I miss superwomen.
They led us through somehow.
Not off a cliff,
Or into an abyss.
Strongly and quietly stating the obvious.
Human beings are important.
Each person has a place.
To contribute to our community,
Our country and space.
The superwomen I miss.
Could fill this page with a list.
Ginsberg
Chisholm
Ochoa
To name a few.
Where are our superwomen?
Ready to speak with elegance, intelligence, and grace.
Where are our superwomen,
To lead us from disgrace.
They say life is like a sit-com,
“Honeymooners” reruns play on down the years;
They say life is like a soap opera—
You wash your dishes and then you dry your tears.
They say life is like a cop show—
Big blue light follows you in close pursuit;
They say life is like a game show—
You win a set of luggage from the man in the shiny suit.
But I say life is a Western movie,
On the Chisholm Trail you ride through the wind and rain;
Life is a Western movie,
‘Cause every now and then you’ve got to face that high noon train.
Yes, life is a Western movie,
In the California gold rush you just might get rich;
Or down in Texas they might run off all your cattle,
So you might form a posse and string up the son-of-a-gun.
I tell you, life is a Western movie,
Cowgirls watch you when you make that rodeo ride;
But all you really need is one good cowgirl
To stand beside till you cross that Great Divide.
But I say life is a Western movie,
On the Chisholm Trail you ride through the wind and rain,
Life is Western movie,
‘Cause every now and then you’ve got to face that high noon train,
And ride off in the distance just like Shane…
Just like Shane.
1987
They say life is like a sit-com,
“Honeymooners” reruns play on down the years;
They say life is like a soap opera—
You wash your dishes and then you dry your tears.
They say life is like a cop show—
Big blue light follows you in close pursuit;
They say life is like a game show—
You win a set of luggage from the man in the shiny suit.
But I say life is a Western movie,
On the Chisholm Trail you ride through the wind and rain;
Life is a Western movie,
‘Cause every now and then you’ve got to face that high noon train.
Yes, life is a Western movie,
In the California gold rush you just might get rich;
Or down in Texas they might run off all your cattle,
So you might form a posse and string up the son-of-a-gun.
I tell you, life is a Western movie,
Cowgirls watch you when you make that rodeo ride;
But all you really need is one good cowgirl
To stand beside till you cross that Great Divide.
But I say life is a Western movie,
On the Chisholm Trail you ride through the wind and rain,
Life is Western movie,
‘Cause every now and then you’ve got to face that high noon train,
And ride off in the distance just like Shane…
Just like Shane.
1987
There’s an empty place by the campfire
That no one had noticed before—
Once filled with poems and old stories
About the Old West and its lore.
I can still hear the tin cups clanking,
The soft sipping of the hot joe—
All the tunes of the old Chisholm Trail—
Things only a cowboy would know.
The fire’s warm but somehow we’re still cold,
By what’s gone from our fire and heart—
We know the loneliness soon leaves us—
All the things of this earth will part.
But now all our voices are hollow
And there’s a void left by the flame—
New riders will soon fill that old place,
But somehow it won’t be the same.
There’s an empty place by the campfire
And all of us know that it’s there—
We know that ours will be empty, too,
When there’s no more stories to share.
Cresting the rise, a glare in his eyes.
Squinting as sharp shards of sun
reflect off the river.
His gloved hand instinctively shadows his face.
Dust in the wind, talcum powder thin
coating, caressing, coloring
grass, leaves, cowboys and cattle
all shades of sepia and cocoa brown.
The river is low, the current slow.
A turtle shell mound of mud, mid-stream,
rutted by thousands of hooves.
Punchers pause, stirrup deep,
the Cimarron soaking up through their souls.
Memories flood without warning
just like this river,
Swollen and swift, it sends cattle
crashing, thrashing, slashing.
The kid, that’s all anyone knew him as, just “The Kid”,
hung up under his longhorn-punctured pony,
was buried amidst those sycamores.
He never did see the Kansas plains.
Shifting in his saddle, blinking away the vision,
the rider’s breath catches in his chest.
A daydream? Mirage?
Or shadows of the past, lingering,
where once they crossed the Cimarron on the Chisholm Trail?
Mopping the dust from his forehead, he rides on,
leaving the past to itself.
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2005
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