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A. Kathy Moss Poem
Up before dawn, a feeling has drawn
You into the mountain and trees.
Till the silence within, upon the whispering wind
A chime of bugles tease the breeze.
That majestic call, that is heard each fall
Since before our forefathers birth
And for those who take time, through rim rocks and pine
Listen and value their worth.
Each note high and low as each bugle ballad goes,
No two ever the same
They are all unique and if a chance to critique
Upon our hearts they claim.
We are put into state and can hardly wait
For the dawn of the upcoming morn
To glimpse hoof print in stride or a patch of hide
Or a tip of antler horn.
Just out of reach, lessons he’ll teach to those who play the game,
The tension and pull of a phantom bull, a soul never to tame.
While waiting and yearning, eyes straining, ears burning,
Ringing till you can’t hear a thing,
To early to late, can’t hardly wait,
Patience like a bee sting.
Like a ghost in the night they filter through site
They tease and bugle and brag,
As tell tale sign, weave and wind
Through timber, rocks and crags
Where a sapling tree, used to be
Now a twig broke scarred and torn
Velvet left there and shed of hair
To tell the rut has been born.
Strong elk scent, down wind is sent
From their bedded layer
They are up once again and start to transcend
Letting us know they were there.
A little to late can change a state
Hopes almost fell,
But all rise again when a bugle begins
For among elk, we dwell.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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A. Kathy Moss Poem
I will drink coffee in the morning and a glass of wine in the evening.
I will laugh and tell stories of my youth like my forefathers had done.
I will write treasured memories down and look back on the journals
I have written and admire how my life was shaped by fate and luck.
I will wear my hat with pride though outdated by decades,
I will live with no regrets.
Life is what is. Created for me to create.
I will write with strength and wisdom of my own experiences,
And what my elders have taught me, keeping traditions heart beating.
I will share my life and those I have known, by words of rhythm and rhyme.
I will go the barn and smell clean hay,
Watch my horses play.
I will love the sunrise and admire the sunsets,
When I am old.
I will smell my horses sweet breath, feel his whiskers on my cheek,
I will listen to their soft nickers in the morning,
Promises never understood, but known.
I will wear hay in my hair as if a halo.
A gift given by such noble friends.
I will sit and listen to the steady rhythmic grind as they quietly eat.
Watch their breath steam lazily into the frosty morning.
As I look into their bold eyes,
I see they are patiently waiting
For me to know, what they know
And waiting for the woman I am yet to become.
As for now,
I am just learning how to walk.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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A. Kathy Moss Poem
I have thought of you often, found some paper tucked away,
I’m feeling sentimental and have some time today,
So with pen in hand I thought I would write a line or two,
Though I don’t know where your at or if this letter will get through.
Well the wire is now strung and the cowboys are fenced in,
The Indians that rode beside you will never be again.
The long horns their now mulies a horn not a one,
I guess the wild west days have come and gone.
But Charlie I think you know there is a die hard breed.
There are still some out there that live the cowboy creed.
I know it’s not exactly the same as when you rode so bold,
But Charlie I wanted you to know that not all the saddles are sold.
For they wake each morning to the rising sun,
And know at the end of each day their work is still not done.
And they will gather around a fire to hear a yearn or two,
To see who tells the better tale of the things that they do.
And some paint a might good picture too, I have seen them at their best.
I guess there’s still a little wild out here in the west.
We think of you often and dream of a time
When the range was open and the land was in its prime.
When long horns ran high ridges and tested cowboy wit,
And even the best of the ponies would still challenge the bit.
So I thought I would write to let you know
that you are thought of out here in what we do and where we go.
And there still is hardcore buckaroos who still challenge change,
And they fight for the freedom to ride the range.
Well the fire has burned to embers and the crew is coming in
The quiet moment that I had, is now brought to an end,
So I will stoke the fire, put the coffee on and say goodbye for now,
Hoping you might get this letter some how.
Just remember your not for gotten Charlie and you will live on
And the cowboys and buckaroos are not completely gone.
And when I have more quiet time and paper that I might find,
I promise to write again, rest in peace my dear old friend.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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A. Kathy Moss Poem
She has felt a rope with a mustang attached,
Threw berries into a biscuit batch,
The holes she’d patch in clothes and shoes
She loves her life and has paid her dues,
She has tallied and rallied, opened the gate,
Chased and paced and could hardly wait,
For true love to come calling and fulfill her life,
Yet the blue of her falling and the dreams of a wife
Would have to wait until there was more time in the day,
For her fate would not dawn on her or come her way
Until she gathered her emotions and set them aside,
Till she lathered all horses she started to ride,
And found out that tough is not all that there is,
And what she’s done comes back on her the takes and the give.
She has gathered and sorted she’s worked dawn till dark,
She’s been lathered and courted, jerked drawn and embarked,
Into places with horses she never thought existed,
Keeping paces through courses that she has enlisted.
She has draped and dallied, taped and cursed,
Coped and prodded, roped and worse,
She has caught things she didn’t want to and tried to turn loose,
Been drug, whipped and burned, yet learned to cook goose.
She has folded, molded, tarried to long,
Charmed harmed, and done things wrong,
Brought laughter where tears stain the face,
Taught love, soothed fears, she has attempted grace.
She has held many a child, colt and calf,
With the hands the size of mans only half,
And the calluses that line them may dull the feel,
Yet her heart it binds them to a mother so real.
She has procrastinated, assassinated, tallied and stewed,
Migrated almost been abominated, is liberated and has brewed
Over family, friends, dinner and such,
All she has, all she wants which isn’t that much.
She has cursed God, loves the bible and believes in Amen.
If she had her druthers she’d do it over again,
And the source of remorse behind her eyes,
With all her give up and failures that she tries to disguise,
Only haunts the face that in the mirror lies.
Wink, Nod and Sigh
A.K. Moss
It taunts a trace in the lines of grace and gives her knowledge she can now recognize.
Then that moment is gone, she fixes her hair, with a hum of a song
that gently tickles the air,
The wind in her wake is the after math for she has learned to walk another path
To keep her life whole , that is imbedded deep within her soul.
And with a wink, nod and sigh,
She boldly walks by.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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A. Kathy Moss Poem
Locked in the history through the doors of his mind
Are the remains of an unwritten contract he signed.
The rules he lived by with his own flesh and bone,
Wrote in his blood and signed alone.
An Indian father or a Spanish bride,
The white mans greed won’t alter his stride,
The black mans courage with endurance within,
Mixed with trials errors and mortal sin.
Through the hardship and horses through courage and pain
These are the hands that held the rein.
Annie Oakley, Kitty Wilkins and Bell Star,
Combined lace with leather and created a gender scar.
From Picket, Custer, and Crazy Horse,
These are only a few who would not alter their course.
And those less know on Oregon’s trail,
Who sold all they had and to the west set sail.
Chisholm, Goodnight and French, some of the Cattle kings,
They all are the reason a cowboy sings.
And their blood still flows through our veins,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Forgive them for they knew not what they done,
As they settled the west with hand and gun.
Fought for open space they went through,
Not knowing that greed and politics followed them too.
Restless by nature a curious kind,
Searching for answers they will never find.
An unwritten code he rides for the brand,
It pumps through the veins into the soul of this man.
He gathers those memories and tries to remain,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Writing no letter for he can’t but he would,
To who he’s not sure but it is understood,
There is no place to send it anyhow,
So he saddles his pony and rides for the cow,
Sings a song and says a poem in rhyme,
To cut the quiet and pass the time.
That helps keep the stories of his horse and life,
As he sings of a friend and dreams of a wife.
Through the doors of his mind those memories remain,
For these are the hands that held the rein.
Like shuffling a deck he’s held in his hand
He has gambled his life and made a stand,
And made a vow he will try to fulfill,
With the luck of the draw his blood flows still.
To the next generation, with changes in time,
We still hear his stories in song and rhyme.
And if one more day could be spare
For the songs sung and poems shared
Let him live just one more day,
Let him ride for the brand and draw his pay.
In our future let our history not be in vein,
For our hands are now what hold the rein.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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A. Kathy Moss Poem
Upon the page forever bound, the wagering of life will be found,
Where those words are gathered in paper and ink and bring a cowboys life to the brink
Of wit and charm with a cowboys creed, what’s on his back is all he’ll need,
For those turns in life that unfold, like a horse that he couldn’t hold.
His wild eyes would test his fate, with quick sharp hooves his teeth bared with hate.
Or a more subtle gander into life so told where he could walk on land, not branded or sold.
Find a friend not easily made, standing alone when he has strayed
To a place where he shouldn’t be,
And with in his eyes all he’ll see
Of life and early death,
Beside a friend until his final breath.
The pages are bursting with emotion and wit, the knowledge of where he got most of it.
Feeling the breath of a horse rode down. Hearing the spurs as they strike the ground.
Smelling the leather and sweat of a hard days ride.
Knowing they have done more than just tried.
Horns that gore a pony that he was on, artistically maneuvered in words and drawn,
To make you feel the at painful fall,
The reality of a mad cows bawl
All etched into words and forever bound to a book of silence,
If not read now sound will fill the mind and souls with imaginations of prairies and knolls,
And mountains where cattle hide with no brand burnt upon their hide
You are drawn into a life where men were free, and shaped by the land like they ought to be.
Lives that were whittled and chiseled into long hard days,
The force of mother nature and the changing of ways
Bring alive the west, we now read and hear. The wisdom behind the handmade gear.
Cowboys North and South, bring knowledge and hence are a powerful part of evidence, that the Grit of Smokey, Flint and Sand where brought to life by a Lone Cowboys hand.
From cover to cover you are woven into the past and live with the cowboys the author has cast,
Turning each page so you could read on
Knowing the emotions and feelings along
With the horses and cowboys names.
Brought to life by one man,
Will James.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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A. Kathy Moss Poem
His fingers traced the cold hard rock of a now silent name,
Of a father he knew, a man he would not. No one to take the blame
His childhood changed a man yet to be, he cried for his loss and pain
Through the silence that followed, he walked away,
He’d never be the same.
He would come calling on the ladies, yet whiskey was his date,
Taking his hand, calling his name she numbed his futures fate
With her, soothing, smooth moving liquid she’d guide him through the night
She left him wanting more of her, to change his life insight.
With a cold ring of glass she called to him beckoning him to follow
He had married a bottle of comfort to fill his heart so hollow.
With every swallow, he would hear her call his name,
He tried to drink her into his soul,
He’d never be the same.
In his sorrow of tomorrow and the day that follows that,
He could only weep and borrow, self pity where he sat,
When on the midnight moon he heard a whisper on the breeze,
The bending of guitar strings, like bending of willow trees.
Caressing, addressing, assessing time itself,
Feeling healing, sealing wounds made on ones self.
He became one with the music and to himself wholeness came
As he learned to pick those guitar strings,
He never was the same.
One night a woman sat before him a whisper on her lips,
On a stage in a place that he played for tips
As she listen to his guitar, his sober fingers played
As he strummed another tune, his eyes upon her laid.
As she smiled up at him now his futures fate untold
Lay with in those days as lifes beauty started to unfold.
A year had passed since she first heard him play
Marriage and a chance to live every day
But when his son was born a prayer of thank came
For he folded his hands and bowed his head
He would never be the same
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005
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