A couple little poems fer ya'll ...

[RollingThunder]

Arcey recommended I post these here. Some of ya'll may or may not have read these over on the other post, so I figured I'd assemble them for you, then go read up on what I missed elsewhere!

I Was a Cowboy Once
Roland Millington, Copyright 2008, All Rights Reserved

I was a cowboy once. I rode across the dirt beneath your wheels.
Rode my hoss and chased the cows with jinglin' spurs 'pon my heels.

I was a cowboy once. Rarely restin' whether in cold or heat.
Now here I sit, in a chair, tied to a rail by a sheet.

Nurses pass me by, families with children visitin' their kin
"Look at me!" 's all I ask with my eyes, and from my soul within

I cry, "I wasn't always feeble and frail, I was a mighty good hand.
I could rope and I could ride. I could do the work of any ten men."

Now I sit. In a chair. Tied to a rail by a sheet. And why?
I once rode broncs and bulls, sat them tough, and spurred them high.

I faced a thousand deaths, and laughed at 'em each time.
But they left me here in disgrace, by a bedsheet I am tied.

I gots no bullets no more. They done took all my guns.
My ponies are dead and gone, and I'm danged sure short on sun.

Once so proud, you see the scars and creases on my face.
Don't you see, as you walk by, every spot, every place?

Everywhere I rested, I brought a little with me.
Everywhere I laughed and cried, are here for you to see.

But you won't look. Your ma says, "Boy, jes look away."
"Forget that ole cowpoke," I'll be gone for sure some day.

But remember me, young un. Remember and be proud.
I'm the one, who fed the many. I'm the one who chased the cow.

I'm the one who bled for Mother West and her sister Precious Freedom.
And in your heart, I know some day, I'll see another sun.

Listen to me boy, hear my hearts deepest request.
Don't forget about this old cowpoke, remember me the best.

And maybe be a cowboy once. Ride with spurs upon your heels.
Ride a hoss and chase a cow, so you know just how it feels.

To be a cowboy. Once.

[RollingThunder]

Snickers and Ned
Roland Millington, Copyright 2008, All Rights Reserved

For sixty-two years his life had been fears
Of things he knew not how to express.
The rent being due, his son gettin' threw
And a few things he'd never confess.

But as he entered the stable where his old horse stood able
And glanced at the empty stall,
Ned Beavers breathed quiet and held himself silent,
At Snickers' old halter on the wall.

Ned rubbed his watchfob, and fought back a sob,
And smiled in spite of hisself.
For the old bay was gone, and not much hung on
'Cept memories hung on a shelf.

He'd been a gangly little foal with no sense of whoa
And a snip that ran like his gait
From one side of his face to the other, it'd chase
His nostrils and not go an inch straight.

Still, he took the bosal, held wild colts in corrals,
And never took a lame step in his life.
He chased down the cows, watched the drafts and the plows
And sometimes carried Ned's wife,

As she went about checkin' Ned's penchant for wrecking
On the young colts he'd take on his rounds.
"You're too old to bust broncs, or frequent honky tonks,"
Ned's wife said as they would look around.

Sure as shootin' they'd find him, the colt who'd not mind him,
And sent Ned up in the air.
It'd still never mind Ned, with not one single thread
But it'd come to Snickers right there.

Snickers got his name, and a fair 'mount of acclaim
For having heart and humor.
He'd seen Ned get kicked, by a cow Ned got ticked
And started laughin' or at least that's the rumor.

But Snickers wasn't all big laughs and guffaws
He was gentle and kind as a dove.
He took care of Ned's young, taught them to ride one-by-one
And spared the old man as many wrecks as he could've.

At 25, Snickers got rest, as he'd given up all his best,
He was now uncle to a herd of young weanlin's.
He kept them in line, and gentled them with time,
To the touch of Ned's hand and his feelin'.

One day Ned came callin' and brought the herd all in.
To the old bay he offered a smile.
He took the old leather halter, as if off of an altar,
From Snickers, who'd worn it his fair while.

Late last week, down by the back pasture creek,
Old Snickers was standin' up guard,
When a lion came thievin' bent on relievin'
Old Snickers of one of his charge.

Snickers caught scent on the wind, and snorted out to his kin,
That there were nasty critters afoot.
And high-tailing it faster to the safe lower pasture
Went every head, 'cept a wonky little coot.

Fear flashed in his eyes, like late lightnin' in skies
Or the cock-eyed blaze on his face.
No matter where he ran, the big lion began
To close the distance and tighten the chase.

The colt knew he was outrun, that he was about to be done,
When a terrible crash through brush was heard.
Dirt and lion collided, 'cause Old Snickers caught him blind-sided
As he knew he hadn't saved his whole herd.

The lion got up, shook his head like a pup
That'd just been rolled by his maw.
Snickers tore dirt as he twirled, cause there was nothing in this world
That would keep his hooves from those claws.

The fight lasted but a minute and that lion was in it
For everything he had in his heart.
But when the dust finally fell it weren't hard to tell,
It was Snickers who'd got the better part.

As the old gelding stood huffin', hard breaths came puffin',
The colts by the gate stood and milled.
They saw their champ bleeding, his long life receding,
As he collapsed on the lion he'd killed.

Over to the old bay came the gangly little grey,
And for a moment everything was still.
A glaze covered his eyes, as his breath became sighs
He looked last upon a crooked little blaze.

Ned stared at the wall, by the old gelding's stall
Still smelling of Snicker's last grain.
Rubbed the watchfob in his hand, feeling each strand,
Of the tiny lock of Snickers' mane.

Then he reached to a gray, took his halter away,
And set an old leather one up on his head.
"This one will fit fine. Think you'll like it in time?"
A little snicker is all the colt said.

[RollingThunder]

Breakin' Scamper
Roland Millington, Copyright 2008, All Rights Reserved

The colt were like any other colt he'd known
Whether it was someone else's or happened to be his own.
He'd four long legs and a slicked out back
Not too bad lookin' and that was a fact.

His name was Scamper, and he soon saw why,
'Cause Scamper could scamper 'til the wet ran dry.
All 'round the corral that bronc would move
Sometimes he'd be bumpy, and others, smooth.

The colt had no brakes, wudn't no sign o' stop
Why, that colt could run numbers clean off a clock
And still tell you he had plenty of time.
He'd do 'bout anything, 'cept stop on a dime.

Heck, Scamper wouldn't stop for even two bits.
Not for love, nor money, and it gave the man fits
Who was tryin' to break him to ride
'Cause a hoss with no stop, no one could abide.

He tried talkin', tried tellin', tried spankin' and yellin'.
Tried everythin' he knowed, in fact his head was a swellin'
From anger and frustratin' and tirin' of waitin'
This colt's birthdate was gettin' some serious hatin.'

So the man did the only thing he know'd to do,
Wound him out hard, and 'round the corral they flew
The dust was a flyin' and leather was flappin'
Scamper was a sailin' and the fella was a slappin.

He kept slappin' Scamper on his posterior parts
Til' the little pony'd had enough, and cut a loud fart.
He commenced to buckin' and sunnin' up heel
To hell with balance, and timin' and feel.

That old cowpoke rode him fer plum near a minute
Then Scamper got wise, saw the fence and got in it
The cowpoke lost balance and Scamper set him fair
And the cowpoke, and his spankin' went flyin' through the air.

When he rolled to a rest, he looked back in the corral
Where Scamper stood still, likes he was takin' a bow.
He seemed to say, as a sigh let out,
"If'n ya was wantin' a stop, all ya had to do was dismount."

[RollingThunder]

And last, a little free form stuff.

The Little Poco
Roland Millington, Copyright 2008, All Rights Reserved

The young Poco bay slides his head to his feed and snorts. He's just out of his warts, willful, woeful and worrisome of sorts. He always does this right before he dives in. It's the official bell that feed time's full on now, and the chow is going down fast and with gusto. The only sound in the barn is the nuzzling muzzles on plastic as they dance deliriously in time chasing after the grain that gives them their grit.

It's the sound of another day comin. It's my stock exchange opening bell, the knell, the very thrill of which takes me to someplace just a little younger than when I went to bed but ages older than when I heard it the day before.

It's chill this morning, and the little breeze's current blows willow-tree shaped clouds of coffee steam towards my face. Jumping jealously about, it seems to find the seams in my jacket, just like little reminders of the impending freeze. It slips icy cuffs around my wrists, catching me cold and hungry, like an old inmate in an old jail, a prisoner to his passion, cows, ponies and trails. No way around it, there's no going back to bed, to the warmth of its cotton-crisp sheets, and its escape routes.

My jailer smugly cheats me out of the warmth of the java in my mug.

The bay lifts his head and shakes a ruddy-black mane at me. "Time to get goin' old man," he says with the shake, and I step over and take his tack from the rack over to his stall. I shuffle about making him ready, my hands getting slow, but still ever-steady as they carry the night's dust from his back. He's frisky this morning, and it could be spellin' trouble. Could be he's thinking of spillin' an old cowpoke out in the mud.

In my day, I've rode a few tough ones, and had my share of wrecks and checks and chinks in my armor that little bays like the Poco here've tried their best to find.

Did I really just say that? In my day? I did, didn't I? I look at the Poco and chuckle, rub his muzzle with my knuckle, the scars of the years, the blood, sweat and tears telling him a story as it scuffs against the little hairs of his chinny, chin, chin. It says, little Poco, you aren't the only pony that's been here with guts, that's buckled down in life's ruts, that's made do on only cold cuts, and said, "this old cowpoke's nuts!" as he climbs back up in the saddle.

It comes from inside, this swirling, slick-forked, slab-sided, never-slaked thirst for something that slips from certainty to obscurity in seconds as fast as a dream. It comes from deep down, screws down its hat and says "open the gate boys, let this pony unwind!"

Little Poco, you think you're a right handy hoss now, but just let the boss show ya how the job is done, dawn to dusk under the sun of a thousand days, thousands of steers, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, ear to ear. There's something down in that pit that gives an old man like me drive, that thickens the hide. Somethin' that gives me one more try.

All I want is another day in the life. All I want, little Poco, is just one more ride.

[Arcey]

See ya made it safe 'n sound. Have fun!

[RollingThunder]

Will do!

[Scarlet Angel]

Thanks for sharing with us RT. Have enjoyed your writings.

[RollingThunder]

Thanks! You look sorta like a western Rapunzel there, doncha? LOL.

Rapunzel, rapunzel ... toss down that there strong box. Er. Hair.

[Forty Rod]

Good readin'.  Thanks.

Get that short poem I sent you framed...you've earned it.

[Lucky Irish Tom]

Welcome R.T., looking forward to seeing a lot more of your writing.