Dangerous Crossing
Dangerous Crossing
By Davey Lee George
(C) 2001 All Rights Reserved
The water looked deep and since it was muddy after the deluige it was impossible to see bottom to gauge its depth. Still, there was no other way to the opposite side, and as she thought about it, she came to the conclusion that it was “sink or swim,” so to speak.
She knew full well that there might be animals or flesh-eating fish lurking there, too, but the sense of urgency to be on the far shore was compelling, even overwhelming to her and she knew she would have to try. Danger seemed everywhere, so looking about she found a stout stick of about two feet in length. Hoping to use it to ward off the dangers within the vast impoundment she stepped hesitantly into it, only to see the dirty water rush into her boot tops. Leaping backward, she fell in the slippery mud that had obviously been churned up by the feet of thousands of panicked animals, possibly wildebeasts, she reasoned, while trying to extricate herself from the sticky goo.
Arising at last she stepped once more into the forbidding water, expecting at any moment to have to fight for her life. Knowing the depth of it at its edge, she assumed it would get even deeper as she ventured forth, but to her surprise, it remained shallow, just slightly above the tops of her boots.
As she made her way slowly, gingerly, fearfully toward the other shore, she at first was unaware of someone shouting. Then, as the voice became even louder she realized it was her mother saying, “Get out of that mud puddle, you foolish little thing, and come into this house this instant!”
The Car
The Car
By Janice N. Chapman
(C) 3/28/2001 All Rights Reserved
I have to tell you about it,
This car I bought one time.
I drove it off the lot, of course,
When the dealer said it was mine.
I stopped at the first gas station
Cause the gas tank was dry.
Opened up the hood –
And found I’d bought a lie!
Not only did the gas tank leak,
The thing that caught this eye of mine,
Was that all the belts that ran the thing
Were made of binder twine!
And then the balding tires
Stripped their new retreads,
And then I found that rubber bands
Held the lug nuts to their threads!
And as I checked her underneath,
This newly purchased prize –
Baling wire held things in place,
And tape was no surprise.
Here and there along the seams
Gum had been applied –
The dealer no doubt watched me leave,
Then laughed until he cried.
Learning The Lingo
Learning The Lingo
By Neal Torrey
(C) 2001 All Rights Reserved
Now cowboy poetry can be a lot of fun to listen to,
But to really understand it, you must know a thing or two,
About how cowboys talk, and the special lingo that they use.
When you hear how it came about, you won’t be so confused.
Now, let’s take that word lingo, there’s a story behind that.
It comes from Lingua Franca, which is a technical kind of chat.
You see, the cowboy sorta “borrowed” some terms form Mexico,
Fom the ones already herding cows, the Mexican Vaquero.
Now the “B” and “V” in Spanish tend to sound somewhat the same,
And if the cowboy couldn’t say it right, it got brand new name.
For example, the Mexican who herded cows was called a Vaquero.
But we couldn’t quite pronounce that, and it came out “BUCKAROO.”
Now, when it came to talking tack, the name changes came galore.
Fiador, which is Mexican for throat-latch, became the “THEODORE.”
And since Jaquima was hard to say, it wound up as “HACKAMORE.”
Mecate was chaged to ‘McCARTY”…and there were many more.
Lazo became “LASSO.” and, Caballo, the word meaning horse,
was changed to “CAVVIEYAH,” and thus was butchered even worse!
Bronco means rough or wild. “BRONC” was more the cowboy style.
And the vaquero’s Chaparejos beccame just “CHAPS” after a while.
Dar La Vuelta, to “give a turn,” bcame a “DALLY” around the horn.
Mesteno became “MUSTANG,” and a new cowboy word was born.
Estampida, a word in Spanish that means a loud noise,
Was changed to mean a runaway herd, a “STAMPEDE” to the cowboys.
Now when a cowboy celebrated, his tongue got somewhat loose.
Calabazo, the Spanish word for dungeon, became the “CALABOOSE.”
The Juzgado, the lock-up, was slurred and stirred somehow
To become the cowboys’ word for jail. They called it the “HOOSEGOW.”
Now that’s just the beginning; there’s no telling how far it will reach,
Because cowboys are still in business, making up new kinds of speech.
When he climbs on the “hurricane deck” of a “sunfishing crowbait,”
You may hear some language I haven’t even begun to investigate!
Now this kind of thing is catching, and somethings that you may say
Have seeped into the language and aree said the “cowboy way.”
Terms like “ear-marked,” “maverick,” “hung up” and “bawling out.”
All come from Cowboy Lingo. So, listen close, you’ll figure us out.
Cowboy Poetry
Cowboy Poetry
By Rod Nichols
(C) 2000 All Rights Reserved
Just what is cowboy poetry
I’ve many times been asked,
why might a cowboy start to write,
and will that writing last?
I’ve had some time to ponder this
as the years have drifted by,
so if you’ll sit and rest a bit
I’d sorta like to try.
When you’ve spent a lifetime partner
doing what you love the best,
there’s a thing inside you can’t deny
that’s a truth about the West.
He wouldn’t trade a single day
for the mem’ries he has stored,
men he’s know both young and grown
fill a life with cowboy lore.
He’s ridden herd and mended fence
cut ‘em out and branded steers,
been wet and dry with grit in eyes
when the trail dust finally cleared.
He’s lived outdoors ‘neath starry skies
a campfire blazing gright,
sung cowboy tunes ‘neath a prairie moon
seen the face of God at night.
He knows his place without a doubt
in the circle we call life,
it’s no surpise to reason why
a cowboy starts to write.
And it will last I’d have to say
til the cowboy life is gone,
and even then in the hearts of men
It’ll always find a home.
THE COWBOY TRAIL
THE COWBOY TRAIL
By Rod Miller
(C) 2000 All Rights Reserved
From below the Mexican border
To the medicine line and beyond,
Cattle country spreads far and wide
And the cowboy trail is long.
And the cowboy trail is long.
The cowboy trail is long.
The trail’s awash, a river of mud.
A splash the hoofbeat’s sound.
The blue of the sky bleaches away
As clouds cascade to the ground.
And the cowboy trail is long.
The cowboy trail is long.
Fetlock-deep dust sifted fine as flour
Paints every horse on the trail the same.
Sweat disappears, its work undone,
The sky hot and bright as a flame.
And the cowboy trail is long.
The cowboy trail is long.
Icy lace trims mountain streams.
You drop the cinch anad strip your kack
At the end of a day riding leafy trails.
Steam rises from your horse’s back.
And the cowboy trail is long.
The cowboy trail is long.
The trail fades, the horizon is lost
Out there where white meets white.
Snow squeaks underfoot as you ride,
Chilled bones creak when you alight.
And the cowboy trail is long.
The cowboy trail is long.
From prairie swells to ocean waves,
Alpine forests to brushy plains;
Wherever the trail leads to cattle,
A cowboy will take up the reins.
And the cowboy trail is long.
The cowboy trail is long.
DUE RESPECT
DUE RESPECT
By Danny Wayne Dutton
(C) 1993 All Rights Reserved
About some old cowboys
I’d care to speak,
‘Cause some say they’re gone
Their legends too weak.
But I’ve know a few
Whose mark has been made.
Some are still workin’
Tho their dues have been paid.
They’ve devoted their lives
To work without thanks,
Short pay and long winters
They give all it takes.
And their tack was well-oiled,
Their boots resoled,
Their adventures in toil,
Their stories still told.
Thru the brush and the breaks,
Thru feed alleys and pens,
On good horses well-trained,
Good means to good ends.
Known for their mischief,
And their experience sought,
Watched by the young,
The young men that they’ve taught.
Beyond cocky and boldness,
On sureness they thrived.
They aren’t often wrong,
That’s how they survived.
Most of them loners,
Few words do they use.
Their deeds are their statements;
Their statements profuse.
In God do they trust,
To nature they tend.
Their allegiance is lasting,
All beasts are their friend.
OLD SAM
OLD SAM
By Paul D. Hatch
(C) 1996 All Rights Reserved
I put him out to pasture
old Sam had served me well…
If he could only speak,
what stories he could tell…
Of long hot days at round-up,
of snowy frigid rides.
When Sam had took me there and back,
in sure and steady strides.
In early days he’d fought me some,
I’ze forced to use the spurs,
Seems he’d wake up every morning,
with a blanket full of burrs…
Oft times I’d fork the old McLellan,
and pull my Stetson snug.
Old Sam would turn his head around,
and give a horsley shrug…
I’ze tensed up like a fat hog,
at a sausage seminar.
Then he’d line out and I’d relax,
but not for very far.
Cause bye and bye as sure as sin,
old Sam would come un-glued.
I’d recite his genealogy,
in terms profane and crude.
Then the days turned into months,
the months turned into years.
Sam turned into a cow horse,
surpassing all his peers.
You ought not think he softened much,
there weren’t no mush in Sam.
He’s always like a spring thaw creek,
against a beaver dam.
But thru the years we’d built a truce,
we never wrote it down.
I’ze dumb myself, and Sam,-
couldn’t tell a verb from a proper noun.
But neither Jocoby nor Myers,
with all their legalese,
Including “where-ofs” and “where-fores”
dotted I’s and well crossed T’s
Ever built a contract,
with more of binding force,
than this agreement made between,
a cowboy and his horse.
I promised him I’d feed him good,
and although some may scoff,
he promised if the feed was good,
that he’d not poop me off.
Well, he’s now reached his grandpa stage,
he’s two score years plus three.
But age has been right kind to him,
like an imported rare chablis.
Some have urged I trade him off,
They just don’t understand.
He’s not just another common horse,
Sam rode fer the brand.
‘Sides, I’m a hopin’ bye and bye,
when all my vigors fled,
The Man upstairs won’t trade me off,
But perhaps, instead, –
He’ll look down here and pity me,
He’ll see I ain’t much good.
But perhaps He’ll see, like my horse Sam,
I done the best I could.
I MISS THE DAYS
I MISS THE DAYS
By Janice N. Chapman
(C) 1985 All Rights Reserved
I missed the days when wagon wheels
Rolled over barren soil.
The wheels I drive on now wear rubber tires
From B.F. Goodrich or Uniroyal.
I missed the days when covered wagons
Rumbled airishly along.
If my air conditioner in my car don’t work,
I know there’s something wrong.
I missed the days when live horses drew
The carriages down the road.
The horses that I depend on now
Carry a considerable different load.
I missed the days when the wagons
Seldom travelled side by side.
I drive today on throughways
That are sometimes eight lanes wide.
YELLOW SLICKER
YELLOW SLICKER
By Debra Coppinger Hill
(C) 2000 All Rights Reserved
She wore his yellow slicker,
Though it almost drug the ground,
It seemed to make things easier,
As if He was still around.
He’d left her some big boots,
She was gonna’ have to fill,
But his old yellow slicker,
It seemed to give her the Will.
The Will to keep on going,
The Will to be wise and strong,
The Will to make their dreams come true,
And remember where she belonged.
She wore it to feed the cattle,
And when she cleaned the stalls,
She hung it on that high nail by the door,
And remembered He was tall.
She wore it every time,
Storm clouds came rushing in,
She even wore it sometimes,
Just so the tears would not begin.
She wore it to keep the wet out,
and to hold the cold at bay,
It eased the hardness of the ground,
Each time she knelt to pray.
She wore it to chop the tanks,
And when she mended fence,
She wore it on the best of days,
And on the ones that made no sense.
She wore it when it was ragged,
And had completely lost it’s charm,
Because, if she as inside of it,
She was back inside his arms.
It’s just an old yellow slicker,
But it made her life complete,
It reminded her what’s important,
And it kept her on her feet.
She wore it across a lifetime,
And she never felt alone.
She raised their kids, she raised their cows,
And she made their farm a home.
And when she’s gone, she tells the kids,
Just hang it on that nail in the barn,
Then look at it, and in your hearts know,
His yellow slicker saved the farm.
