with eyes averted in graceful melancholy
what joy could be left not in belief
in new territory aweless with stale miracle
pond tossed stone rings ripple and die
obstinate and prolonged no going back
less new territory than new humility
once determined that the future is invention
we know not what the future will bring
other than by the offices of retrocalculation
subjective qualia gurgitated as analysis
what do I need in my head right now
to get the existence tax man off my back
forced to speak in a bland manner
to avoid the assassin just outside my door
because I have a face similar to others
which is apparently not impossible
yet a cause for some embarrassment
amongst the landfill intelligentsia
still capable of roundups and gassings
burning inquiries in a dark broaching sea
so dark all which is known is of no use
and one necessarily waits for nothing new
another boring accumulation of mystery
its inestimable charm pulls you off balance
a necklace of kisses from the blasphemer
offering your suffering ambivalence
nothing less than the tools of discovery
Categories:
roundups, how i feel,
Form: Free verse
Nine wild mustangs canter across the prairie
Old West symbols of animals on free range
Known to them is only one adversary
-- Pounding hooves fade into history’s pages
Magnificent specie appears unwary
Victim of habitat infringement and change
Government roundups so unnecessary
Protection not offered, to the contrary
Mustangs captured and sold for slaughter’s exchange
Deaths of entire herds appear arbitrary
-- Pounding hooves fade into history’s pages
*February 26, 2019
Categories:
roundups, horse,
Form: Roundel
He's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
No matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
He wears his Stetson hat, Alligator boots
Jingle Jangle Spurs with stylish Chaps
He dresses the part this cowboy work of art
Draws attention wherever he's at
He loves his Karaoke
Always requests a yodel song
When he's up on the stage folks don't know what to say
As he asks them all to sing along
You may wonder why he's not in Texas
He prefers it brisk and cold
Since he was born and raised among the Northern crazed
But it's the cowboy life that stole his soul
He has no cowhand to help with roundups
Local Yocals wouldn't dare be seen with him
He rides and ropes on his bike cats and dogs at night
With no horse or cattle to his name
Cause he's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
Where no matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
Categories:
roundups, humor,
Form: Light Verse
Hey, buddy, Bob! Now the time is different
It is not what it used to be.
The days of the drives and roundups
The campfire, the smell of beans burning.
Pointing gun at someone to get
Some biscuits, tobacco or fruits
Those little comforts to grab.
Look there, over and down the hills
There are habitats and villages
There are signals and sign boards
Neon signs blazing, the place
Where our campfires glowed.
Yes, John! I can relate to what you say
What we used to see was
the land wild and free for our cattle
in the wide and grassy valleys
where the cattle used to roam.
Now there are irrigation ditches
and there are farms and barns and homes
With cars and bikes roaring.
No original land made by god
but the land plowed up.
Alas, those days are no more.
+++
September 21, 2014
Form: Free Verse
Categories:
roundups,
Form: Free verse
Equus Caballus
Flying hooves cry for freedom
Why are you pursued?
*Inspired by wild horse roundups.
A. Green
Categories:
roundups, animals
Form: Haiku
I saw an old cowpoke
A riding one day
And heard him a whistling
A song of his day.
His face it was weathered,
His hands they were strong,
But his old bay pony
Just loped right along.
He thought of the past,
Of firey young men
Of roundups and brandings,
Poker and gin.
The courage they needed
To face each new day,
His wife and his family,
Now far, far away.
All these things they have changed
With the passing of time
Now he rides all alone
Through the dreams of his mind.
I dedicate this poem to the cowboys of my youth.
Some gentle and loving, some harsh and crude. This
only added to their allure. A kid's dreams, spoon-fed
by their mystic lore. God Bless You, you have enriched
my life.
Categories:
roundups, cowboy-western, devotion, history, nostalgia,
Form: Verse