Best Western Poems
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Like kin folk come to stay
A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids
That always get ‘n your way.
It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought,
There ain't much in-between.
You work like hell to make ’em good,
But still they’re sorta lean.
The ranch went under late last year,
The drought got mighty tough.
The boss held-out a long, long time,
But finally said, "enough!"
So here I am dispatchin’ cops
An’ watchin’ felons sleep,
In Junction, at the county jail,
A job I’ll prob’ly keep.
The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge,
Where older people stay,
A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors
To earn some ‘extra’ pay.
Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used,
It goes to payin’ rent,
An’ after all the bills are paid,
We wonder where it went.
We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps,
An' then our weddin' rings;
Then when we couldn't pay the loan,
They sold the 'dad-blamed' things.
We felt real bad a day or two
But then we let it go,
Cause it got Christmas for the kids
When money got real slow.
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Don't matter who you are;
They'll cost ya things you've set aside,
An' clean your cookie jar.
You'll loose some sleep an' worry some,
Won't pay to moan an' groan;
But hang on to your happiness,
They'll finally leave ya 'lone.
Deeply dive into my Southern border. . again
again. . border around my existence ever so deeply
Somewhere over the Horizon
love is met gently
Images melt into one, opening the melody within- desires are found
found are the sensations leading to hills and tight spaces and soft images
Somewhere over the Horizon
fantasy meets reality
Kiss evenly along my Northern hemisphere taking the time to. . explore
explore. . delicate tips and melting lips and that Eastern border aching for a kiss
Somewhere over the Horizon
reality finds you and me
Trace the chills along my Western curves as pleasure whispers. . deep
deep. . into my Southern border once again, the melody you trace
Somewhere over the Horizon
we collide passionately
_______________
Just a little Scribble
~ Sweet Imagery ~
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
His barn burned to the soil;
The flames licked at the Autumn sky,
The smoke as black as oil.
I dropped the torch onto the earth,
And felt the whole world turn,
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s barn,
I stood and watched it burn.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I set his horses free,
They galloped over grass and sand,
They galloped to the sea;
I dropped my whip onto the floor
And thoughts turned to my gun
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s herd,
I stood and watched them run.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I put him in the ground,
My bullets found his heart and brain,
He fell without a sound;
And as his lifeblood ebbed away
And light fled from his eyes,
I stood and watched Will Shepard leave,
I stood and watched him die.
And now I sit here in my cell
And through the bars I spy
The carpenter with wood and nails,
Who builds my gallows high;
My vengeance has been satisfied
As far as I can see,
For that old dog Will Shepard shot
Meant all the world to me.
O' Butterfly, a child, disgraced
Bewitched without a chance
Beguiled, exquisitely endowed. Frail wings held no escape
Such innocence would glaze her eyes, as gossamer might do
He wooed her far astray with words, of promised wedded bliss
Travail would kiss the purest heart,
and weigh her soul with song
~
The season blossomed, softly charmed
of spring and cultured lore
But disarmed with hope of tender leaves
of which the leaves were tongues
His arms had warmed the coldest night, no stars to right the wrongs
Tho' moon wore shadows of the sins
conceived by western codes
Her nature pure, as gentle rain, was as welcome as the sun
Expressed in humble, reverent awe,...so eloquently sung
A collector dressed in mock disguise…, without a thought or shame
forgetful of her fragile ways, he caught her by surprise
A uniform of chloroform, a smile that didn't warn
A net, he held, along with schemes, a plot to win her hand
then trapped her with a smile, a whim, a ruse of false intent
With kisses spent, upon her cheek
She flew into the bliss, with trust, a web of false retreat....
The deep abyss of love, she fell, her heart upon her sleeve
His promises, with no repent, pretense, though, never spent
Beneath the spell.....he said farewell, and kept the lies intact.
With broken wings she could not fly
Her eyes gazed out upon the seas
Her voice cried out soliloquies
But anguish left her there to die
as if to find release
Her heart impaled. The sword had won
Grief had muted midnight's tongue
while east winds echoed with her song…
In death her song lives on
________________________________________________________
Inspired by the opera "Madame Butterfly"
With pitchforks and torches they rode through the night,
their goal was Milton Creek, by dawns early light.
A surprise attack was what they had foreseen,
led by the infamous, lollipop queen.
With a group of ringed men, she’d deceived and collected,
they rode for the jail, for the first one she’d infected.
In shackles and chains, her best awaited his trial,
I can’t say his name, so we’ll just call him Kyle.
Old Kyle was arraigned for a snake oil ruse,
he claimed to sell medicine but was just peddling booze.
They stopped just out of town by farmer Bill’s pig pen,
where they all shared a lollipop, and a *Cornish game hen*.
Rested and fed, they all headed for town,
their plan was to free Kyle and turn his frown upside down.
There were many new graves that we helped Mayor Tom to dig,
we could smell them all coming, they were pungent like a pig.
Little did they know how Milton Creek was protected,
we watched each other’s back, and our defense was perfected.
David and Terry, were perched on the roof of the jail,
I stood right out front with my leaded cocktail.
Tania and Jan were on the top of the saloon,
Milton was keeping watch, as he played a catchy tune.
Deb was on the ground, locked and loaded,
Lin had Jenna’s Winchester and some dynamite to be exploded.
*a Cornish game hen is produced from a cross between the Cornish and white Plymouth rock chicken breeds, it is served young and immature weighing no more than two pounds*
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
Sunset
golden rays fading
across western horizon…
whispering good-night
11/16/2015
Poem of the Day - 11-18-2015
A well-appointed cowpoke, of whom there are still a few,
Wanted to be properly clad for his first job interview.
So, to impress his potential and somewhat cynical boss,
He has a silver-studded saddle throwed across his hoss!
He's wearin' a ten-gallon hat, a Stetson if you please,
And a bandana 'round his neck to catch the dusty breeze.
The dude has a roll-yer-own a-danglin' from his lips,
And a shiny pair of forty-fours a-hangin' from his hips!
He's wearin' a hand-tooled leather belt of the finest grade,
And a "cowboy" shirt and a vest cut from top-grade suede!
A woolly pair of chaps covers his bow-legged knees,
And protects his Calvin Kleins that fit so tight they squeeze!
His gleamin' pair of Tony Lama boots with pointy toes,
Completes what he considers proper cowboyin' clothes.
The silver spurs on his boots glint in the noonday sun;
Ah, he's the ideal picture of a range-ridin' son-of-a-gun!
The boss, arms folded, feet spread, sportin' a knowin' grin,
Didn't seem to be impressed, much to the greenhorn's chagrin.
Sizin' him up from head to toe, he said, "You look fit and able",
Handed him a fork and shovel and sent him to the stable!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved
Unborn tomorrows..
Disguise unknown sorrows
Leaving hearts full..
Not empty and hollow
Unborn tomorrows..
Always send a rainbow smile
After dark clouds..
Have had their while
Unborn tomorrows..
Leave room for dreams to grow
Even ones forgotten..
So long ago
Unborn tomorrows..
Give all a second chance
To rekindle..
Lost romance
Unborn tomorrows..
Provide opportunity to say thank you
I love you..
And appreciate all you do
Unborn tomorrows..
Give a chance to say
I'm sorry I acted that way..
I don't always mean everything I say
Unborn tomorrows..
Are like life itself
Breathe in and out..
Nothing else
Just assuming the next one will come
Until the last one and then it's done..
So breathe deep and let it go..
If tomorrow doesn't come, you'll never know..
For God is love....
©Donna Jones
* I heard the phrase unborn tomorrow a long long time ago on an old western show when I was a kid..I thought it was beautiful and still do...
We’ve shared the trail, kicked up some dust,
An’ stood a storm or two.
We’ve rode the plains, the wide frontier,
The easy trails were few.
You’ve listened like some wise old sage
To ever thing I’ve said,
An’ as a friend, supported me,
No matter where it led.
I wished I coulda carried you,
The times you were in pain;
Or rustled up some kinda shed
To turn the blowin’ rain.
I’ve come up shy with some your needs,
You gave me more’n you got,
But in your silence, seemed to know,
I needed you a lot.
Compadre, friend, amigo, pard;
I called you all them things,
But there’s been times, I swear to God,
You musta had some wings,
An’ He sent you to care for me
Like no one had before.
If you’as a man an’ not a horse,
I couldn’t a-loved you more.
We gave this ranch our sweat an’ blood,
It’s yours as much as mine,
An’ raised our young’uns through the years,
An’ Lord they’re doin’ fine.
They’re blazin’ trails an’ raisin’ dust,
They’re off an’ runnin’ free.
We’ve taught ‘em well an’ made ‘em strong;
Compadre, you an’ me.
I always knew the day would come
When we would fine’ly ride,
To join the Maker’s round-up time,
Up on the Great Divide.
I sorta hoped we’d share the trail
But this was not to be,
So, you go on, we’ll ride again;
Compadre, you an’ me.
Come and sit here by the fire
Watch the flickering firelight
Let me touch your lips with mine
Will you keep me warm tonight
I've been here reminiscing
Just feeling kind of sad
Wondering why angels love outlaws
And all the times we had
We've been through Hell together
Feeling the pleasure and the pain
Stood side by side against the world
In the sunshine and the rain
Outlaws live their lives on the edge
Their castles built with sand
Why angels fall in love with them
It's hard to understand
So while we're sitting by this fire
And thinking of all the times you cried
This outlaw loves his angel
I want you forever by my side.
You think you’re alone out on the range
Sittin’ silent under starry sky,
Just a marvelin’ at the universe
And wonderin’ ‘bout that ol’ question: why?
You shake your head at worlds of worry,
Knowin’ it ain’t often that you’ll find,
All the answers to your queries
Beneath the clear black sky and pine.
You wonder if we rose up from mud
And walked straight and tall upon this earth—
Or was it all created in a moment—
A conception that gave us true birth.
Are we all no more than those monkeys
Evolvin’ slowly down life’s long line?
Or is there more to earth and heaven
Touched by something truly sublime?
We keep on punchin’ clocks and cattle
And tryin’ to get through each new morn—
But is there more to life than dyin’
And will we somehow be reborn?
All the cattle know my hard proddin’
As I lead them along time’s sad way—
We live for but a flashin’ moment,
As we watch life go by in one short day.
So make the best of trails you ride, cowboy—
Each tomorrow is both yours and mine—
And gaze long at stars in that vast sky
Placed there by intelligent design.
When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone,
They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday,
In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray.
I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years.
I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers,
Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end,
Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men.
Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame,
But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name.
Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone,
Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone.
The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed
And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade.
From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men
To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again.
A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair,
For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there.
And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade,
The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid.
I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe.
I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue.
Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way,
Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday.
Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will,
That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still;
When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone
And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
Gold Fever
History will not record the bloated weight
Of this pious and bigoted race
Or count the fat and flaccid wealth
Of religions idolatry
Those pages have been scrubbed clean
By prosperous forgivingness
And the cruelty of established political dominion
Will not tally the bodies of the oppressed
To them, faith and belief are merely a weapon
A system of abusive control
And a means of power continuation
A dictatorial right to rule the population
History will not record the inheritance of opinion
But lay blind at the doors of massacre
The Aztec, The Aborigine, The North American Indian, The African *****,
Pray in silence to The Church
Centuries written in blood and torture
For a message of verbiage and usage
Extracted and leeched from the poor and uneducated
Created the western dream
The long night of the witch hunt is not over
The Inquisition has saved us
With fake blood and wooden crosses
This elite of moral perspective shall save us all
We have paid the price in conscience
Superiority managed by white skinned indifference
Holy mother church has welcomed all
All into its iron embrace of slack jawed wonder
And what more despicable rule can there be
Than to dictate ones own spiritual journey
Spouted by the rote of political expediency
And the promise of heaven
Ingrained now this so called Christian ethic
And so much of the truth left distorted
Forgotten now are the ancient mystical secrets
Which united mankind to understanding
Idol of gold and crucifixion
Of cathedral and stained glass objectification
Gilt and holy water of sumptuous ritual
Of silken pope and luxurious self righteous invention
An aberration of human faith and belief
An unrepentant destroyer of “ Loves ” dream
The curse of The Christ as you continue to translate
The Word
And where the paupers fist crunches the dirt
Where dried and parched lips pray for rain
Where the desperate cry for a reason echoes
Where blood flows in feted anger
Where children scream in fear
Where hunger and despair debase and demean
Where there is no light
And in the dark only pain
If you wish to care for the souls of mankind
Preacher
It is there with them
There
Is where you should be