Long Abilene Poems
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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
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
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
as the Sandman hovers above us
arm around you, bodies relaxed
electrical pulses from the brain surge
my body slips into a paralysis
everything is where it belongs
in the security of next to you
lies more than a reward for the day
i am far beyond mere satisfaction
i am floating in a placid being
waves gently guiding me
i leave with you on the Ameles potamos
the warmth of your kiss goodnight
upon my wedding ring
a ritual so among the beloved moments
you touch me with, fresh warmth at days end
that guides me to slumber
life could not have given me more than this
holding you as the Sandman hovers above
now i wish to hold you in my dreams
until morning brings to me
the dream i love the most
as the sun roars into existence
your lips pressed to mine
3/18 Abilene Kismet
Slim was pigeon-toed and bow-legged from allus bein' astraddle,
Of his faithful hoss Old Dan and his well-worn creakin' saddle!
He'd spent 30 years gazin' twixt Old Dan's ears ridin' the spread.
Now both is retired and he took up writin' cowboy poetry instead!
On the porch of the bunkhouse he propped his boots upon the railin',
To muse upon many things he'd write about in this new unveilin'.
He wrote about Cooky's chuck of the usual taters, bacon 'n' beans,
And dressin' up Saturday nights to do-si-do with dance-hall queens!
Brandin' time in the old corral and fixin' fences he put to verse.
Ridin' herd on stormy nights when he thought it couldn't git any worse!
He wrote about cattle drives and the hell cowboys raised in Abilene,
Drinkin', fightin' and gamblin' 'til marshals drove them from the scene!
He expressed his views on wimmen-folk and why he chose to stay free!
He wrote of lakes, streams and valleys and distant mountains' majesty!
Of how fellers lolled about the camp fire enjoyin' a terbaccy chaw,
And how cowpoke Pete could fashion a roll-yer-own with his 3-fingered claw!
He wrote that he warn't a pious man to be corralled by a congregation.
He preferred to git his spiritual grub from the magnificence of God's Creation!
Fer his final verse he wrote, "I reckon cowboyin' was allus in my genes.
When I come to the end of the trail boys, jes' bury me in my jeans!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The Cowboy Life
He spends so many days
Traveling the old cattle trails
From Oklahoma to Abilene
Day after day with no end in sight
Just other men, horses and cattle
Mile after mile
Storms and endless sun
Sand blowing across the plains
Tearing into his skin
The cowboy waits for a single moment
To take time to relax and be himself
Away from the noise and the hardness
To lose his exhaustion
And just to take the time to look at his world
Sadly, that moment won’t last for long
Tomorrow he’ll be back on the trail
Surrounded by cowboys and cattle
And once again, despite the heat and the weather
He will love it
Because he knows one thing
It is his life and he will never give it up
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
Another Day...Another Accursed Blank Screen
Ma wink'n and blink'n
mind nod yet awake,
nor insights keen,
asper ho hum usual, this
(day-glo bull leave
me you) after noon,
(October thirtieth
two thousand and eight teen),
mine myopic brown
marbled occipital orbs
fixate upon a
lone blinking cursor -
hooping such intense stare
will magically glean
a divine comedy,
or even mediocre
shaky spear writ tragedy, none
the less letting thoughts
glom (cess) pool like
into some elusive essence,
finding me madly chasing
(feebly, lamely, queerly
and ridiculously
likened to a teen
age paramour) intriguing,
nattering, and wordlessly
spellbinding notion
all the way to Abilene,
perhaps metamorphosing
into a topnotch
poem (ska lean),
swiftly tailored harried
style even out rivaling
the best newsy
Lake Woebegone fabulist
(formerly Nordic European)
scribes, that juiced might earn
me some crisp
legal tender green,
yet impetus to write,
NOT predicated on ram
ping up checking account,
which primary queen
tis essential money source
of mine to pay bills
appears extremely lean,
and thus apologize if
any hint of desperation
(PULL EASE pledge to
Matthew Scott Harris charity)
seeps extemporaneously typing
this poetic expression,
when financial resources
picked bone dry clean,
and me fanciful
thoughts cannot help
wishing for miraculous
intervention tub bring,
a raft of smiley faces
tomb eye gentle mien
such as receiving
an anonymous bajillion
dollars donated (tummy)
from tennis scene legend
(in her own mind)
aery Billy Jean
King, whose near
exhaustive earnings -
at least compared
to thy germane mein kampf
(accrued during - her mist
starry re:us horse sing around)
straw berry fields
forever hay day
with tangerine trees,
and marmalade skies
completing tennis
(tense) backdrop against
engendered match with
the late Bobby Riggs.
Hank rested his boots on the railin' of the bunkhouse when day was done.
The pointy-toes of his scruffy boots framed the slowly settin' sun.
He leaned back in his rockin' chair, his hands embracin' the back of his nape,
Contemplatin' his tattered boots, (tho' they was still in purty good shape!)
He paid ten bucks fer 'em at a Sears Roebuck store twelve years er so ago.
Hank wanted Tony Romo boots but cowpokes don't make that kinda dough.
He was mighty proud of them boots, just 'bout the purtiest he'd ever seen!
He broke 'em in astraddle his faithful mule, Old Dan, on the trail to Abilene.
Back on the ranch he wore 'em fixin' fences and brandin' wily steers.
Hank rodeoed, throwed from buckin' hosses to his pards roarin' jeers!
The boots made good pillers when sleepin' 'neath the starry skies.
He'd shake 'em good to dispose of scorpions when at dawn he'd rise!
He fixed a pair of silver spurs to the boots, of them he was mighty pleased.
Hank spent hours polishin', buffin' and keepin' them babies greased!
When paid his meager pay he'd scrape manure off'n them to seek romance.
Hoppin' in his Ford 150, headin' fer Clyde's Saloon fer Saturday night's dance!
Time moved on inexorably and the boots became marred and battered.
Them old boots, Old Dan and cowboyin', to Hank was all that mattered.
He told his pards, "Boys, I ain't askin' much, but ya'll promise without fail,
That you'll bury me with them boots on when I come to the end of the trail".
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.