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David Kelley

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David Kelley
 
 

WRAP OR TIE…THAT IS THE QUESTION
ã 6/98 All Rights Reserved * David Kelley

Tools are essential for any job and
cowpunchers require the same,
From his hammer to his catch rope,
they're tools by any other name.
Their manner of use is sorta like faces,
everybody has their own.
A loop in some circles might be "tossed",
elsewhere, it might just be "thrown".

That hammer's job might be done usin'
two hands in the Arizona sun,
But, best I can tell, here in Texas, we
prefer to use only one.
The examples here, I would agree, to
be'in a mite elementary,
So…I'll give you folks' intelligence
something more complementary.

When a cowboy snags that heifer calf, the 
problem gets a mite deeper,
It appears there 's ample controversy,
exactly how to keep'er.
The smart thing to do and, before the jerk,
is to tie the twine off hard.
But it takes the sport out, some would say, 
some say it keeps stock in the yard!

Then, there's that pardner who would enwrap
their twine, 'round that saddle horn.
Prayin' that friction holds fast their catch,
for escape brings on certain scorn.
Well …each way appears to do the job when
normal conditions apply,
It could be different when conditions change, 
comes back the learned reply.

I'm something of a greenhorn, but the
obvious choice I would implore,
That tyin' off hard, seems to leave your hands,
to use again for other chores.
Wrappin' that twine the other way, might
just slip a tad on the dally,
Leavin' fewer digits at end of day,
with which to make the tally.

The wrappin' group chides the tie-hards,
callin' 'em lazy or even chubby,
But, by necessity, sometimes we call
them dally wrappers … STUBBY.
 

THE NIGHTHAWK
© 3/99 All Right Reserved * David Kelley

The Texas sun escaped the horizon with the night closely in tow.
Tom found it impossible not to watch the sight even though
He'd witnessed the marvelous occurrence for more'n half his life;
Still...the glory of it cut through his ol' rough hide like a knife.

Sounds of day heralds the night, which begins in deafening still,
Then yields to the chorus of twilight resounding through the hill.
Tom watched the herd closely for signs of turmoil or unrest...
Keepin' 'em bunched and bedded down was a never ending test.

He loved the night watch, but knew the dangers were ever ready.
He watched every facet of the night...attentive and steady.
The calm of one moment could change to anarchy in the next,
The many causes for the change would fill the largest known text.

Tom's silent prayer was; "...that dew fell quick to quiet the dry sprig,
'Cause the peace could be broken by the snap of a single twig.
That bank of clouds in the west holds on its quiet northern route,
And because the herd likes it, Abe's awful singing voice holds out."

Sometimes he sang the same verses, sometimes they weren't quite the same,
But to them cattle a song's a song by any other name.
Tom wished for something to write on, cause Abe's words were good,
And he won't remember 'em in the mornin', that's understood

This was Tom's last drive and he'd heard maybe the last of 'em all,
No more cattle drives after the year of Eighty-five, in the fall.
It didn't seem like he'd been doin' this for nineteen of his years;
Ridin' the night watch over a bunch of rangy 'Meskin' steers.

Good Lord willin', he'd sit out the rest of his life with sweet Lou,
Watching after his own cattle is what he figgered' to do.
How the stampede started was a guess,...it all happened quick,
When Tom's carcass was found, it was enough to make you sick.

Word was he was still tryin' to turn 'em when he hit the ground;
A fine 'Nighthawk' to the end...even to his very last sound.
They took his ragged ol' hat and spurs and give 'em to sweet Lou,
Nothing else they could do...words were much too late and far too few.

Tears dustin' off them spurs, placin' another stain on the hat,
Lou...sounding cold, could only mutter, "Whatta' ya' know 'bout that?"
Such was life on the trail, sometimes short, and mostly much too hard.
Tom wouldn't 'ahad it any other way, "Adios, for now", old pard.
 

TEAMED UP AND WORKIN' PRETTY
© 4/97 All Rights Reserved * David Kelley

K.D. and the boys were in town, off
the Pitchfork, havin' a fine time.
At the depot, they saw Harve Black,
hitchin' his horses and layin' line.

Harve's old horses, Prince and Joe, had 
a reputation as a fine team.
K.D. watched as Harve put 'em in their
Riggin', to unload steel I-beam.

Riggin' a gin pole and pullies, like he'd 
done a hundred times before.
His lines all done up, he stepped back 
to examine the upcoming chore,

Prince and Joe were prancin' around,
rattling them chains and the single tree,
And when Harve thought he had it just
right, he stepped clear and winked at K.D.

"Prince..Joe...", and they acknowledged his 
voice with a nodding of those big heads.
"Tighten it up..", Harve spoke firmly, as 
though he was talking to his kids.

Prince and Joe stepped forward until all the 
slack went out, then held their ground.
"Gimme' a step", Harve said, that team took 
just ONE, and there was not a sound.

Harve checked his lines and load, 'till he was 
sure all was correct and ready.
"Pick it up", he bade and once again the 
team was powerful and steady.

Leather, wood, and steel strained at the load
And the beams steady cleared the ground.
"Now hold it..", and those horses fairly 
trembled as Harve swung the load around.

"Walk it back..", and they slowly set it down, 
while the load was gently placed.
Prince and Joe repeated 'till nothing was 
left on the flat-car but space.

K.D. would never forget how that team 
worked like a well-oiled machine,
And with a tear in his eye said, "There's a 
horseman that won't long be seen."

And he was right.
 

A COWBOY POETS BIO
5/12/99  All Rights Reserved * David Kelley

Born the year of Forty Three, my name is David Kelley,
With an itch to write cowboy rhyme?deep within my belly.
I ain't no cowboy, but tried the callin' a time or two.
I suffered bad from "Don't Wanna", and bouts of black and blue.

Didn't wanna' work, and horses didn't like haulin' me around.
They had a real fondness for throwin' my tail on the ground.
(If I coulda' been a cowpoke, and WALKED that outside ring?
But then again, I reckon there is still that 'working' thing.)

So, about the year of Nineteen Hunnerd' and Sixty Three,
I told the Lord, "..ranchin' and farmin' ain't the job for me,
A city feller's 'EASY' life is in my future plans.
You know lot's of money, and long black Cadillac sedans!"

So I've pounded this city concrete, in this race with rats,
Chasing the mighty dollar, and wearin' tenderfoot hats.
But the memories that I'll take, when I end my final days,
Are the one's of the land and grass, and genteel cowboy ways.

Of Mama's stories handed down, from Grandpa's cowboy side,
The times on terra-firma, every time I tried to ride.
Struggling to pay the feed bill, the vet, and the banker too,
Wondering if the price of beef would hold a month or two.

Having pards that remove their hat when ladies would arrive,
Where his word was a binding contract, long as he's alive.
There exists the "..cool of the eve'..", to end a summer's day,
While watching with glee as God's critters in the valley play.

However the life of the cowboy's gone and passed me by,
So there's one more option to take, that really caught my eye.
I'll just be a COWBOY POET, the second best of plans,
You know, lot's of money, and long black Cadillac sedans!

David Kelley

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