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Cowboy Poetry
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prayedintonguesandinterpreatedfathersday@1stdayofsummersolistice62115graydyethegodpoet
We drove back evil
We did some healings
I ain't hidin from nobody
nobody hidin from me
the peace which passeth all understanding!!!
"DAH"
Father
take care of your
own tribe First
He told me take ye the proverbs
and set them to rolling
ABBA
Desiderata
Thank u Jesus
meekness
Light the candle John.
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Cowboy Poetry
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My Father wears a coat of many colors
for all the world to see,
that deep inside his soul
beats the heart of a Cherokee.
What have I learned from his spirit,
and his laughing, loving ways?
I learned the past belongs to the present.
Not to waste my younger days.
The stories of my ancestors
are his legacy to me.
That honoring them and who they were
determines who I will be.
I am my Father’s daughter
and I can only hope,
that one day I will be worthy
to wear my Father’s coat.
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Cowboy Poetry
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You know that you’re old as dirt
When your whole body does hurt—
You grab a cane ‘stead of quirt
And you’re just too old to flirt.
It’s when you have to trim hairs
From your nose and your big ears—
You’re sure that those creepin’ years
Has justified all your fears!
It ain’t that you’re gittin’ old
Or Father Time is too bold
Or the last crow has done crowed—
It’s sittin’ ‘round till ya mold!
But if time comes a knockin’,
Don’t let it be too shockin’—
Don’t take your tack for hockin’,
You’re jest rollin’, not rockin’!
So when you’re payin’ for sins
And seems your life never ends—
You’ll know just who’s your true friends
When they has to change your Depends!
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Cowboy Poetry
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Memory of Muriel
When the big wave crashed ashore on the rocky side of the bay
seven white stallions, silky manes flying galloped ashore to seek
freedom in the green winter valley.
The old man's sons helped their father to swim and he was glad
Coming back home he called his wife Muriel, told her he had been swimming with his son.
The sons were worried, their mother had been dead for many years
In the valley of greenness, the stallions see the grass turn pale
longed for the freedom of the open sea.
When a summer storm came, the stallions galloped back to the shore
to join a mighty swell, on the back of a horse an old man rode finally, he was going to meet his wife Muriel.
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Cowboy Poetry
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As I stand here at the rim, father sun comes peeking
all around me I can hear the old ones speaking
Journey Deeper
The trail draws me down into the womb of Mother Earth
and from the canyon walls the sounds of childish mirth
Journey Deeper
standing, bone drenched, under a waterfall so tall it seems to wash the sky
I hear the ancient courting flute, as ancient lovers sigh
Journey Deeper
slowly I work my way to the rushing waters at her heart
I hear the anguished cries of the men who’ll never depart
Journey Deeper
I sit beside the river’s edge, & search the canyons of my mind
and lose myself in the ancient voices, echoes of mankind
Journey Deeper
© June 2003
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Cowboy Poetry
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There’s a legacy inside him,
As he sits upon his steed;
His heart is filled with honesty,
Not perjury or greed;
He rides the same old range,
That his father rode before;
And it’s been that way for forever,
A hundred years or more;
Pushin’ cattle, brandin’ calves,
That is a cowboy’s life;
Someday he may settle down,
And make some girl his wife;
He’s spent so many lonely nights,
Sleeping under the stars,
He hasn’t got a tattoo,
What he has are battle scars;
There’s a rip across his stomach,
From a rangy longhorn steer;
And even though it hurt like hell,
He never shed a tear;
He always outs on a brave face,
Emotions locked inside;
And for his cowboy heritage,
He feels only pride.
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Cowboy Poetry
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Through darkness three sons rode the land—
The father fallen like a tree—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.
That death mark made each one a man—
Age fifty-seven he died free—
Through darkness three sons rode the land.
Those years went by like snaking sand,
Their father’s death a memory—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.
As each year dappled face and hand,
His age at death still held the key—
Through darkness three sons rode the land.
The inner dread they could not stand,
When fifty-seven each would be—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.
But as each touched that fatal strand,
Their hearts would numb and spirit flee—
Through darkness three sons rode the land—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.
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Cowboy Poetry
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(Chief White Buffalo speaks)
Long knives turn dark the west sky,
Bring big iron horse on rails that roar—
My people now starve and die,
Where buffalo thunder no more.
Their bones turn red, then pure white
As pale hunters stack them in piles—
Their praise we chant in the night,
Our stories like smoke travel miles.
They give us cattle for meat
And tell us now to end our hunt—
But no red man is complete
As we just nod and meekly grunt.
They take sacred land for gold
And give us less food and more lies—
Our Great Father has grown old
And will not gaze upon sunrise.
The long knives bring many things:
Baubles, sickness, wonder and war—
But he takes more than he brings—
And buffalo thunder no more.
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Cowboy Poetry
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You know that you’re old as dirt
When ever thang done hurt—
And you trades a cane for quirt
‘Cause you’s too old to flirt.
And when you have to trim hairs
From your nose and your ears—
You done knowed those creepin’ years
Has justified your fears!
It ain’t that you’s gittin’ old
Or Father Time is bold
Or that last crow has done crowed,
It’s jest sittin’ till ya mold!
Old sport, jest what’s the matter?
You ain’t no mad hatter—
You ain’t old, that’s jest blather—
You is jest gittin’ better!
But if time comes a knockin’,
Don’t let it be shockin’—
Don’t with yer tack go hockin’,
You’s jest rollin’, not rockin’!
So when you lose all yer friends
And seems life never ends—
You’ll know ya ain’t on the mends
When ya end up in Depends!
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Cowboy Poetry
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Remembering Dad’s animated Cowboy tales
Along lyrics, bearing words, “My pony and me”
I would imagine his youth's toilsome farm travails
while making the best of life midst struggles and glee.
In our place where Cowboy lifestyle means “hard, yet free”
we’re trained to be tough when difficulty assails
overcoming shyness against arrogance spree
staying honest upon what truthfulness entails.
Such is Cowboy perspective that my father hails
leaving us his legacy, trusting God* we should be
celebrating past triumphs though memory fails
sharing down-to-earth experiences, with learning as key.
*Psalm 112:7 He shall not be afraid of evil tidings: his heart is fixed, trusting in the LORD.
January 30, 2021
4th place, "Cowboy Poetry" Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier; judged on 2/3/2021.
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Cowboy Poetry
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Cowboy Joe
My dad Joe, often rode the circuit rodeo
He lasso'd horses from the word go
Often he'd break them for many a few
His lasso event went far, for his name's Joe
Many men tried to go faster and win before him
They all found out, they were all left out on a limb
Now Joe didn't have not one mean evil, evil streak
He rode on many long extended trips in his younger peak
And he was one of the best of the happy hunting men for game
Always brought home lots of food for us, so we could all tame
He was one of the best riding lasso of mem who was in Rodeo's Hall of fame
I'm so dang proud to have him as my gifted riding cowboy of a father
Now ya'll come on over and give us a loud caller
For we always got on a full pot of coffee or tea
Cause we all learned from our dearest parents
How to be and expect to respect strangers with
hospitality and have extra edibles like peppermints.
05/05/2015
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Cowboy Poetry
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Every daughter who turns forty
Should get one of these
A poem from her father
Saying what he sees
A home you're building
That's warm, safe and kind
What we'd all expect
And hope to find
So proud are we of your character,
Intellect and what you are
Your heart and skills as dancer,
Wife, mother: you've taken far
Turning forty's a right of passage
Consequences, decisions made of clarity
Now you're the one whose word
Carries the weight and gravity
Someday you'll decide what's best
For your mother and me
Same as we did for you
When you were three
It's the way it is as
We reach to the night
Children mature and
Decide what's right
Your offspring will
Get your unswerving love
Your family being safe
With help from above
You'll know better
How to care for us
When we're like children
And tend to fuss
Your fortieth year
Marks a milestone
With us you'll
March forward not alone
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Cowboy Poetry
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As we journey wide in life
On strange ranges far from home,
We often stop and ponder
Old burnt circles made of stone.
They are last meager remnants
Of some campfire long ago—
Where pards and tired travelers
Would share a hot cup of joe.
The fire would blaze but briefly
Then be just smoke as they’d part—
To rise again down the trail
Where another fire would start.
Yes, they’d slowly gather rocks
And form that new ring of stone—
Build a blaze to ease the night,
So they’d not be all alone.
But those days are mostly gone
With stone circles left behind—
Cowboys seldom come this way
And good pards are hard to find.
And while fires now seem to die
And a cold north wind does moan—
There’s always comfort in a fire
In our circle made of stone.
And so we all go our way,
Build rings all the farther—
Honor roots and family,
But most of all, our Father.
Yes, now we’ve come full circle—
Return to earth as it lays—
A circle of completion—
Like brief dust of earthly days.
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Cowboy Poetry
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The Book of Life
The Book of Life’s a story
About how your life was spent
When you get to the end
Will you be Heaven Sent?
The pages are unwritten
There’s a story to be told
But that can only happen
When life’s events unfold
Some days will be challenging
And some full of laughter
But that will change with every page
And every single chapter
Eternal life’s your destiny
That’s your final goal
You are the master of your fate
And the captain of your soul
Our lord and savior who has died
For all our sins is with us
At the beginning and also at the end
Listen and obey the laws
They say love thy neighbor and thou shalt not kill
And you must come to Jesus of your own freewill
You must be born again, live obedient and true
And when you read the bible it will give you all the clues
On how to fill unwritten pages
With good choices that you’ve made
When you live, and listen, the words will get you saved
Give him all the praise and give him all the glory
And with our heavenly father is how you’ll end your story.
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Cowboy Poetry
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...What he saw there made blood run cold,
His sister naked in the light,
Chained to a bed, soiled and stained
Her stomach swollen and tight.
She was covered in refuse and blood,
Her eyes saw him but didn’t see,
She said no words, just babbled on,
And endless, painful mumbling.
A twig cracked, and he swirled around,
Seeing the scarred face of his foe,
Mays went for his pistol, Wainwright fired
And the thug stumbled back from the blows.
Wain kept firing, long after he was dead
Emptying his entire magazine,
He turned Mays’s face into a red ruin,
And let out an anguished scream.
The whole town was shocked by the affair,
By the sheer depths of Mays’s cruelty,
They left his body for vultures and crows,
A sent poor Henrietta back to the east.
It was said that her mind was too far gone,
She knew not even when she gave birth,
Spent her days locked-up, stark raving mad,
Until a fever took he from the earth.
The child was raised by an uncle and aunt,
Never the truth of his father to know,
But Wain never came back, after all he’d seen
He moved north to trap in ice and snow.
After what he had seen he couldn’t return,
Couldn’t buy into mankind’s illusions,
He married a squaw and lived in the woods,
Free from civilization’s delusions…
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Cowboy Poetry
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Oh, the stirrups sway in the breeze
And slick leather shines in the sun,
As he slings it on the wood fence
With calloused hands of sky dark dun.
It’s the saddle of youthful days,
The one he rode so long ago—
The fenders are worn and rotten,
The hand tooling just a shadow.
Now as he cleans out the horse barn,
He throws away part of this past—
There’s not much left that’s worth keeping—
It’s only memories that last.
He’s had his share of fine leather,
Silver conchos and the best tack—
But he saved his youthful saddle
To conjure things that won’t come back.
It was a gift from his father—
The first that was just his alone—
He still remembers the fresh smell
Of that saddle his dad brought home.
He recalls all the days and nights,
He rode in the bad times and good,
How his father was stern but right—
How often he misunderstood.
And he can still see the first girl
That he let ride it in his place—
And he can see her honey skin,
But he can’t quite recall her face.
Yet, soon that saddle won’t be his—
It will pass to the first grandson—
Free now to ride just one more time
Down the long trail that life begun.
Oh, the stirrups sway in the breeze
And roan clouds have herded the sun—
He packs up his youthful saddle,
Knowing soon his ride will be done.
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Cowboy Poetry
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...He rode off into the wild,
seemed not to care for their child,
she would have to bear him alone,
for a doomed man could be no dad.
Three cold and lonely mounts did pass,
she heard the rumors travel fast,
no father would he child know,
they judged her and pitied the lad.
Until amongst a bitter fall,
she struggled to maintain it all,
her condition made business tough,
when Max returned to the saloon.
He looked at her and said,”Go sit.
You need to rest, I’ll handle it.”
She would have got her ire up,
but couldn’t, the kid would come soon.
And as he served drink on the fly,
she said,”I thought you wanted to die?”
Later she talked with the grim soul,
who said,”For so long I’ve been cold,
and life had just taken from me,
all I had left was my revenge.
Red took my wife, he took my son,
just avenge them, and I’d be done…
but you gave of yourself freely,
and messed up my desired end.
“And at first, yes, I was seething,
when I had planned out everything…
but I think God put you in my way
to help me find new hope in life.
You went and took me to your bed,
it’s only right that we should wed,
say so and I won’t leave this pace,
we’ll run it as husband and wife.
“I want to hear our baby cry,
and I no longer wish to die.”
At first she felt she should be mad,
that leaving her here had been bad,
but remembered back to those words
the first night that the two had touched,
and she could see in him the change,
his eyes no longer help the pain,
staying angry was hard for her,
Juanita wanted this so much.
She said,”We’ll do as you have spoken,
a whole we’ll make from two haves broken,
I can never be what you lost,
but we might just build something new.”
He kissed her right there, took her hand,
pledged henceforth he would be her man,
and though Max had born a great cost,
he had discovered something true.
Children would come, in total five,
and Max had no more time to die.
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...He spotted Jones, and three other rough men,
digging at the ground beneath a large spruce.
Jones was grousing, “I know it’s buried somewhere,
if if it’s not here, I’ll beat it out of that youth!”
It was them Elias spurred his horse on,
emerging from behind a smallish grove,
they all spun and saw him, pistols ready,
said Elias, “I had wondered…now I know.
“Why a criminal could care much for me,
they say there is no honor among thieves,
you didn’t care for you old pardner’s son,
you just though that I might have what you need.”
Trigger Jones stood up with a vicious grin,
said,” Well god damn, if took you long enough.
Who would’ve thought the preacher would buy the land
where old Kerwin used to hide all his stuff.
“I’d hoped you could tell me, show us the loot,
that’s why I bothered toying with your head,
but I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,
if you know, speak, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Elias just laughed, “I would never help you
even if I knew, don’t you understand?
You call me Kerwin, but my name is Jensen,
my father raised me an honorable man.”
Jones just said and said, “Well ain’t you a daisy.
I guess you’ll die a stone’s throw from your home.”
Elias just smirked back, said, “Do you think
I was fool enough to ride out on my own?”
At these words six others rode into view,
surrounding Jones and all his bandit scum,
the sheriff led them, six shooter in hand,
barked, “You all throw up your hands, or you’re done.”
Jones looked like he might make trouble for them,
but around him his men threw up their arms,
and the old crook realized there was no escape,
he dropped his pistol, saved himself from harm.
There were rewards on all the bandit’s head,
the sheriff rode off quite happy that day.
Elias rode back to his home relieved,
no longer could anyone doubt his ways.
For all the past, his temper, his worries,
none could ever now doubt he had honor,
he wasn’t bound by a bandit long dead,
and now could live the life that he deserved.
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Cowboy Poetry
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Later that night, Ike and the others arrived
for a gala they held every first of June.
To be filled with dancing, feasting, and fun
with a full band to play people tunes,
inviting every respectable person they knew.
But before the part, to Prent Ike came,
Saying,”Now brother, we must hide your shame.”
Prent raised an eyebrow, truly confused.
“Now what every can you mean brother”
Ike said,”You know full well what I mean.
That little girl with the savage mother.
We don’t want good folk to discover—”
But before he could say another word more
Prent knocked his brother flat onto the floor.
His siblings came running to see the fuss,
and stared on quite incredulously.
Prent said,”Now, it’s all coming back,
all the reasons I decided to leave.
I see what father would have made of me!
I came here worried about my daughter’s fate,
but bringing her here was my greatest mistake!”
Annabeth gasped, and began to argue,
but Prent shot her his best death glare.
“I’ve had enough disdain to last a lifetime,
so dear sister, you’d better not dare.”
He kept her pinned there with his stare.
“But of you gala, you need have no fear,
tomorrow we’re going far away from here.”
Sure enough they were back on a train,
he in skins and her in traveling clothes,
Prent took great pleasure in seeing Nell smile,
her little face still pressed to the window,
riding back west to their home, Colorado.
Knowing fully that this was the end,
he’d never see any of his family again.
III.
When the stage reached town Prent took Nell
down the road towards Sally’s Café.
He’d had a whole ride to think of the words
that he desperately wanted to say.
Course talking never was really his way.
How he’d ask her, he didn’t right know,
they walked in and Sally went pale as a ghost.
She turned quickly from all her customers
and scooped up sweet Nell in an embrace
The girl smiled and hugged her tight,
showering kisses on Sally’s face.
Prent knew then that this was his place.
He said,”Sally, I think you were in the know.
back when you told me of good women right close.”
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
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Cowboy Poetry
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...Burke grabbed Aura and they both ran out,
riding double on his trusty horse.
The word raced quickly through the town,
a posse was formed, as a matter of course.
So Burke pushed his mount, more and more.
They couldn’t go back, despite acts justified,
not when two men, one a sherriff, had died.
So they rode, pursuers hot on their trail,
until they reach a ranch high the peaks.
Burke pulled a gun while Aurelia seized
a new horse, both study and sleek.
The rancher fumed, too angry to speak.
Burke apologized, gave him all his gold,
then sped off again into mountains cold.
Two days passed, the posse drew close,
and both their horses started to flag.
No longer able to outrun their hunters,
Burke mad camp high up in a crag,
where he could shoot safely if they attacked.
The posse appeared in the meadow below,
lead the by the sherriff’s oldest, known as Milo.
“Surrendor now, or we’ll shoot you down!”
They shouted it as they stared to climb.
But before Burke could even open his mouth
the air exploded with shrill, Indian cries.
A horde of Bannocks their arrows let fly!
They swept into the meadow, circling fast.
The posse died quickly, not long could they last.
Burke and Aurelia hid low in the rocks
until the last of the Bannocks had left.
Not much was left of the posse below,
they lay still, and were mostly scalpless.
But one figured crawled amongst the dead.
Burke climbed down, still clutching his gun,
and loomed over the sheriff's bloodied son.
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll say it now,
I acted only out of self-defense.
You’re father and Grisby were gunning for me,
and Grisby was putting his hands on my friend.
There choices brought them to their ends.”
But Milo just snarled, and crawled away,
Burke and Aura sighed, and left him that way.
No one from Tillico ever saw them again,
even when Milo put a bounty of their hides.
Some say they made for themselves new names
and peacefully lived out their lives.
Others said, like most outlaws, they died...
And if you all liked this tale that you just heard,
Tell your friends about me, Bruce Bowden the Third.
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V.
Besides a rushing stream he saw a stone hut,
framed by aspens clinging to a rough slope,
the chimney was stained from long years of use,
But who lived out here? He just didn’t’ know.
Until his eyes happened upon two graves,
one had weathered, the other was fresh cut.
Who could they know who was buried out here?
Curious, he dismounted and walked up.
The older gave said: ‘Here lies Joseph Fields,
1851 to 1912,
Father, and Husband to his dear Rennie.’
The priest stumbled back. “Wha-what does this mean?”
The oldest daughter, who was named Isabel,
said,”She knew the townsfolk would not understand.
That’s why she used to ride back in her youth,
she combed the mountains, seeking out this man.
“She knew our grandpa had done the man wrong,
that a normal life he never would live.
She brought him money so he’d stop thieving,
and it return, his whole heart he did give.
“When our grandpa died they both realized
that without hm none could prove pa was framed,
they both dreamed of reopening his case,
but knew that doing so would be in vain.
“He visited us at night, when he was able,
and we rode out here to his backwoods hut.
We’re not bastards, Father Cobb married them,
you can at least tell the people that much.
“Six years ago, when our father passed on,
she came out here to give her man a grave.
She made it clear to us, when her time came,
we were to ride out here and do the same.
“We could not speak of this when she still lived,
to do so would have been their undoing,
a millionaire heiress weds an outlaw…
You understand this this would have brought ruin.
“But now their troubles are finally done,
and they can be here, at each other’s sides.
I hope you can spare a few prayers for them,
forced to be apart for so much of their lives.”
The priest was amazed, but slowly nodded,
said, “We thought worse of her than she deserved.
I ask forgiveness, I thought so myself.”
Then he knelt low and whispered holy words.
Later than night, when their mom was at rest,
they all rode away as the sun went low,
past a grave that read: ‘Here lies Rennie Fields,
Forever besides her beloved Joe.’
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Cowboy Poetry
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Dixon Bullinger braced himself against
another frozen blast of winter wind,
riding through the front range to Denver
where his family was a-waiting.
It was morning on Christmas Eve,
and he was a long time overdue,
but Boss McChord had paid him double
to rescue horses from being consumed.
They’d taken out a problem bear
and had a drink to celebrate,
he’d exchanged good wishes with the boys,
then had set about upon his way.
He rounded a corner in a craggy gorge,
and there he saw a stunning sight:
Santa Claus sat on an empty sleigh,
brooding sadly amidst the white.
Dix rode up, and doffed his hat,
saying,”Father Christmas! What are the odds!
May I ask why you are sitting here though,
‘tis the skies that you usually trod?”
Santa then sadly shook his head,
said,”My boy, you don’t understand.
I stopped for a rest and was robbed blind
by a gang of five masked men!
“They took my sack and with it
all the gifts for the boys and girl.
if I cannot somehow get it back,
there’ll be no presents for the world.”
Dix frowned deeply at the thought,
a coldness creeping into him.
Christmas may have been more than gifts,
but try telling that to the kids!
He said,”If you’ll ride with a fool cowpoke,
I’ll gladly help you find the fiends.
A Christmas with no gifts to give…
that’s not something this world needs.
“I have some skill at tracking, see,
from months chasing stray cows.
If you point me the way they went,
we’ll lick these bandits, and how!”
Santa nodded and pointed off
to a narrow slot canyon,
“That’s the way they all took off,
when the foul deed was done.
“If you start along tracking them,
I will follow as soon as I can.
My reindeer are bushed from today’s work,
Donner is nearly all done in.
“But once they’ve had a breather,
I’ll fly them up into the air.
If you leave a trail for me to follow,
I’ll catch up and meet you there!”
Dixon nodded and removed
his brand new, red, silk scarf.
He cut off a piece and then said,
“This here is bright as any spark.”
With that he took to the trail,
riding down that rocky cleft,
to save Christmas for the little ones
he’d undue this savage theft…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
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Cowboy Poetry
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In the desert waste Chester Miller looked out,
saw the rest of the gang riding back slow,
fresh from the bank job in Copperstone Creek,
a place that Chester could dare not go.
He’d spent his teen years in that little ville,
caused much mischief of the criminal kind,
if he had rode in with the gang today
he would surely have been recognized.
So he’d drawn up a plan and then stepped back,
let the rest of the boys do the hard work,
given the sacks tied on to their saddles
they’d succeeded, and got away unhurt.
But on the horse of his right-hand man,
an old rebel who the boys called Bret,
rode a scared boy, his eyes wide with terror,
fighting not to sob with every breath.
He tossed the boy down in front of Chester,
who said,”Why did you bring a young kid here?”
Bret said,”Took a hostage, held back the marshall,
allowed us to escape with nothing to fear.”
Chester looked closely at the ten-year old,
seeing something familiar in his face.
“Besides,”said Bret,”now we’ll get a ransom,
his father looked the type who could pay!”
They bound the boy’s hand with a stretch of rope,
but made no other effort to restrain,
as they all drank, Chester watched the boy,
where had he seen him? He wracked his brain.
As night started to fall, the gang dropped off,
Chester suddenly saw truth before him:
the brow and the forehead, the sweep of the jaw,
a spitting image of his brother Tim!
Chester knelt down, look the kid in the eyes,
asked,”By what name are you usually called?”
The boy stammered,”R-R-Ronald Miller.”
Said Chester,”Named after your grandpa.”
He did not have to ask any further,
the boy was his nephew, without doubt,
and with not a moment’s hesitation
he pulled a long, dull Bowie knife out.
Ronald’s eyes bulged from his head in fear,
until Chester quickly slashed his bond,
took the confused boy, lead him by the hand,
said,”Now we have got to move quickly, come on.”
They picked their way over to his horse,
up on the saddle the small figure went.
Chester was about to clamber up to
when the night by a loud shout was rent.
Bret was awake, the others coming ’round,
they’d be drawing their irons before long,
said to the kid,”Tell Tim Chester helped you!”
Slapped the horses, and in a flash it was gone...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
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Details |
Cowboy Poetry
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In better times, Anders Throne once was
a good husband and loving father,
married to his sweetheart, Rosie Smith,
who’d grown on the Chesapeake waters.
He worked as a lawyer, was well renowned,
had a little boy by the name Chester,
if fate were just he would’ve lived out his days
and saw his happiness never perturbed.
But when the war with the north broke out
to his country he was compelled to stay true,
he said good-bye and stole away north,
marching to war with the boys in blue.
His father-in-law said "Good riddance!"
and moved his precious daughter away,
to a big mansion deep in Richmond,
where he felt she could safely stay.
The war dragged on, and in the end
Richmond found itself under siege,
all in the city knew things were rough,
that there was no real hope of relief.
Day after day the big guns did roar on,
a crashing hail of fire and shell,
until one April day when the Union struck
and the town of Petersburg fell.
Unable to hold Richmond any longer
General Lee led his army to the west,
but Anders, arched into the fallen town,
hoping somehow to find his dearest.
But cannons and not the most precise of things,
and when he reached her father’s home,
he saw cinders scattered, shards of broken glass,
from the hallway ceiling’s grand old dome.
He found an old slave who explain it all,
that whoever had been inside no was dead,
a cannon-ball had ignited a great blaze,
and they died of the smoke in their beds.
Anders collapsed when he heard the news,
and roared out his agony and pain.
He railed at God,”I fought to free people!
And as thanks you go take her away?!”
Bereft of his son and his dearest love,
he walked away right then and there,
deserted the army and wandered off,
if they hanged him he did not care.
He aimlessly started heading for the west,
and as he walked along he wound find
the ‘truth’ of it all, so clear and so crisp,
took over his grief-battered mind.
God cared not for the trials of men,
nor the world that he had once made.
The beasts had it right, take what you can!
Destroy any who gets in the way.
The only rules that mattered were anarchy,
laws of the jungle, ever cold and cruel.
He was done pretending that there was a point,
manners and honor were lies for the fools…
CONTINUES IN PART II
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Details |
Cowboy Poetry
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He walked into the dusty saloon,
maybe an hour after high noon,
his face still smooth with the touch of youth,
eyes dead-set on seeking out the truth.
He saw him there, two men at his side,
looking just like his mother described,
the scar, gold tooth...the cold countenance,
Silas knew that he had found his man.
He strode up and said, “You’re Dalton Wise,
you killed my father, so now you’ll die.”
Dalton and the two men looked amused,
said Dalton, “Who’s gonna’ do it, boy? You?”
They laughed again, and young Silas seethed,
said, “For his death, you will answer to me.
You took Joe Hamlin from my mother,
and brought no small deal of pain to her.”
The name caught Daltons attention quick,
“You claim your pa was that weak-willed twit?
Oh kid, your mother has told you tales,
that fool Hamlin did nothing but fail.
“Joe was a coward, a sniveling fool
tuck and ran when we treated him cruel,
a pasty lunger, barely could breath,
much less attract a woman to breed.
“There was a woman, Lauri, I think,
who screamed that we did terrible things,
she pitied the fool, got in the way,
girls shouldn’t trifle with men at play.
“I told her as much, but she kept on,
blathering how we treated him wrong,
one day while smacking that fool’s face in
she dared to stand between me and him.
“With hands on hips, she flustered and fumed,
‘Stop bullying him!’ he small voice boomed,
thinking we wouldn’t lay a finger
on a woman, that’s why she lingered.
“I slapped that yapping to the ground,
took aim and shot that fool Hamlin down,
dragged her to a barn when it was done,
I took my time…had a lot of fun.”
He leered and the other men both laughed,
said Dalton, “What you think about that?”
Silas felt his rage slowly turn cold
as more of this cruel story was told.
“Hamlin couldn’t be your pa,”he said,
“’cause when I took young Lauri, she bled.
Just looking at you, it becomes clear,
Joe weren’t your pa, he’s sitting right here!”
He thumped his chest, just to emphasize,
supreme confidence blazed in his eyes.
“So wipe that bravado off your mug,
we both know that you won’t kill your blood.”
He smirked at the two friends at his side,
not a one showed real fear in their eyes,
said Silas, “If there’s truth in your words,
then I’ll have to get revenge for her.”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
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