Glad to be here next to morning
where the sun shines like a sign
Augur moments made for singing
old refrains of songs of time
Belting out she aims to rhyme
It's an honor to be part of
earth's remembrances and joy
Harbingers of love thereof
she His messenger His envoy
Singing out like Helen of Troy
Beneath a sky of ancient blue
one daughter filled with awe
Revering flowers filled with dew
and blessed crows that caw
Voicing out with gusto, chaw
Sittin’ in th’ saddle. Gotta soon skedaddle.
School marm says she’ll tattle. Sheriff wants a battle.
Kissed her on the cheek jes’ to git a li’l peek
at her widow’s peak ‘cause she’s purty an’ petite.
Gotta hankerin’ to git off ol’ Buck and sit
a spell afore I quit and have a chaw to spit.
Cogitatin’ and bidin’ time afore ridin’
down that canyon hidin’ lest I git a chidin’.
Starin’ out blinkin’, doin’ some proper thinkin’
‘bout the stars a twinklin’ and my heavy drinkin’.
My casual, carousin’ rife, hidin’ from the strife
of settlin’ down my life an’ takin’ on a wife.
Soon I’ll fergit the threat, fergit my social debt
I don’t wanna sweat dirt jes’ to pay a moral bet
farmin’ unfertile land, or workin’ for the man.
Druther take a stand and work as lonely cowhand.
Might as well admit it, I’m a social misfit.
Don’t wanna submit it, or give up an’ quit it.
Searchin’ but cain’t seem to find comfort in my mind.
Guess it’s ’bout time I recognize I’m doin’ jes’ fine.
Chicory chew chew, tobakky chaw
I love my pappy. I love my ma.
Spit in a tin can, straight from my jaw
Chicory chew chew, tobakky chaw.
She never gave up that recipe, the
boys' favorite iced tea, made
smooth and sweet. Women
sit in the kitchen going over
coupons and recipes, regurgitating
the latest gossip heard in the
pew behind at this morning's
service. men sit on the porch
tucking chaw in their
lip pocket, spitting in a bucket
on the railing. Waiting for the
race to start, supper to be
served, the clouds to pass so
lawn can be mowed. Another
Sunday without Mama. The
iced tea is off, just enough
for the boys to notice, the
women to know they missed
again. If only she'd learned
to write, we'd have the recipe.
You get to a point where
you can’t read them anymore
and consider yourself a grown-up.
But it wasn’t until I was fifty-two
that I threw them away.
How long could they hide
in a high school brief case
next to a box of sweaters
in the attic?
So…into the Dumpster Doodle-Doo
they went: her Wuthering epistles,
and my Heathcliff’s angst
Risen to the “beep beep beep”
of a trash trawler’s chaw.
By then she was a preacher’s wife
in Pennsylvania, and I was running
Manufacturing trades for a defense
plant in Rhode Island,
a job for which I was
wholly unsuited
They were two new skins
for the both of us
only one of which
had been redeemed.
A Cowboy's Journal
By: Tom Wright
10/10/98
The old corral stands,
silver and smooth from no care.
From years of neglect,
in the crisp mountain air.
Earlier covered with frost
now black and wet from the thaw.
I saddled Sugar Foot, my Mustang,
then searched my vest for a chaw.
Finishing up with my Mustang,
I checked again old Jack.
He was packed out with water,
along with a full winters tack.
It is Molly's first pack trip
and her load fits like a glove.
Now, it's off to the Line Shack,
beyond the ridge top above.
Snow to Sugar Foots belly,
I had to ride through.
With ice frozen to my stirrups,
but what's a Cowboy to do.
I'll keep the fences mended,
even rounding up a stray.
and on cold winter nights,
keep the Wolves at bay.
Then alone at night,
by the fireplace I'll sit.
Listening to the fire talk,
while I whittle and spit.
As Christmas approached
I had myself a real treat.
For I bagged a big Elk
and had fresh camp meat.
Enough meat to last
beyond next springs thaw.
When I'll pack out my animals
and head back down the draw.
Cowboy Howdy the Clown still goes
To town with ten little shoes on his toes
Purple hair and a square blue nose
Ten grey flowers for Cimarron Rose
An itty bitty teeny weeny cowboy hat
Vaquero chaps and a little dogies tat
A plug of chaw and a lariat
Two six-shooters and a shoulder rat
He sure looks silly; he sure looks strange
And he's looking for his home on the range.
When auld friends meet,
To chaw and waste,
And barmaid brings,
The Lad's the taste.
The more the taste,
The more the waste,
And under breath, the wives will curse when call for grace.
But wives agreed. They took the vows.
And grace can wait on hearth and stone,
Til' Lads' be done and oot and home.
Lad's cause no harm,
And some say charm.
And barmaids' heard,
Much worse the yarn.
Bring more ale!
The Lad's will call.
But barmaid says "No more to all",
She knows for where,
And Lad's know too,
That home is where their hearts are true.
And home come Lad's,
Til' next is time,
When taste is calling,
And waste is fine.
For Lad's work hard,
Complete the week,
But only once for they can meet,
Again to taste and chaw and waste.
Graham Alexander Devenish
Chocolate Molten Cake dessert for two
Layered Devil's Food Cake fluffy and rich
In the center chocolate oozes through
Frozen vanilla ice cream does the trick
A little to cleanse the palate of sweet
Warm chocolate syrup which can bewitch
Not on my diet, for a taste did cheat
A huge dessert to be shared by just two
Or maybe more, a few bites each can eat
When shared a special dessert's fat won't rue
Eaten with loved ones, savor each morsel
Bid all ill effects a happy adieu
If shared with all at the table, don't gobble
Let sharing fairly be the story's moral
Chocolate can be pronounced with two or three syllables:
chaw-kuh-lit or chawk-lit
Inspired by Alfred Vassallo's contest Terza Rima/about what you like
Written: Monday, September 15, 2014
Arkansas
OK, I hail from R-Kansas
That’s what some call the state
We’re the model of the future
Stuck in 1958
My cousins are your cousins
Our DNAs the same
And sometimes when we marry
We don’t have to change our names
In spite of public thinking
I still have all my teeth
‘Cept for 2 or 3 the top ones
And 3 or 4 beneath
I lost some in a bar fight
The others lost to chaw
My mother was an angel
I don’t even know my Pa
I have shoes but I don’t wear them
‘Cept with Sunday overhauls
We sing praises to our good lord
In our sleepy southern drawls
As for fishin’ and for huntin’
Well that’s a gull-durn given
If you ain’t killin’ somethin’
Then you ain’t really livin’
Don’t knock me for my birth place
I’m just having fun
It’s just the place where I grew up
And now I’m glad I’m “From”
Mdailey 3/31/12
Written for someone on facebook as a joke. I have never lived in Arkansas
Grandpa and his kin gathered at the mill,
“It’s n’uther thanksgiving, y’all! Eat yer fill!
Hey cuzz Joe Bob, what’s the deal?
Whose turkey did y’all steal?”
What turkey? Y’all be chompin on road kill!
Yes siree y’all might have to chaw some,
But this barbequed swill be awesome!
Be a shame for it to waste,
So salt and pepper to taste,
And feast on some almost fresh possum!
Inspired by :
my poetry friend Carolyn Devonshire. : )
I met a lanky ol' feller th' other day,
An' I want ter tell ya'll about 'im if'n I may.
An' ol' slouch hat was pulled down on his pate,
An' he ambled along at a leisurely gait.
Slightly bowed legs says he'd spent years in th' saddle.
His steely-eyed glare would make a rattlesnake skedaddle!
His flowin' mustaches drooped down b'low his jaw.
In his cheeks wuz a huge wad uv terbaccy chaw!
He wuz leadin' a handsome cattle cuttin' cayuse.
Let me tell ya'll uv his skill with a stream of terbaccy juice.
Why, its been told 'round these parts fer years,
That frum fifty paces he kin pin back a jack rabbit's ears!
"Well, it's time to go ter work", rails the boss,
An' he climbs aboard his good and faithful hoss.
Ridin' all day long, th' fences to mend, and,
Gittin' ready to round up the dogies to brand!
Pete tol' me he'll never herd cows in a pick-up truck,
Nor eat grub frum no fancy eatery fer chuck.
He'll keep ridin' th' range on his devoted ol' horse,
Cowboyin' th' ol' ways with absolutely no remorse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
In search of long lost orchards
where apple blossoms bloom;
an ole white ashen farmhouse
and corncrib-playhouse rooms.
Searching for the scent of pine
where lingering laughter lies,
for the summer days gone by
and seashells on the tide.
Hungering for spruce gum chaw
we dug from crooks of trees
for the tart and bittersweet
memories of childhood deeds.
Rodeo Roy was a buckaroo boy,
A buckaroo boy was he—
Bulls and horses determined his courses—
They say he was only three!
Rodeo Roy never found his true joy,
Until he was all of ten—
He learned to chaw just like his dear ol’ paw,
Till he gulped and lost his grin!
He shot the bull until he was plum full
And had to prove he’s a man—
He rode longhorns till he bucked in the thorns,
But he showed he had the sand!
He wrestled steers till they came out his ears
And threw a good houlihan—
He rode bad broncs and took him some hard knocks—
But his life was never bland.
Rodeo Roy had to seek new employ—
It seemed he had done it all—
Sioux City Sal then soon became his gal
And that’s how ol’ Roy did fall!
Sioux did allow Roy into her corral,
But he’s the one that got caught.
Rodeo Roy has a buckaroo boy—
He’s changin’ diapers like he ought!
There’s been a lot of speculatin’
‘Bout the cologne some cowboys wear,
And the toothpaste and the sweet mouthwash
And the way he combs his long hair!
I’s here to clear up the confusion
‘Bout these gallant ol’ equine gents—
And tell ya the gall dern ol’ stark truth,
That will make fer good cowboy sense.
Cowboy toothpaste is black gunpowder
And his mouthwash is rye whiskey—
But we’ll never know ‘bout his cologne
‘Cause getting’ close is too risky!
And if on the subject of hygiene,
He remains silent as a sphinx—
Ya better chaw ya some strong garlic
To cover up the fact he stinks!
Don’t git me wrong on my conclusion,
When some ol’ cowboy smells like rot—
‘Cause others take a bath once a month,
Whether they dern needs it or not!
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