Long Montana Poems
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I set out from Chicago town
in spring, eighteen seventy-nine,
offered one hundred and a stake
in the new Kennevor gold mine.
Had to provide security
and keep all of the miner’s safe,
in the mountains of Montana,
out beyond the Missouri breaks.
I rode swiftly across the plains,
thinking it wouldn’t be much more,
when a passing cowboy said,
“It’s six more days to Kennevor.”
I did not want to believe him
setting out on that first morning,
but I felt that I was spied on,
then heard the thwock of some bow strings!
A party of a dozen Sioux
has all taken up on my trail,
I pushed my horse to outrun them,
but it was to no avail.
Finally I some rocks to ride,
and shot two to their horror,
thankfully then they galloped off…
Five more days to Kennevor.
The second day the weather changed,
a swirling funnel tore the grass,
I spurred my horse to run for in,
towards mountains racing fast.
Such a howling I never head,
the great winds even took my hat!
When we reached those high, rocky crags,
I had never felt more glad.
Then I foolishly asked myself
what more could this trip have in store?
I jinxed myself that very night,
four more days to Kennevor.
One the third day I found the road
blocked and closed by a landslide,
so I rode to a known back-route,
that wandered through the mountainsides.
The trail was made of broken stone,
loose granite that skittered and slid,
bad to lead my horse, keep him safe,
but then I felt my own feet skid.
Then I tumbled one hundred yards,
until my sin was bruised and scored,
angrily I trudged back on up,
three more days to Kennevor...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
There’s many a tale that spreads across the night
when the sun o’er the plains yields to campfire light.
Tales about cowboys, who once roamed the plains,
scratching a living using their rope and reins
A few were happy when it came time to tell,
but many of them were just sadder than hell
Cause most of them ended with some poor old soul
lying all alone in a forgotten hole
There's a story I recall about a man,
that made his way north from the wide Rio Grande
Arlie he was called by those that new him best
folks round the Rockin Bar J just called him Tex
When the punchin’ all played out Tex left his home
in search of somewhere with enough space to roam
He found Montana where mountains scraped the sky
with enough space where he could live right or die
Tex knew a few summers and could feel his age
whenever Montana snows covered the sage
He felt time too quickly closing in on him
his hearing was fading, and his sight was dim
Round the bunks they told of a stallion named Ghost
catchin’ him would give a man the right to boast
They said that horse can’t be caught by any man
so all through the winter Tex worked on a plan
Tex had studied that hoss and knew he was smart
the cunning of a fox with want in his heart
There wasn’t a horse that could match his pace
Tex knew he won't beat him in a flat out race
Summer had run long, this one hotter than most
Tex laid his plan to get that horse they called Ghost
With hellfire in his eyes and his nostrils flared
Ghost come down from the mountain lookin’ for mares
Now Old Tex was ready to play out his plan
he’d strung out three horses across the grassland
Twenty miles apart those geldings stood ready
for an eighty mile stretch Tex could ride steady
Tex spotted Ghost silhouetted 'gainst the sun
that horse stomped and glared then took off in a run
Ghost was in the lead and Tex brought up the back
but Tex’d studied his foe and knew where he'd track
Towards Rattlesnake Butte that stallion did run
was heading straight into that bright morning sun
'cross dried grass and sage Ghost never skipped a beat
Fast as a Chinook through that Montana heat
Ghost was fast and Tex saw him pulling ahead
but they’d reached the exchange and Tex mounted Red
Red was sure footed and as fast as the breeze
and he started closing up that gap with ease
I grew tired of those Montana mountains
was ready to give up that life for good
So I packed up my kit and kaboodle
and headed off to a new neighborhood
They loaded me onto this cattle car
went flying faster’n poop through a goose.
Then we skidded down in New York City
the place that is famous for their big fruit
That place was supposed to be all fast paced
I could hardly wait to see all the sights
But after three hours in the taxi
hadn’t found the place I was staying the night
As I was riding in that yellow car
the man said unemployment was real high
I was pretty sure he was joshen’ me
there‘s ‘help wanted’ at each place we went by
If there’s one thing I learned about that trip
if I should again get the itch to roam
I’ll just tuck my money into my mattress
cause it’s best to just keep my butt at home
Four beige walls
Streaked with yellow tar
Of too many smokes
Kerouac waiting with Brautigan on shelf
Once the mongrel beat
Long forgotten
And the jazz plays cymbals taps flare
Chaka boom chaka boom chaka boom
While 88's like crystal wail
To the beat baby babe
To the beat
On the road to desolation
The vision spoke
Looking through doorways at mountains
The jack,man, the jack
Had this feel,ya'know
This running flow like jazz
Keeps coming alive
Chaka boom
Can't you feel it
Miles swings down dig
Walls that stain the darkness
THE TOKYO-MONTANA EXPRESS
We're all up on desolation
Lookin' down
(From My Novel 'Searching For Crazy Horse': Published 2011)
Song From The Mountaintop
Columbia Falls, Montana- September, 2003
The cry of an eagle floats across a distant peak
bear tracks visible in the spring thawing snow
Sunlight, spreading its dance upon the land
the Ponderosa Pine and Aspen all in bloom
The glaciers look down smiling the higher you climb
searching for that redemption never offered below
The wolf trails the hare back inside its snowy den
the road to all new entry having now been cleared
Permission never asked for, granted, as the music starts
it’s early May in the Rockies—the January of renewal
In a celebration of new life, flowers wrap the landscape like ribbon,
tying close the promises like good wishes on a Christmas morning
It’s springtime even on the highest peak, and old questions lost of meaning
now seem gone away...
Until reborn in the arrival of yet another desperate beginning,
—holding nothing back
For thousands of years, ice giants were sleeping.
But now, these dense “blue ice” glaciers are weeping.
Warnings that in many ways bear repeating.
Global climate change speeds glaciers’ retreating.
In Alaska and Glacier National Park,
The melting of ancient glacial ice is stark.
Half the world’s glaciers – in Land of Midnight Sun*,
But in Glacier NP**, soon there will be none.
Years hence, will Alaska have any at all?
Loss of these ice bodies a clear wake-up call.
Value majestic Alaska, like Seward***?
Care for glaciers; each of us a good steward?
Alaska’s Exit Glacier – leaving for good?
Will black stone stand where Blackstone Glacier once stood?
In Montana, Blackfoot Glacier shrinks each day.
The other twenty-four headed the same way.
Glaciers’ demise may get more than them crying.
Their loss may mean earth’s human life is dying.
Glacial and polar ice death no mystery;
If we do nothing, glaciers are history.
Signed, Saddened for the Sobbing, Shrinking Glaciers
6/1/2017
* Alaska is known as the Land of the Midnight Sun.
** National Park is often abbreviated “NP”.
*** Then U.S. Secretary of State, William H. Seward, negotiated the United States’ purchase of Alaska from Russia in 1867.
Well John was brand new to the Rockin’ Bar J
down in Missouri's where he'd spent his young days
His white cowboy hat with the fancy gold band
with fringe on his chaps and kid gloves on his hands
Had snake skin cowboy boots that shone like wet grass
smelled like a spring flower when’er he walked past
They said he was some nephew of the boss man
came out here to learn how to be a ranch hand
We geared up Devil, that horse hadn't been rid
and called over John and said "he's yours now kid"
John said he knew horses he'd used them to plow
but this one seemed a little meaner somehow
Well I eared that stallion while John held the reigns
put his foot in the stirrup and grabbed his mane
He pulled himself right up and sat on the throne
lasted ‘bout a second before he was thrown
Well they say no man's lived without facing fear
and no flower will grow when watered with tears
Instead of a crying and heading for home
John got right back up and remounted that roan
Now that horse went to whirling like all get out
John held fast to the horn and let out a shout
It was looking like that boy might win the day
when that horse spun and threw him to next Tuesday
Well John never turned into no cowboy hand
went back to Missouri and plowing the land
There's one thing we learned that we never did plan
how the clothes that you wear do not make the man
My name is not Tony Montana
No, I'am not a nature born killer
The heroine is not embedded in veins
I'am always drug free like the quotes states
ride or die don't get
high off your own supply
My name is not Tony Montana
I'am not a gangsters
I'am that Bruce Lee the one you don't want to mess with
One blow to the head and the second blow to the chest
consider yourself knocked out
For sure I have skillz like that
My name is not Tony Montana
Tattoo this to your forehead
No wankster
No drug dealer
No gangster
Check the profile I hit the school books
not the streets
I know how to say no to a situation
that may cause destruction in my life
No my name is not Tony Montana
Say no to drug
Say yes to school and a job
So you can have a healthy stable life
By Shaniki Smith
Date: April 17, 2016
The heats beating down on the back of my neck
and a river of sweat's runnin’ down my spine
I swear I would trade away my last red cent
for any kind of shade that I just might find
The sun is so hot it's burned away the chance
of any cloud that might saunter into view
The thermometer has reach o'er a hundred
and the clock just now hit a quarter past two
I ain't seen a hide nor hair of any rain
Since back... well heck, I only wish I could tell
I’ve always thought of Montana as Heaven
but I'd swear right now it sure feels more like Hell
My tongue is a hangin’ pert near to the ground
I think ole Jilly Gal's just about to drop
But there's still five more miles to get to Tree Creek
where for the night we will be able to stop
About six I begin to feel a small breeze
as it comes gently drifting across the plains
I'll be jiggered if when I look to the south
the horizon looks like it’s holding some rain
Glory hallelujah I cried to my horse
as I felt the breeze stiffen into a wind
I hoped it wouldn't be too much longer now
before a little rain might finally begin
Six fifteen rolls by and brings rumbling thunder
and bright streaks of lightning flash across the sky
My rejoicing turns to prayers that wildfires
don't start up because the grass has been so dry
By six thirty the air has a chill to it
might be more than rain from what my nose can tell
On the open prairie there's no worse thing to
bring dread to a cowboy more than pelting hail
Six forty-five three drops of rain have fallen
onto the brim of my dusty Stetson hat
By seven the sun is shining bright again
the wind died off and put a quick end to that
Seven thirty and all hope of rain has left
leaving the prairie parched and the flies to swarm
I look up at the sky and know that I have
survived another Montana’s summer storm