There’s still a few ole hands around
Who can read a cow, know where she’s bound
The slightest shift of his horse’s nose
Because he is always on his toes
Will make most any cow change her mind
Even do what he wants if given her time.
Many out there don’t know that cows think
Get in a panic, push to the brink
Learnin’ their whims & watchin’ their eyes
Handle them right, there’s no surprise
Real, good, cowmen, they don’t write the books
They learned by watchin’ & elders looks.
Ranchers, ‘specialy with gray in their hair
Taught by the Bible, know when to care
Before the short course & great fish & game
They love the land & creatures that came
Take mother nature, go with the flow
Stock it real hard or save it & sow.
It says right there in that “Great” big “Book”
“In moderation” … the path, least took
“Love”, alone, to be spread far & wide
“Respect” & Love, they hold with great pride
May not admit it…let it show thru
The real rancher knows his Lord, tis true.
Their “Country” church, the largest around
Sky is the ceiling, walls are not bound
By limits made, with boards from the trees
The choir a blend, of bird, beast & breeze
“His,” eminence, fills sky, air & ground
Reminds, to the “Creator”, he’s bound.
There was a painting of a cowboy in a slicker, leading three saddled horses tied head to tail on the cowboy poetry week poster. Since I couldn’t figure him leading three saddled horses I came up with this poem. One of my few fiction poems.
Head to Tail
As I head home with their horses
I wonder what the boys did last night
To leave their ponies saddled
Behind the bar and out of sight.
When I got the call this mornin’
It had me more than puzzled some
The hands that rode these horses
Were as steady as they come.
I just can’t figure that they’d leave
Dumpin’ families or this ranch
There must have been somethin’ big
To tie the horses to that branch.
As I scan the distance from this hilltop
I see smoke wisping up below
Three cowboys with the wagon
And they’re helping Smoky Joe.
He’d tangled with a gambler
Lost his pride and lost his dough
At times when one is down and out
They lay the whiskey bottle low.
The boys threw him in his wagon
And gave him a ride on toward home
Here they stopped to get him sober
And convince him not to roam.
No they may not go to church
But angels yet they are
You can find our Lords own work
Even ‘round most every bar.