REVIVING THE SPRIT
~A tribute to all the cowboy poet/story tellers~
 

STORY TELLER

“Where’s ya moma boy?” he would ask first thing,
Then fresh water for the basin he would tell me to bring.
“Any problems today son?” he always wanted to know,
“No Poppa,” then off to the coral I would go.
Being the oldest and the only boy it was a lot to take in,
Responsibility for three females, not to mention my own sins.
Work the hours away which were long and hard,
Each season held its own wrath, each season a new start.
Time now for picking crops, the next will be a trail drive,
Doing all that we had to…just the rules to stay alive.
That morning, it was buy low and sell high,
By evening, it was momma’s cherry pie.
Family time around the fireplace, where stories were told,
Then out to gather more kindling, so the house wouldn’t get cold.
Poppa would talk ,of his plans for the next day,
All things, must be done in a certain way.
“We’ll drive and sell the cattle next month” he would say,
Followed with “We should be back in about six or seven days.”
The country we saw was a contradiction  to all I had heard,
But not all the craziness that sometimes occurred.
Indians preferred to track you like an animal, then take your hair,
The few bandits we saw, stopped long enough to stare,
Then Poppa would say, “Go get that doggie son, bring em  back over here,”
“Then find a place to make camp, keeping the livestock to the rear,”
The old dog trudged along and under a big oak tree,
Where Big Max was spread out, enjoying the slight breeze,
Personally, he wasn’t looking forward to nights sleeping with a blanket in the cool breeze,
But the time he spent with my poppa, the experiences I had,
From the ridiculously funny, to the heart wrenching sad,
I’d do it all again, and still do it  even at my age,
The tall blue grass swaying upon  the rolling hills, is a good place to start.
It only requires good skills as a cowboy, and whole lot of heart.
Young men full of piss and vinegar, and will fight for any reason,
Accept folks as they are any time, any season…
I remember so well those nights in my bedroll,
Until the darkness of sleep and dreams took over,
Rising to the smell of bacon and my poppa would cook,
He’d say, “Wash ya face son, then break out the good book,”
It was my ‘studies’’ he called it, but it was mama’s idea,
For a man tough as nails, he always bent to her will,
On the trail again and a grizzly to our right,
I was consumed in awe and  at the very sight,
Beautiful he was although he would have ate me for lunch…
And no bigger than I was, for him… that wouldn’t have been much,
The elk and deer and eagles soar
You ever run up on one of them there wild boars?
Whew!  You better climb a tree ole son, or else your going to war,
Well now that’s all I got time for today, so I’ll be moving on…
You cling to what’s right son and shun what is wrong…
Prayers always said and be sure you keep your powder dry,
Always tell the truth, only cowards tell lies,
You’d better head on home there’s a storm on the way….
We’ll talk again son….on some other sunny day.