COWBOY POETRY

 farmers still

at the kitchen table
we cup our hands around coffee mugs
to fight off the chill of fall rains
we talk about late harvest and sprouting swaths
and the whims of marketing boards  money-lenders 
and mother nature
we remember past years with bumper crops
and how the north-east quarter always produces
but this year the swaths are under water
and tough as things seem it's not so bad as Harrisons
after their auction last year they moved to the city
they say they used to lie awake wondering if the old boss cow
made it through the winter   if the brockle-faced heifer
calved on her own
they drive out to check other people's crops
on land their grandfather homsteaded
stop in at coffee row   talk about the weather
like they were still here
From Maverick Western Verse 1994  Gibbs Smith Publisher
Available at Amazon.com        
 Making Bread
 
"Can't be running fifteen miles into town
every time you're short of bread."
she said, as she dumped the potato peelings 
and coffeee grounds out of the basin and into the slop pail.
She mumbled something about `city girls',
while she scrubbed that white enamel basin
with the red rim around the edge
and the black chips punctuating every dent.
She got the stack of bread pans from the pantry.
"No, there isn't a recipe, you just mix it till it feels right!
Scald the milk and melt the lard
and cup your hand and fill that hollow twice with salt,
then knead it, that's the secret, the kneading."
She chain smoked, sitting at the end of my kitchen table
her boots propped up on the oak bench
and her nose in another Louis L`Amour.
I sprinkled the oil cloth with flour
and kneaded that dough till my arms ached,
and my shoulders.
"No, it isn't ready yet, I haven't heard it squeak!" she said.
And still I kneaded,
and fifteen loaves of fresh bread
on the kitchen counter later,
I knew that bread making wasn't neessarily
and act of love.
From   Cowgirls: 100 years of Writing the Range   It's available at Amazon.Com, the world's biggest bookstore.



          Dinosaur Pet 
If I could have a dinosaur
and keep it for a pet,
I'd feed him every day,
I never would forget.
The kids from town would ride with me
on our big yellow bus,
they'd want to see my dinosaur
and play outside with us.
They'd all be green with jealousy
`cause they'd have tiny pets,
but me, I'd have a dinosaur.
How lucky can you get?
From "Pocket Poems for Kids" by Anne Slade and Doris Bircham.



Politically Correct Cowperson Poets

We were doin' Cowboy Poetry one afternoon last spring,
when the host introduced us and said a peculiar thing.
She called us "Cowperson Poets" and I got to wonderin' why
she couldn't call us Cowboy Poets, so I figured I oughta try
to understand this new language, politically correct, I mean,
an' I got a real quick lesson on my computer screen.
See, I'd written a poem for my husband, (He said it was terrific),
but my computer said, "replace husband with a word less gender specific."
Well, I am kinda specific 'bout the gender my husband should be,
just like I'm kinda partial to spoutin' Cowboy Poetry.
So, I failed political correctness, though it wasn't a real test,
and I'm still recitin' poetry 'bout that man I love the best.


calving 
 
the bag that nourished the calf's life
is wrapped tightly around its head
taking away the gift
the man rips it off
lifts the 80 pounds of flaccid flesh
swings it in an arc
his primordial cry echoing down the hill
breathe   breathe
the heifer   frightened
bolts across the corral
mills in with other heifers
awaiting their birthing rite
the woman runs 
to her husband
watches as he pushes on the rib cage
willing the heart to beat
she kneels by the too still calf
starts mouth-to-mouth
one hand over the nostrils
the other under the chin
holding the mouth 
open to hers   she blows
feels the lungs inflate
expel
again she blows 
and again
till the breath comes on its own
the man reaches for a straw
pokes the purple nostrils 
till the calf sneezes
it shakes its head
trembles in the bedding straw
they cut the heifer out of the group
chase her up to her calf
she sniffs and licks
and the calf's first 'maaaa'
like music 
surrounds them 
as they walk down the hill together

HOW THE FORT WALSH SITE WAS ESTABLISHED   1875 
                     
Now, it has been said, in books I've read
that troops who were highly skilled
searched day and night for the perfect site
for a fort in the Cypress hills.
IÕm going to try to verify
some stories I've heard, and you'll see
that a young man's heart played a major part
in this fort built by Company 'B'.
First they found Farwell's post and Walsh made the most 
of the lay of the land thereabouts, 
he rode back and forth, then two miles north
he stopped with his men and his scout,
that's old Jerry Potts who concurred with the spot
Col. Walsh chose to camp overnight.
The troops unpacked gear and set up camp near
Battle Creek on this makeshift site.
Now these fine new recruits in their dashing red suits
had been west for about a year,
they'd seen hardly a trace of a feminine face
since they had been stationed here.
Then young Sgt. Bray rode out late in the day
to survey the country around,
when topping a crest, he looked to the west
and what do you think he found?
He saw houses and barns on a prairie farm
and a sight he hadn't seen in a while,
Calico skirts and muslin shirts
and a pretty young woman's smile.
(See, in '72, when winter was through,
some buffalo hunters came,
by the name of McKay, they determined to try
homesteading  on their claim.)
Sgt. J.H.G. Bray rode down right away
then stopped by the well for water.
While the men had a chat, McKay noticed that
BrayÕs eyes were on his young daughter.
He invited Bray to come back the next day
with the troops and their good appetites.
Those men were well fed on McKay's homestead,
then they danced till the morning light.
They'd waltz and they'd whirl 'round the floor with a girl
(There were five of them on the place).
They didn't want to leave, why they couldn't believe
they'd found women of beauty and grace.
Walsh made his report then started the fort
right there by Battle Creek
and the smitten John Bray somehow found a way
to stop by McKay's each week.
Not too long after, mid music and  laughter
Sgt. Bray's dreams were fulfilled
When Jemima McKay became his new bride
at that homestead snugged in the hills.
This prairie-raised wife began wedded life
at the town of Fort Walsh that day.
As time took it's course, the first-born to the force
was their daughter, wee Flora Bray.
When you read history's lines, time after time,
(till you almost believe they are true),
how without hesitation, Walsh chose his location
for the creek, the landscape and view.
You know the real story,  and though I feel sorry
for historians who believe they are right.
It was McKay's young daughters, not Battle Creek's waters
that determined the Fort Walsh site.

  How Was Your Day Dear?

"Well, it's been quite a day," he said, "one thing after another.
You'd  just left for work an' I got this phone call from your mother.
Seems your uncle John and his new wife are passin' through,
so they'll pick up her Siamese cat, little 'Princess Chiang Sue'.
She kept thankin' me for lookin' after her prized pet,
an' all the time I'm wishin' she'd boarded it with the vet!
"It's been quite a day," he said, as he sat down with a sigh.
"My truck broke down this mornin' an' the barn well went dry.
Then that calf you nursed through scours, got caught up in the trees
an' when I tried to get him out, I twisted my bum knee.
The neighbour's bull came over;  he caused some wrecks,
then I discovered that our heifers don't practice safe sex.
An' three o' the yearlin's were trampin' through your flowers,
I got them out all right, but they'd been there a couple o' hours.
Then at noon your mother's purebred cat somehow got outside.
I tracked her to the barn, but she sure knows how to hide.
And the hired man's laid up, says he's got the flu,
an' the banker called to remind us that our payment's overdue.
As if that's not enough, I heard this ruckus by the shed,
an' I hate to tell you honey, but, your mother's cat got bred!"

BEANS


Out at my cousin's ranch
we get to eat cowboy food. 
I  take aunty's advice and fill my plate twice,
'cause mostly it tastes real good.
But when my aunt and uncle
cook up their cowboy beans,
I only submit to sample a bit,
'cause they burn right down to your spleen.
They've got hot sauce and jalapenos,
red peppers and green, I think,
cayenne for flavour and garlic to savour
one taste and you'll need a drink!
Once I fed Rover my beans
his eyes and his nose sprung a leak,
he hung out his tongue, took off on a run
and didn't come back for a week!
If you visit my cousin's ranch,
you're safe with the chili and stew,
but you'll make it routine, to turn down those beans
if  you know what's good for you.
                                  Anne Slade
                                  From Denim, Felt & Leather.


OUR FRIEND DOWN THE VALLEY

        When he died, our friend down the valley
        we grieved though it was no surprise,
        he'd been chewin' and smokin' seventy years
        ever since he was 'bout pint size.
        I remember him ridin' the pasture
        and left-handed he'd roll a smoke,
        curl his fingers to shape the tobacco,
        use his teeth to tighten the poke.
        When he died, our friend down the valley,
        all the neighbours were gathered there,
        singin' old songs like "Peace In The Valley"
        and recitin  "The Cowboys' Prayer".
        His coffin was just a rough box
        'neath his blanket and battered hat,
        and we listened  close to the eulogy,
        somehow we were ready for that.
        The riders that followed the hearse
        dismounted and stood with heads bowed.
        They delivered their final farewells
        and they did their old friend proud.
        When he died, our friend down the valley,
        wasn't one of us that was brave
        when the boy led in his riderless horse
        and they stood by the side of the grave.
        We knew the saddle'd be empty
        the boots tied facin' the back
        and each of us knew it would be the last time
        we'd see his bay horse with his tack.
        But the thing we hadn't expected
        was our sensin' that he was still here
        chewin' and smilin' then tippin' his hat
        and teasin' us for our tears.
        And you know, our friend down the valley
        has become a part of this place,
        and whenever you pass his home quarter
        there seems to be just a trace
        of his love and of his laughter, 
        his old stories and his smile.
        Seems like he's just gone out ridin'
        and will be back in a little while.

                                Anne Slade
                                From Denim, Felt & Leather.

Evensong

Summer evenings, when it's quiet and still
we sit outside and watch the hills
and listen to sounds sing from the slough
while our sons do things that little boys do.
Our youngest ponders a firefly
twinkling against the darkling sky,
then climbs with his brothers through the leaves
to their secret hideout in the trees.  
The hills are painted with evening shades
and as the lingering twilight fades,
like a benediction following prayer,
our childrens' whispers float through the air.

Louis Riel

Alone in this cell I am waiting
soon my life will come to an end.
Some call me rebel, lunatic, traitor,
some call me leader and  friend.
These tears in my eyes are for sadness
not a vain sense of self-worth.
These tears are for fear of the future,
for the sorrow I'll leave here on earth.
My mother has sent me a letter
her prayers give me courage and pain
I ask for pen and for paper
God knows we won't meet  again.
My penknife will serve as a pen
my blood the ink dark and red,
and these walls will whisper my message
long years after I am dead.
                            Anne Slade





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