Best Abilene Poems
I drive the night because of open road.
My retreads are sounding strong.
Hauling cars up from New Orleans
Where I'm not sure that I belonged.
Traded whiskey for a woman
At a bar in Abilene.
Then the pedal down up to Portland town
Helped along by methadrine.
There’s a lady there in Stumptown
She dances on the pole
Makes her pay in dollar bills
She's never ever home
Daylight fades and night descends
Men come, await their fate.
She sucks them dry and infects their soul,
Relights her lamp and waits…
She goes to church on Sunday.
Always comes in late.
She says a prayer, she sheds a tear,
puts food stamps in the plate.
Dropped my load down at the docks
there's a motel by the sea.
Homebase for my Peterbilt
That's parked out by the tree
Called her up, the kids are home.
I hear them laughining on the phone.
Grandma says she"s not around,
But she'll tell her I'm in town.
“Yea. tell her I'm in town again
And kiss the kids for me,
Gotta leave on Tuesday”.
Hung up and fell asleep.
The phone rang in the morning.
The call was short and sweet.
She had some things she had to do,
Didn’t think that we could meet.
Fueling up, the fog horns moan.
Red pills to feed the beast.
A woman left back in the fog.
A white line headed east.
Look at my life
Some say I've sinned.
My dreams were blown away
By the cruel ...
Highway Wind.
our lady of Guadalupe stands alight in corner air
her gown emerald, cerise, gold
Don Pedro stands afore
glass to glass in an amber glow
Lowry’s beaked bird of uva descent
shadows flicker here, there
on the morrow lies the tropical carnage
the insect floor, the frogs call all night
offshore the everlasting beacon of an occultist light
humanities illusion of delusion, forevermore
calling ships to a harbor where i have none
the rain praters, the storm roars, the poet walks the floor
she stirs, i am not there, panther pillow rising
Morrison's Spanish caravans
once more the earth pulls as Don Pedro and i kneel
the carnal carnival between her naps
is when my desk finds the lines
while waiting for the sun
Abilene 6/18
“How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?”
? Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
for those of you who have attended an Arts and Madness conference know the story. Edna St. Vincent Millay, master of the sonnet, the rage of her age now collects dust in the library and no longer studied at the university. her life of addiction and the cost in the wake of self-induced destruction surrounding her. the stupor of Elizabeth Bishop cost her the chance of a happy marriage. i could go on but what is important to me is that 28 years ago i walked away from the madness and kept the art.
Gunfight in old Abilene
With his hat drawn way down, reins loose in his hands
His horse sweating pints, the sun burning down
The dust from the trail was choking his throat
The Abilene sign, said, two miles to go
He rode into town, stared the folk down
He pulled up his horse at the watering trough
All scuttled inside as his boot hit the ground
The word was soon spread, that he was in town
His aim to avenge, a brother who’d died
By hand of a cowpoke, o’er game o’ cards
Known to be cheating and fast with a gun
He’d drawn and fired on unarmed man
Stepped out the poke, with a gun on each side
The stranger he sees with a look in his eye
Some paces they took, no words were exchanged
They stood face to face, staring each down
Silence it fell, the nerves were of steel
Dust blew around on the faintest of breeze
The desolate street, unreal in the scene
The stranger stood waiting, death in his eye
The air, it was crushed, as the guns they were fired
Bullets passed wild, on wings of hate
A thud, a cry, a hit was made
One fell to the ground, the sun burning down
The dust and the smoke, cleared from the air
Onto the street, the folks gathered round
Amazed at the speed the actions had been
Declaring the duel had seen a fair fight
He mounted his horse, tugged brim of hat,
His mission complete, justice on course
A man of the old west who never looked back
Where sun had gone down for the poke on the ground
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Hank had cowboyed on the Triple T Ranch fer nigh on fifty years.
He'd rode the range herdin' beef peerin' betwixt his hoss's ears.
Durin' cattle stampedes he'd broke bones and many a time was throwed,
And he'd been astraddle his saddle so long that his legs was stiffly bowed!
He loved the cowpokin' life but he didn't become rich by any means.
He'd even come to savor Cooky's usual grub of bacon, taters and beans.
Durin' brandin' time he roped and branded many a steer's scruffy hide.
He was a master with the brandin' arn and he wielded it with skillful pride!
He liked lollin' 'round the campfire a-jawin' with pards beneath the stars,
Sippin' java that smelled like old socks, smokin' roll-yer-owns and ceegars.
He pulled many a nighttime guard duty in sleet, snow and peltin' rain,
Blowin' on his harmonica to calm skittish herds which was quite a strain!
He'll miss huddlin' 'round the bunkhouse stove as storms blew driftin' snow,
While he and his pals listened to Tex sawin' away with his fiddle and bow.
Hank hung up his scruffy boots, tattered chaps and sweat-stained hat.
He'd already given away his well-worn saddle and his 44 caliber gat.
This was Hank's last roundup herdin' cattle to Abilene up the dusty trail,
Cussin' and sweatin' to get 'em loaded up to ship on the Chicago rail.
He stopped by fer a few snorts with the boys at the Long Branch cabaret,
Then cantered off into the sunset on Old Dan his trusty hoss, callin' it a day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Cowboys in the Badlands
Out West, across the great divide
great open spaces oceans wide.
Beauty in these badlands does hide
everything fights us as we ride.
Last stop, was exciting wild Abilene
shot an hombre that was very mean.
Watched him bleed as he slowly died
his gal held him and loudly she cried.
Before, she had sworn love to me
next his dying love she swore to be.
Riding away fast, ahead of the Law
looking back, cloud of dust we saw.
My partner lit out on me last night
cried this was surely not his fight.
He turned back east galloping so fast
we had our time, had a damn blast.
Ahead the badlands beckon me on
this cowboy life sets me all alone.
Hot as hell the water miles ahead
A night's rest to clear my head.
Morning sun woke me to great heat
no bread, bacon and eggs to eat.
Precious water is in very short supply
always fleeing, I ponder just why.
No time to enjoy such pretty views
my path ahead, my life I must choose.
Avoiding Indians and the chasing men
forever alone with never a friend.
This beauty now I can slow to see
posse has surely given up on me.
Coyotes call , rattlesnakes do hiss
comfort of town I do sorely miss.
Found now, a dusty trail to old Mexico
across the Rio Grande I now go.
Far behind, hell's horses race after me
dancing with pretty senoritas I'll soon be!
10/11/2014
Gift from God they called him, tall, lean and proud, the big iron
hanging on his belt, had opened many a shroud. He rode an Apaloosa,
a stallion maned and tailed, and had followed a gang of four outlaws for a month,
from Abilene, all the way down to Laredo. One evening as the sun hit sand and
rabbits stowed away, Jed Seddon, scouting for the gang, saw Mateo on his bay.
He shot him once and hit his hand but Mateo jumped down quickly from
his mount and circled around Jed below.
two slugs
to his back he pumped
three to go
For Haibun contest 30/7/15
Hank had rode the range a-punchin' cattle fer nigh on fifty years,
Ridin' through Texas northers and brandin' cantankerous steers.
He'd herded ornery longhorns along the Chisolm Trail to Abilene.
He'd signed on with the Triple D Ranch when he was about seventeen.
Hank had broke many a wild bronc and a heap of times was throwed,
And ridin' the saddle all them years, his legs was grievously bowed!
He put his loyal hoss Old Dan out to pasture and decided to retire,
To take quill in hand, reminisce and toss off verse by a glowin' fire.
He wrote about pullin' cattle-guard on dark and stormy nights;
The grandeur of the starry skies and the spectacular Northern Lights;
Splendid risin's of the sun and its magnificent settin's at end of day,
And sleepin' 'neath the mellow moon when it was time to hit the hay.
Hank wrote of the meager pay and many suppers of beans and bacon,
And the same for breakfast with acrid-tastin' java when he'd awaken!
The evenin' campfires with his pards a-singin' 'long with the harmonica,
And, yes, he wrote of a long-lost love, his dance hall queen, Suemonica.
He wrote about long, hot and dusty days in the saddle a-mendin' fences,
Of buffalo, antelope, tumbleweed and the beauty of God's great expanses.
His last poem spoke of the epitaph he wanted etched upon his stone:
"I ain't one to moan, But, Lord I was hopin' this ride You'd postpone!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
The ol' saddle warn't much to look at but it was all Buck could afford.
He paid Billy five bucks fer it when Billy died and loped to his eternal reward!
The saddle fit his hoss Dan like an ol' shoe and sat Buck's buttocks mighty well!
Fer twenty bucks a month and found, Buck cowboy'd fer an outfit called Ruby Bell.
The saddle was scratched and gouged from chasin' steers through salt pine brush,
And stained here 'n' there with terbaccy chaw and splotches of muddy slush!
The other fellers made sport of Bucks well-worn saddle but he cared nary a tittle.
He'd jes' grin his boyish grin and loose a well-aimed stream of terbaccy spittle!
He rode many a mile astraddle fixin' bobbed war fences and corallin' stray cattle,
On night herd duty or on the trail in snow, rain and dust but he allus won the battle!
He rode the ol' saddle herdin' longhorns on the Chisholm Trail up t'ward Abilene,
Abidin' cantankerous trail bosses, rushin' rivers and many a perilous ravine!
He and Dan tried their luck calf ropin' at the annual rodeo down the road a piece,
But a wily calf busted the horn off'n the saddle, bringin' his rodeo career to a cease!
Buck found comfort usin' the saddle as his piller 'round the campfar at night.
He'd cuddle it like a dance hall queen he knowed 'til dawn's blindin' light!
Buck was as bow-legged as a pair of pliers from sittin' saddle fer many a decade.
He and Dan and the saddle had become mighty weary and somewhat frayed!
"Boys" he said, pointin' to a knoll, "When I come to the end of the trail and I'm dead,
Bury me beneath that pine yonder along with my saddle as a piller fer my head!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Hank lounged on his porch watchin' the sun slowly sinkin' in the west.
He'd cowboyed for nigh on sixty years and figgered he'd done his best.
Hank and his faithful hoss Old Dan was now enjoyin' their leisure years,
And he had time to recall his ranchin' days while tossin' back some beers!
He was so bow-legged from ridin' saddle he looked like a pair of pliers!
His hands was stained and gnarled from roll-yer-owns and mendin' wires.
He'd hung up his spurs, chaps and well-worn saddle without regret,
But he wore his scruffy boots, leather vest, jeans and sombrero yet.
He shuddered recalling stormy nights that spooked the wild-eyed steers,
Causin' hell-raisin' stampedes that endangered him and his peers.
He remembered more peaceful times ridin' herd with cattle happily grazin',
And a time or two chasin' cussed' rustlers with his .44 guns a-blazin'!
He swore he'd never eat another bean, tater or bacon in his life,
Since that's all Cooky knowed how to fix, a subject of constant strife!
He recalled how he stammered when meetin' ladies in many a saloon,
Which left him pawin' the floor with his pointy boots, feelin' like a goon!
Hank remembered cattle drives and in Abilene drawin' his meager pay,
Spendin' it on rot-gut whiskey and schemin' wimmin, blowin' it all away.
Hank peered into the distance and gazed at a lone pine tree in the vale,
Thinkin', "I want to be planted there when I've reached the end of the trail!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
In Texas, High School Football is king
Every Friday night there’s a game
A big event and the stands are full
The games aren’t played for fun, they’re for fame
In my second year of College life
My High School Football team went to State
I was compelled to go to Baytown
A Championship maybe their fate
So proud was I, my team on the field
In the high school color, power blue
The group of us sitting in the stands
Tyler High fans through and through
Then the Abilene team came on the field
I could feel a big lump in my throat
Man for man they all looked like giants
The front linemen were something of note
From the first snap, you knew things were bad
Abilene’s linemen were in control
The whole line of scrimmage moved with them
My team got trampled under their roll
Yes, Trampled would be the word of choice
And it continued throughout the game
Abilene won the Championship
Trampled Tyler left Baytown in shame
Born out on Highway 9 down in Corpus
Saw a mermaid in the gulf or maybe a porpoise
What a time at South Padre during Spring break
In Amarillo one time I tried to eat a giant steak
And I’m drunk in Del Rio again
Drank beer, long neck bottles of Lone Star
Just sittin’ on a stool at Mickey Gilley’s Bar
I fell in love with a country gal from Abilene
Damn, she had the nicest legs I’d ever seen
And I’m drunk in Del Rio again
Fifty yard line seats to watch America’s team
Roger, Troy, Emmett, Deon, Bullet Bob, what a dream
Spent my whole pay check at a house in La Grange
Partner, lets just say, it aint home on the range
And I’m drunk in Del Rio again
And I’m drunk in Del Rio again
Lyrics to:
The Texas Poet Two Step
There won't be no Sun out on the Brazos
There won't be no rain in Abilene
I won't write a poem for Tom's contest
And Margaret Reid won't get a check from me
I'm tired of my poems lining trash cans
And see'in my money go to waste
And when that winners 'Click', has their party
It's like throw'in a can of 'Loser' in my face
chorus
Yes, I thought about the contest
I thought that I could win
But then, reality started sett'in in
I know I'd write with passion
Eloquence and grace
But in the end , I won't even place
So, I know what I'll do with all that money
I'll hold it in My hand and keep it near
And the day they claim to have their Contest Drawing
I'm buying sixteen dollars worth of beer.
chorus
Yes, I thought about the contest
I thought that I could win
But then, reality started sett'in in
I know I'd write with passion
Eloquence and grace
But in the end , I won't even place
Heeyah
It was a Tuesday night and dull boredom had set in
‘ thought I heard my ol’ car say: “Take us for a spin!
Go pickup Bobby Mac and maybe Cindy too,
‘Cause it’s Tuesday night … and there’s nothin’ else to do”.
Bobby Mac rode “shotgun” with Cindy in between
While I gripped that steerin’ wheel, and drove through Abilene
We stopped ’n got some soft drinks an’ an order of French fries
Then off we sped again - crusin’ ‘neath those Texas skies
Cindy’s eyes were sparklin’ when Bobby told a joke
Once I had to stop the car, ( ‘cause I had spilt my Coke!)
Then Bobby Mac, he asked me: “Just what can this car do …
Can it reach a hundred … or maybe go on through?”
I turned around and cruised on down to Ol’ Comanche Road.
I was rev’in’ up my engine, while the dual exhausts bellowed
I popped the clutch - tires protested with their clouds of smoke
Horsepower erupted through every bore and stroke
The needle on the dashboard gauge was approaching one-oh-oh
And then I felt that right front tire when it decided to “let go”
It happened in a heartbeat, but slow motions’ what I see
For now I’ll relive that awful night for all eternity.
And Cindy has no sparkle left within her big brown eyes
And Bobby Mac’s no jokes to tell ‘neath those Texas skies
While I sit here on this cloud with Bob and Cindy Lou
… Now and forever more … they’ll be Nothin’ Else to Do.
Don’t speed.
A hot breeze blew the other day, as the Chipmunk Kid rode into Troll Lake Town.
He rode on the oldest, slowest steed, that I had ever seen, a Snail called Abilene.
He came a packing, with a six shooter acorn gun, riding low, for an easy draw.
Armadillo Billy The Sling Shot Kidster, was his intended target, you know, y’all.
Sheriff Bunny Garrett said, he’d shot Billy down, but the word had gotten round.
Billy was alive and in our town, so The Chipmunk Kid wanted him found, right now!
A meaner glare, had never been seen, as it slowly moved, around our town. Tho…
Something seemed amiss; perhaps it was his crossed eyes, and petulant frown.
Climbing down from his stead, he landed face down, in the snail slime of his stead,
On that fateful day, Billy solemnly shook his head, at the craziness of this strange Kid.
The Chipmunk Kid had moxie, but little else of praise or glory, I can honestly say.
For when we told him Billy was here, The Chipmunk Kid, then fainted straight away.
Not to mention, his snail stead, old Abilene, shied away, when this happened, too.
Now, he could have grabbed the reigns, for Abilene had only moved, an inch or two.
But the Chipmunk Kid was a bit flighty, you see, as he took his lasso from his side.
Before he was done he’d tied himself up, and Dear old Billy, couldn't help but smile.
Armadillo Billy knew he’d won in that minute, not having to fire a single slingshot.
That’s how, it should be done, he knew, after seeing what the Kid had wrought.
He was happy, to just once see, ALL come out alive, still knowing that he had won.
They became fast friends, with time, as he taught The Kid the true meaning, of life.
They had lots of time, you know, as Abilene, couldn't seem to make it out of town.
Poor old Abilene was winded, from extended travel to find our beloved, little town.
It turned out; he wasn't a snail after all, just a very confused and ancient old slug.
So, as you might have guessed, we did naturally make room, as we usually do…
Yes, for the illustrious Chipmunk Kid, and Abilene, his dear old slug.