Poet Lariat

Fair Game

In the west, men far out-numbered women. So it wasn’t unusual for a lady to have quite a number of suitors, perhaps exciting for her but certainly frustrating for the fellows.

There was a gal from Abilene
who teased the fellers there
with winkin’ eyes and pouty lips
and long and blondish hair.

She shore had her choice of cowboys,
they lined up at her door
with rings and shawls and pretty things
they thought she might adore.

But she’d just smile at them and wink,
and turn not one away,
sorta flirtin’ with the whole herd,
the same thing ev’ry day.

The cowboys got sorta fed up,
the way she played the field,
not truly fav’rin’ any one,
and thus her fate was sealed.

The boys had a game of poker,
with that gal anteed up
to give the winner a clear field
while others gave her up.

She truly had no other choice
’cause Wilbur’d won the game
so she just up and married him,
her one remainin’ flame.

No others have since sought her out,
’cause their word was their bond;
they’d lost her in a poker game
that winkin’, pouty blonde.

The Shaman’s Flute

Native American culture has always had a fascination for me. It is sad to note that, although an intensely spiritual people, strong in their faith, their ways offered no barrier to the aggressive tactics of foreign invaders.

He stood beside the Council fire,
the flute was in his hand,
as he spoke to all the elders
of this great tribal land.

The words he spoke are lost today.
like whispers in the night.
but he spoke so well, people say,
of battles they must fight.

The flute, a slender shaft of wood,
its song, a simple one,
offered so very little hope
at rising of the sun.

Yet, this bit of wood held magic
to strengthen warriors all,
to give them wisdom in the fight,
belief they could not fall.

They rode away in morning’s light
convinced they would prevail,
that they would win the coming fight
in this they would not fail.

When eve’ning came, the battle done,
too few came back from that;
the flute, now just a shaft of wood,
its plaintive tune was flat.

Old Pete’s at it Again

Every little town in the west has at least one character who is well-known and usually congenial, but often a cantankerous, eccentric old coot.

There is fire in his belly
and a six-gun on his hip,
his face twisted with a frown
and a curse upon his lip.

He rides in with blazin’ gun,
and a mean tone in his voice.
He’s got folks full attention
’cause they have no other choice.

He does not seem too friendly.
Old Pete Johns from west of town.
His mood is well depicted
by his cursed ugly frown.

This ain’t new to all of us,
it just happens now and then
when, during tourist season,
he goes through it all again.

Old Pete’s a kindly feller
and his gun is fulla blanks.
He’s pretty good at actin’
and he does it with our thanks!

‘Cause he does thrill them greenhorns,
and he really scares ‘em so,
but they spend lots of money
to see this great western show.

Searchin for a Home

This poem was inspired by a column in the Seattle Times wherein the columnist was speculating about words beginning with “in” as though they represented two words such as: “He lived in Capacitated.” or “She was a teacher in Spired.”

Jim’s traveled throughout this great west,
just ridin’ ‘cross this land.
and been in so many places
it’s hard to comprehend.

One time he lived in Capable.
but didn’t do much there,
he just didn’t feel up to it
so he left in despair.

Then once in Consideration
he thought of lots of things,
about the meanin’ of his life
and rewards that it brings.

But he moved right along from there
and stayed in Tolerance
where folks was so understandin’
he didn’t have a chance.

There was a gal in Cognito
who hid behind a veil
and wore sunglasses so darn dark
he quickly hit the trail.

Jim spent near all of his money
when he was in Solvent,
things cost so darn much in that town
he couldn’t pay his rent.

All the folks who lived in Trovert
stayed hidden ev’ry day
and that made him mighty lonely
so he quick rode away.

In Toxicate he found true love,
and there he lived a while,
then moved on down the road a bit
where he could live in style.

But he really didn’t feel safe,
when he was in Secure,
and it wasn’t the place for him,
it just had no allure..

Now at his greatly advanced age,
Jim’s a retired gent
’cause he’s found where he wants to live
right here in Continent.

The Complainer

As I watched a recent “talking filibuster” in the U.S. Senate, I was somehow reminded of one of our ranch hands back in the Sandhills of Nebraska. Lord, that cowboy was chuck full of his own wisdom and he complained about everything!

John was a vocal complainer,
nothin’ was ever right,
he’d complain about ev’rything
all day and through the night.

He dared complain about our grub
’til cookie threw him out
which denied him even coffee
and food he did without.

Of course he gave in mighty quick
and got down on his knees
to praise cookie for his cookin’..,
“forgive me, if you please!”

But he kept right on complainin’
just as he did before
but zeroed in on politics,
somethin’ he did deplore.

We did get real tired of it all,
his complaint’s ev’ry day,
so we just fin’lly figured out
how we could end his stay.

We shared that there plan with others
and they shore did agree
’cause they was sick of John’s complaints
and of him they’d be free.

Well it took a lot of doin’
but our plan worked out well,
we got John to run for Congress
and bid him fond farewell.

He’ll be right there where nothin’s done,
where filibuster reigns,
where complainin’ is an art form.
from which none there abstains.

The Cowboy Proser

Traditional Cowboy Poetry, a unique American poetic folk art form, calls for poems which have true rhymes and consistent meter throughout. Today some folks are abandoning that tradition in favor of prosaic* creations. Here’s what happened to Sam’s poem as he began his tortuous transition from Cowboy Poet to Cowboy Proser!

Sam wrote a traditional verse,
respectin’ metric beat,
and seein’ that the rhymes were true
was an intriguin’ feat.

It was then he heard of blank verse,
which used just metric lines,
so he tried that poetic form
and dropped his use of rhymes.

free verse was his next adventure
no meter
was discerned
with lines deprived of
any rhymes
he practiced
what he’d learned

The result was quite obvious
’cause then his poem shrank
and with neither rhyme nor rhythm
the entire page was blank.

* Prosaic: of or having the character or form of prose rather than poetry – dictionary.reference.com

Miracle

A hay-filled mattress wasn’t uncommon in the west, especially out in the bunkhouse where it was absolute luxury compared to sleeping out on the trail.

Whispers of a hay-filled mattress,
the scent of new-mown hay,
the softness of the freshened bed,
at endin’ of the day,

It’s a miracle, the softness,
the comfort of that bed,
home at last from days of ridin’,
a soft place for your head.

But it is strange, or so it seems,
as we ride out each day,
that the ride is so rough and hard
on a horse stuffed with hay.