The Wild Ones

Just a couple of old codgers, 
Who'd like to relive the past.
And step back to yesterday,
Because yesterday went by too fast. 

We want to buy new motorcycles,
Is that so crazy and rash?
And we'd do it in a minute,
If our wives would give us the cash!

Our wild oats are sown and harvested,
Time (and wives) made us change our ways. 
Life is calmer and more sedate now, 
Without any hell to raise!
 
The highways no longer in danger, 
Of the peril we once imposed.
That chapter in our lives,
Is over and forever and ever closed.

Reckless and rowdy behavior, 
Is no longer part of our plan.
Today one of our escapades,
Would seem downright boring and bland.
  
But alas, our plans will see no fruition, 
And the "bullet bikes" we'll not procure.  
Those who control the purse strings tell us, 
Just be happy looking at the motorcycle brochure!

M. T. Whallete  2000

The Bicyclist
It had not been ridden,
In about three and a half years.
So I dusted off my Klein bike,
And checked out all the gears.
I filled the bottles with water,
And adjusted my rear view mirror.
Even my Brooks leather saddle,
Rememberedt the shape of my rear.

Then I headed for the open road,
At a slow to moderate pace.
Others caught and passed me,
But I was in no shape to race.
As I rode I felt I was being watched,
Then my eyes turned to the sky.
About six or eight buzzards,
Were hoping I would soon die.

I stopped at a busy intersection,
Waiting for a light at the edge of town.
My clipless pedals wouldn’t release me,
So I fell to the ground.
I’m sure all the passing motorists,
Witnessed the injury to my pride.
We bicyclists must entertain the motoring public,
It’s the price we pay to ride!


M. T. Whallete  1999

I Like ...
             I like old pickup trucks and late night trains,
             Crisp, juicy apples and slow, gentle rains,
             Lush green lawns that I don't have to mow,
             Small, laid-back towns where things move slow.

             I like sermons that are to the point and short,
             People who aren't eager to take you to court,
             A four mile jog in the cool of the morn,
             Barbecued chicken and fresh popped corn.

             I like the weather in early fall and early spring,
             And summer evenings when the cicadas sing.
             Some fluffy, white clouds to float in my skies,
             Homemade ice cream, fresh pumpkin and pecan pies.

             I like old wooden barns and working windmills,
             The cool of an evening when the west wind stills.
             Pretty feminine legs pedaling mountain bikes,
             And Staffordshire terriers are some of my likes.                       
             M. T. Whallete  1993

DUSTY TRAILS

A country song and an evening to squander
On a dusty backroad, my memories wander

Back to west Texas where my friends were many
One pair of jeans and a T-shirt were plenty

A single-shot rifle and an old black dog
Hunting the hills for rabbit and javelina hog

Mom often said and I know its true
"Not me, that old black dog raised you

Just the top of your head and the tip of his tail
Heading out in the mornings down a dusty trail

Looking for Indian arrowheads and cradling a gun
You didn't come home till the day was done"

We wandered far and I remember the day
The old dog growled and got in my way

I looked up the trail and there by a cedar
Lay a rattlesnake waiting for me the leader

We had command of the trails you see
Just that old black dog and me

But in time the old dog died and I left home
Headed for the city and new trails to roam

I found new trails on the city streets
Fast cars, fast women, and barroom treats

But I finally settled down at the edge of town
Got a good job and became an office clown 

The boss says jump and I ask "How far?"
Yeh, I have traded my soul for new house and car

I don't fit the mode, but I still fake it
Just to show the world that I can take it

I wear a suit to work and to some am a success
Little they know I would trade it in a minute or less

For the hills of west Texas and the way it used to be...
An old black dog, dusty trails, and the real me

I.R. Ghostrider 1998

Return To Dusty Trails

                You have read the poem of Dusty Trails,
                The hills of west Texas, and other details.

                Of the old black dog and the way it used to be,
                Of how it seemed I was doomed to eternity,

                To sit at a desk and wallow in self pity,
                While I dreamed of escape from the city.

                Well,  the story does have a happy end
                And the details I am happy to send

                A little speckled pup has come into my life
                To replace the city, the desk, and other strife.

                Found her on a road, abused and battered
                Her health and body completely shattered

                She lifted her head and licked my hand
                Still loving though abused by fellow man

                We bonded in an instant beside the road
                God sent love to replace our heavy load

                Just as it seemed to be our last breath
                We nurtured each other and cheated death

                To the hills of west Texas we will return
                Back to Dusty Trails for which I yearn

                The speckled pup, like the old black dog
                Has given me faith, hope, and epilogue

                That will set me free from material things
                And replace them with love of fellow beings

                I will roam the hills as I did before
                With the little speckled pup forevermore

                God responded as I was about to give up
                And sent me the love of a little speckled pup

                IR Ghostrider April 2000

Funeral Plans
The wealthy old lady was saddened
When her favorite cat passed away,
He had been her constant, loyal companion,
For what seemed like forever and a day.
So she went to an Episcopal priest,
To discuss a funeral plan
"A funeral for either a dog or a cat," 
"Is something I can't do," said the ordained clergyman.

"Well," she said, "I guess the Methodists will
take My generous gift of $25,000 cash."
"Whoa, now wait a minute, ma'am,"
The priest said, "I don't want to seem too rash,"
"It's true we don't conduct funerals for animals,"
"Or anything that appears to be alien,"
"But we'll be happy to accommodate you,"
"I didn't realize that your cat was an Episcopalian."

Fillet of Carp
 
             Now carp is a rough fish,
             That I refuse to eat,
             Till an old woodsman told me,
             How to cook the meat.

             A piece of redwood,
             That's sawed very thin,
             And a fresh fillet of carp,
             Without any scales or skin.

             Four ounces of bourbon,
             Three cups of good white wine,
             Six jalapena peppers,
             That are chopped very fine,

             Add a cup of soy sauce.
             That should do the trick,
             Stir until it's cooked, 
             Not too thin, nor too thick.

             Marinate the fish and the wood,
             Then give it a really good chill,
             Then on the morrow,
             We'll throw it on the grille.

             When it's brown and crispy, 
             Then it's cooked just right,
             You and the wife can dine.
             In the evening by candlelight.

             Scrape the carp into the trash, 
             Just before you eat,
             Then feast upon the redwood, 
             For a real tasty treat.
             M. T. Whallete

Countrified
I had no choice to whom I was born,
And I had no say where I was raised.
My parents followed a certain course,
So I followed trails that others blazed.

Fate could have taken me anywhere,
Hither, thither or yon.
But we settled in Big Lake, Texas,
A place of which I grew very fond.

I came from a place with flowing creeks,
Tree covered hill, rivers and lakes.
To a place with blowing sand and dust,
Cactus, mesquite and rattlesnakes.

The big cities have many amenities,
That a small town cannot provide.
But to me they fade into oblivion,
Because I'm still countrified.

I have many memories of Big Lake,
The unpleasant are outweighed by the good.
No, I wasn't born in Reagan County,
But I got there as quickly as I could!
             M. T. Whallete

Texon
             The Texonites have gathered again,
             To recollect long past years.
             There's lots of reminiscing,
             With laughter, joy and some tears.
             I well remember Texon,
             And the smell of west Texas crude.
             Halfway between Big Lake and Rankin,
             With its own unique pulchritude.

             An oil patch community,
             Here many good people worked and dwelt.
             A idyllic community more like a family,
             Where a sense of belonging was keenly felt.
             Together sharing what life brought them,
             Both the hard times and the good.
             Friendships and bonds forged long ago,
             The test of time and distance has withstood.

             There's a touch of sadness in reunions,
             When you see old friends and faces,
             But the joy of camaraderie and fellowship,
             That kindred spirit quickly displaces.
             Time has work adversely on Texon,
             And doing its best to erase and hide.
             If you have roots back to Texon,
             That's something in which to take pride!
              
            M. T. Whallete 1999

The Old Confederates Last Battle
              One morning in 1882, a few of us boys
                       were standing around,
              When a gent wearing a Confederate hat
                          rode into town.
              With a double barrel 12 gauge slung
                          across his back,
              He came riding in with all his gear
                          in a gunny sack.
              His clothes were tattered and torn; 
                     he was grizzled and old. 
              Said he had been out in the badlands 
                         looking for gold.
              No one offered to take him in, 
                       though many were able.
              He traded his horse for a place to stay
                        in the livery stable.
              Though he never told us his name,
                  he gained our respect each day
              For the manner he conducted
                     himself in a certain way.
              He seldom talked, but he once said
                           soft and low,
              "Someday I'm going where I can hear
                       the battle drums roll."
              From that said and the old hat
                  we thought and later found true,
              He had been in the great war 
                     between the gray and blue.
              He hung around town doing odd jobs
                           when he could.
              Then one day the four Belton boys
                        came to do no good.
              They robbed the bank, shot the sheriff 
                   and a few others just for fun.
              Then rode through town thinking
                   no one would dare draw a gun.
              The town was deathly quite and people
                      fearfully hid behind doors.
              When out of the shadows a blast 
                   from a shotgun deftly roared.
              Two Beltons fell, one on his face
                       and one on his knees.
              The two others turned to the shadows
                     and were startled to see,
              A figure wearing a Confederate hat
                     stepping into the street.
              The figure boldly spoke, "You may kill me
                  but I will never again retreat.
              I once left men dying on a field of battle
                 and my honor I must restore.  
              So, throw down your guns or join your brothers
                   there in the blood and gore."
              The nearest Belton drew, but he was dead
                     before he hit the ground.
              The last Belton shot the old Confederate
                  before he could chamber a round.
              The town rallied and caught the last Belton 
                     before he could get away.
              And the courage of the Confederate is still
                        talked about today.
              In his sack of belongings they found 
                      all tarnished and worn,
              The decorations and trimmings of a 
                   Confederate Colonel's uniform.
              Though no one knows what it means unless
                  they have heard this story told,
              On a tombstone in a small west Texas town
                     it says in simple scroll:

              Confederate Colonel - Name & Birth Unknown
       His honor restored, let him hear the battle drums roll
        On day of death 12 December 1882, he paid his toll
               Retreat forgiven through evil smitten
                    Here lies a warrior bold
         I.R. Ghostrider 

Travelling Companion
             She says she'll have me cremated,
             And in a half-gallon, clear dill pickle jar,
             My remains will be deposited,
             And placed in the front seat of her car.

             She says she wants me near her,
             And I'll never be out of her sight.
             She will buckle me in the seat belt,
             And pull it up real tight.

             We'll have our usual conversations,
             Except I won't interrupt or dispute.
             I'll sit there quietly and listen,
             Like a TV that's set on mute.

             I'll be her constant companion,
             Until she finds another hunk,
             And then I'll take my place,
             With the spare tire in the trunk!
            
M. T. Whallete

The Hustler

It was a hot, dry summer evening,
When he walked into Lefty's Place.
You could tell that he was serious,
By the look he had on his face.

He was a little grungy looking,
Lacking refinement and country charm,
He may have had a drink or two,
And he was missing his right arm.

No one paid him much attention,
Thought he was wanting another beer,
He couldn't be a pool player,
So why did he come in here?

Then he said, "I'm a snooker player,"
And he was looking to play someone.
It was a game he really enjoyed,
And he didn't want to play just for fun.

Well, Lefty was about the best,
Our little west Texas town knew.
Lefty said he'd like to play,
So he went to get his cue.

Everyone was wondering about the old gent,
How he'd hold his cue and make a shot?
From his pocket he took his handkerchief,
And around his stump he tied a tight knot.

How much per point do we play for,
Two bits, four bits; how about a buck?
Everyone thought the old gent was crazy,
Tonight, he would really need some luck.

He wasn't one of those hustlers,
Who carried his own special cue,
He went to the cue rack, and,
Picked one after eyeballing just a few.

He'd put his stump on the table,
And the cue stick rested on that knot,
He definitely was not a novice,
Cause he scored points with every shot.

It was amazing just to watch him,
As the six or seven balls kept going in.
And the cue ball stopping at just the right spot,
It was easy to see, Lefty wouldn't win.

After two or three games, Lefty said,
"That's it for me" and put away his cue.
He said, "I've played some hustlers in my day,"
"But none hustled me quite like you." 

A Rendezvous

There was an old bullfrog,
That lived alone in a marsh,
His life was so lonely,
And his life was so harsh.
He wanted to know,
What his future might hold,
So he went to a physic,
To have his fortune told.

The physic pondered and looked,
Into her big crystal ball,
And she told the lonely bullfrog,
Exactly  what she saw.
You and a lovely young lady,
Are soon to meet.
She's stunningly beautiful,
And she's incredibly sweet.

She'll study your body,
From stem to stern,
Cause everything about you,
She's anxious to learn.
Will we meet at a some party,
And exchange glances as we pass?
"No," said the physic, "You'll meet next semester, In her biology class!"

WHY MOTHERS CRY

    "Why are you crying?" he asked his mom.

    "Because I'm a mother," she told him.

    "I don't understand," he said.

    His mom just hugged him and said, "You never will."

    Later, the little boy asked his father
    why Mother seemed to cry for no reason.

    "All mothers cry for no reason"
    was all his dad could say.

    The little boy grew up and became a man,
    still wondering why mothers cry.
    So he finally put in a call to God
    and when God got on the phone,
    the man said "God, why do mothers cry so easily?"

    God said, "You see son,
    when I made mothers they had to be special.
    I made their shoulders strong enough
    to carry the weight of the world,
    yet gentle enough to give comfort.
    I gave them an inner strength
    to endure childbirth
    and the rejection that many times
    comes from their children.

    I gave them a hardiness
    that allows them to keep going
    when everyone else gives up,
    and to take care of their families
    through sickness and fatigue
    without complaining.

    I gave them the sensitivity
    to love their child under all circumstances,
    even when their child has hurt them very badly.

    This same sensitivity helps them
    to make a child's boo-boo feel better
    and helps them share
    a teenager's anxieties and fears.

    I gave them a tear to shed.
    It's theirs exclusively
    to use whenever it is needed.
    It's their only weakness.
    It's a tear for mankind."