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Life ain't easy, Son

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Below is the poem entitled Life ain't easy, Son which was written by poet Tamara Hillman. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Life ain't easy, Son

When strollin' by the ol' saloon,
on chairs they kept outside,
I spied a dried up, lonsome sort
folks walked by, but eyed.

He had a faithful doggie
with head laid on his knee.
The ol' man stroked him softly, 
kind, devotedly.

I stopped an' took a seat nearby,
then shared a cut of chaw.
I thought his story might be good-
he reminded me of Pa.

I asked just where he hailed from,
he didn't bat an' eye-
looked off in space, took one deep breath,
prob'ly thinkin' up a lie.

Come from ever'where, Son,
been places you ain't dreamed.
I settled back to listen.
He relaxed a bit it seemed.
                     
An Indian fighter, I once was,
rode with the Cavalry.
Met ol' Yeller Hair himself
in eighteen, sixty-three.

Was wagon master for some folks
seekin' land to claim,
leavin' homes an' fam'lies east-
thought the West they'd tame.

Had a wife I sure 'nough loved,
two daughters an' a son,
the cholera took 'em all one year,
my driftin' then begun.

Did some drovin' 'hind the herds,
eatin' miles a dust,
catchin' strays, an' keepin' watch
for rustlers we could bust.

Owned a ranch in Texas
but never got no rain,
the drought, it lasted six years,
no reason to remain.

I killed a man in Denver,
the bugger had it comin',
he kicked my dog, stole my horse,
broke the guitar I was strummin'.

Cut trees out in Wyomin',
lumber-jacked a bit.
Camp bully always threatnin',
my throat he'd like to slit.

I rode the rails a piece back then,
an' dern near froze my tail,
sittin' in them boxcars
thru' rain, an' wind, an' hail.

Now, I'm nigh on eighty,
an' comin' to my end.
I thank ya Son for listenin' ,
ya seem 'most like a friend.

I reckon that I've lived some,
an' ain't sure now I'm done,
I just take one day at a time
'cause life ain't easy, Son.


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