Poet Lariat

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.

Abandoned

This poem was inspired by an ArtSpur,  a painting entitled “A Winter Night” by Montana artist David Graham and featured on CowboyPoetry.com. It was first published on that site on December 20, 2012.

It was a dark and win’try night
as Snoopy rode the range
and found some weird and won’drous things;
indeed, they were quite strange.

The first, a very lonely mare,
abandoned by the trail,
and then an eerie sound was heard
much like an infant’s wail.

Dismounting, Snoopy checked around
and there beneath a sage
he found a tiny child alone,
hollering out in rage.

Gathering up that little child,
he went to check the mare
and on the saddle found a note
about a sad affair.

The mother was dying, it said,
no father did it name
nor did she name that little child,
thus sheltered it from shame.

So Snoopy took that child back home
to share his life and found,
to raise him up as best he could,
and keep that child around.

A foundling there on Christmas Eve,
this special child he’d claim,
granting his fortune and his name
to save that child from shame.

Newtown’s Child

It was Friday, December 14 and the world ended for twenty children: four who were seven years of age and sixteen who were only six. It is a recurrent theme in history…a senseless massacre of the innocent leaving only memories to console the living.

Her smile, so won’drous and so sweet,
rewarded us each day,
so freely given by a child
who has now gone away.

This child of ours has left us here,
but mem’ries linger on
of this sweet one, so full of life,
her spirit has not gone.

Our lives can never be the same,
a part of us is lost,
yet we do treasure those few years,
those times our lives were crossed.

A part of her still lingers here
and never leaves our heart
for she still lives in memory
and we shall never part.

In life she gave us joy untold,
her smile could light the day,
and though she’s gone I sense it still…
her smile still lights my way.

Kiowa Love Flute

Years ago, I acquired a Kiowa love flute from a Native American craftsman. He claimed there was magic in the flute; that it could speak your heart to your loved one in words you could not say.

The magic flute held in his hand,
the young brave sought his love
at the stream of racing water,
‘neath willows up above.

The plaintive song sang from his heart
the words he could not say
as she blushed in understanding
and shyly glanced away.

Her mother, watching from nearby,
recalled the magic flute…
another song, another day,
a warrior in pursuit.

A single tear ran down her cheek
and she too turned her head,
knowing the time had come at last
for her girl to be wed.

That slender shaft of wood now rests,
its plaintive voice awaits
another day, another love,
as someone’s heart dictates.

Scents of Christmas

Remembering briefly the scents which pervaded the Christmas Season so many years ago in our one-room sod home back in the Sandhills of Nebraska.

The scents of Christmas filled the air…
the smell of pumpkin pie,
a turkey roasting on the hearth…
with mama standing by.

‘Twas a Christmas to remember,
and enjoy once again
the many scents of Christmas past,
remem’bring way back then!

Conversation With A Chief

Many years ago, back in 1931 when I was three, I met a Sioux Indian Chief at the Custer County Nebraska Fair. He talked to me and told me stories of Coyote and The People. He did influence my life and my interest in stories; whether in prose or poetry. So  I began to wonder what he might say to me today…if such a thing were possible. He has the last word…

You know, you’re the reason I write…
you’re the one who inspired me.
My verses would have never lived
if you hadn’t set my mind free.

So I do thank you for your help
    If I helped, I didn’t mean to
Ok, but you did help me out
    I thought it was something you knew

You inspired me to write poems
  Maybe I’ll be sorry some day
How could you ever be sorry?
  Maybe you don’t write stuff my way

But you’ve not even read my stuff?
I just like to avoid conflict
You mean you don’t like my poems?
I don’t like the subjects you picked

But you don’t know just what I picked
   You’re white so I know very well
You’re just tryin’ to confuse me
You write about heaven and hell

Not true, I write of life itself
You may breathe but that is not life
Your logic is so confusing
Living is overcoming strife

Can we talk about poetry?
We are, verses are life itself
The poet needs to speak for man
The poet speaks just for himself

But I know what other men think
If you know that, why do you ask?
Well, I just wanted to thank you
    You’re welcome, get back to your task

What other advice do you have ?
Stop trying to think like I do   
I can’t think like an Indian does
That’s my point, you’re not me, you’re you

Write what you yourself truly know
and don’t try to speak for all men.
Remember, you’re not an Indian,
you are just one man with a pen!