A Shadowed, Darkened Course
by M. Griswold
10272020
I evoke a tale of a shadowed, darkened course.
Where death rides atop his ghostly gray horse.
He's astraddle his saddle with searching evil eye.
Scanning far then wide to spy who's next to die.
For no man nor woman that's ever been born.
Will escape this pale rider’s stare for the forlorn.
And upon each and all of us his gaze will rest.
Then withdraw our lives from hearts in breast.
Leeching, death latches upon our sorry bones.
Then drags us to where no good thing roams.
A place where shadows dwell and spirit’s groan.
A space of dank, darkened walls of a hellish tone.
Oh yes, I tell you a tale of all men's fearsome foe.
Of death and his dark place bare filled with woe.
I tell you this tale of death without any remorse.
Because it's all men's shadowed, darkened course.
While riding my bike down a lane
I felt an incredible pain
I was astraddle
Without my saddle
That's something I won't do again!
A Welsh Girl who loved Rock 'N Roll
Had little or no self-control
She flew off to France
Where she split her pants
Astraddle Le Grand Merhin Dol
Have you heard about cowpoke Clapsaddle?
,
He rode fer years on his horse astraddle.
His legs was badly bowed,
And he walked pigeon-toed.
Oddly he named his hoss Fiddle Faddle.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
He crawled from his bunk stiflin' a hearty yawn.
His work began each day at the very crack of dawn.
He donned his jeans, chaps and old slouch hat,
Pulled on his cowboy boots and strapped on his gat!
He downed a bowl of Cheerios which was his usual fare,
Then mounted Old Dan, his trusty hoss with habitual flair.
He coiled his lasso as he sat there leisurely astraddle.
'Twould be another hot and dusty day in his well-worn saddle!
His first chore was to patrol the miles of barbed wire fences,
Over the rolling plains of his spread's vast expanses.
There were dogies to herd to the corral, there to do battle,
Ropin' and brandin' dozens of cantankerous and wily cattle!
Pausin' at noon 'neath a ponderosa for much-needed relief,
The cook fed him beans, biscuits and roasted beef.
Then back in the saddle as Old Dan he gently spurred,
To continue roundin' up more of the frenzied herd!
It had been a tirin' day ridin' over rollin' hill and dale.
Now he and Old Dan headed home along the moonlit trail.
The five-year-old cowpoke awoke from his dream-filled nap.
Such a gruelin' trail it had been for that hardy little chap!
(c) All Rights Reserved (17 April 2014)
Hank hired on fer a dollar a day an' found.
He wuz knowed as th' best bronc buster around.
They wuz allus a roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips,
An' he wore his jeans an' chaps low on his hips!
He wuz lean an' lank an' had spent years in th' saddle,
As bow-legged as pliers, spending so much time astraddle!
Wearin' an ol' slouch hat an' well-worn boots,
He'd rode many a wild bronc out uv rodeo chutes!
"Thar stands th' orn'riest critter alive!" th' boss implied.
"Thar ain't no mustang 'round I cain't tame!" Hank replied.
Other cowpokes ambled to th' corral to enjoy th' show,
An' with knowin' grins watched Hank earn his dough!
Th' bronc jes stood there snortin' with fire in his eyes.
Hank could see trouble! Boys, wuz he in fer a su'prise!
Sech hossflesh he'd never rode! He'd never seen sech gyrations!
His ol' bones had never experienced sech sensations!
He wuz throwed, stomped an' wedged agin' th' fence.
With his pals cheerin' him on an' things a-gittin' tense,
He 'lowed, "Boys, I give up! He's beat me good!
I reckon I'd better find myself anuther livelihood!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
A cool midnight ride
Down the narrow spine
Of black water’s edge
Tattoos and chrome silver flashing
Beneath the strobe sparking streetlights
Astraddle warm engine metal
Fascination behind cannabis eyes
Within the brain leaves a hot fingerprint
Skin tingling beneath denim and leather
Rock-and-roll heartbeat run to the Deception Pass
Upon island’s northern tip spans suicide’s rail
Rider glides bridge’s span through hovering white clouds