear their daddy's rodeo buckles
And 10X Stetson hats.
These cowboy kids can rope and ride
And always saddle their own horse,
They've been driving the tractor since they could walk
Or were tall enough to see their course.
They're quick enough with a loop
And can push cows through a gate,
They've already got a good cowdog
And can clean a man-sized plate.
Some of 'em dip Skoal
When they're awful young and green,
They know some colorful language
And they're gritty, tough, and lean.
They've had a wreck or two along the way
Ended up bumped and bruised,
They wear Carhartt coveralls
And their work gloves are well-used.
They've never needed a babysitter,
They can dang sure take care of themselves,
They know exactly where everything is
In the chaos of the feed store shelves.
They can try to play sick from school
But never get out of doin' chores,
They know better than to do things half-way
Or leave open the barn doors.
They're up at 4am on Saturday
And not to watch cartoons,
They're out in the pasture with daddy
And have worked through their share of full moons.
They can drag a calf to the fire
And fare just fine on cow camp chuck,
They'll dust off their own britches
When the get beat by a hoss that bucks.
Cowboy kids are a breed all their own
And one that will ever die out,
As long as there are cowboy parents
To teach them what this life is all about.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Infinite Disguise
Infinite Disguise
Blood bay earth sings under my pony's feet
As we lope out under blue roan skies
Marveling at how God is in this place,
Sage, cedar and sunset His infinite disguise.
A palomino sun trots gently over the horizon
Kissing cheeks whipped pink by the wind,
My catch twine taps a soft rhythm against my saddle
And spurs add a melody with no end.
Hip-cocked mares ponder my snorty colt,
Ears pitched forward to a new day and job at hand,
I've spoken my vows to this way of life--
A line-shack buckaroo making love to the land.
When I die, lay me next to my lover,
Plan dun prairie over my bones,
Turn my pony out, give my saddle to my son,
No need for fancy words or marble stones.
Dapple gray mountains loom overhead,
Capped by manes of blowing snow
Snarled by timber and treelines
That saw the death of the buffalo.
It's out here I'm always lost in thought,
Loping down my mind's own winding trails
Imagining days long gone by,
Before the land was scarred by wire and rails.
Sage glows purple in the morning light,
Dotted with new fallen dew
And wind through the grulla cottonwoods
Sings to a lonely buckaroo.
For a brief eternity, I can just be,
At home in the saddle and my own skin,
To leave my life of romance with the West
Would amount to a mortal sin.
'Cause no cow ever herded itself
To market or the grocery store.
Not many folks in the city
Know it really takes so much more.
It's me and my broncy paint pony,
Loping out under these blue roan skies,
Thanking the Maker we've lived our life
Of hide, horn, and hoof: God's infinite disguise.
Blood bay earth sings under my pony's feet
As we lope out under blue roan skies
Marveling at how God is in this place,
Sage, cedar and sunset His infinite disguise.
A palomino sun trots gently over the horizon
Kissing cheeks whipped pink by the wind,
My catch twine taps a soft rhythm against my saddle
And spurs add a melody with no end.
Hip-cocked mares ponder my snorty colt,
Ears pitched forward to a new day and job at hand,
I've spoken my vows to this way of life--
A line-shack buckaroo making love to the land.
When I die, lay me next to my lover,
Plan dun prairie over my bones,
Turn my pony out, give my saddle to my son,
No need for fancy words or marble stones.
Dapple gray mountains loom overhead,
Capped by manes of blowing snow
Snarled by timber and treelines
That saw the death of the buffalo.
It's out here I'm always lost in thought,
Loping down my mind's own winding trails
Imagining days long gone by,
Before the land was scarred by wire and rails.
Sage glows purple in the morning light,
Dotted with new fallen dew
And wind through the grulla cottonwoods
Sings to a lonely buckaroo.
For a brief eternity, I can just be,
At home in the saddle and my own skin,
To leave my life of romance with the West
Would amount to a mortal sin.
'Cause no cow ever herded itself
To market or the grocery store.
Not many folks in the city
Know it really takes so much more.
It's me and my broncy paint pony,
Loping out under these blue roan skies,
Thanking the Maker we've lived our life
Of hide, horn, and hoof: God's infinite disguise.
Welcome!
Howdy all! At the urging of many people the last couple years, I've finally gotten around to putting my poetry online for all to read, rather than mailing or emailing it whenever people want it! I'll try to put a few poems on at a time until they're all on, or from time to time I may just ramble on like I tend to do... anyone that knows me can vouch that I can jump subjects like a jackrabbit! So, feel free to stop in anytime and share your comments, your poetry, or just drop a line! Happy Trails!
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