The
Western and Cowboy poetry on this site was inspired by a 1940's
acquaintance with Badger Clark (then Poet Laureate of South Dakota),
my experience as a ranch hand in the Sandhills of Nebraska in the
1930's and 40's, and a more recent opportunity to meet Sherman
Alexie (a Native American poet, novelist, and screenwriter). All of
the poems on the site are copyrighted and permission is required to
reproduce or distribute them in any form. For permissions, please
send us an email request by clicking
here.
Earlier Poems Published and Archived -
The poems which previously appeared on this page have been published
in four volumes of western and cowboy poetry...Where Horses
Reign; Sun, Sand & Soapweed; Western Images; and
Views from the Saddle...all of which are available through
any local or internet bookseller. The contents of the four volumes
are listed on an archives page on
this site. Quite a number of my poems also appear on the premier
website for cowboy poetry, CowboyPoetry.com.
Poems appear in date
order with the most recent first.
If a poem's title is
highlighted when you pass the cursor over it, and you have
Javascript enabled, some background information and notes are
available by clicking on that title. A second click will close an
individual note and "reload" will close all open
notes.
This poem appears in a new book, Chopin with Cherries: a tribute in verse, ISBN 978-0-9819693-0-5, published by the Moonrise Press in February 2010. Available through Lulu as well as other online and local booksellers, the book is an anthology of contemporary poetry edited by Maja Trochimczyk. It will be officially presented during the 3rd International Chopin Congress (an event celebrating the 200th anniversary of Chopin's birth) in Warsaw, Poland, February 24-March 1, 2010.
Sorta unusual, but real nice for an old cowboy to be featured along with an impressive array of modern poets. But it's understandable 'cause Chopin's music transcends time and was much appreciated in the salons, saloons, and opera houses of the American West.
Chopin was popular
as folks moved to the west,
from salons to saloons,
he was among the best.
Dancing the Minute Waltz,
two-stepping to that tune,
the way that cowboys do,
they thought it'd end too soon.
Hats, rakish on their heads,
their worn boots shining bright,
dancing the night away,
it was a won'drous sight.
They pranced with much ado,
bowing and gyrating
with ladies, oh so fair,
desire unabating.
Someone said 'twas classic,
not a tune for dance halls,
and cowboys took offense,
got ready for some brawls.
Chopin would have been proud
as they stood up for him
and took claim to that waltz,
their faces looking grim.
Chopin sure was noted
for other tunes as well,
but on that waltz at least
they'd follow him to hell.
The tumbleweed, the weed of the west, is also somewhat a weed of mystery. A variety is said to be a native of North America while another variety is said to have "immigrated" as a stowaway in loads of grain received from Europe in the late 1800s. The young plants are even edible and supplanted the pioneer diet. But you've seen nothing until you've seen the Waltz of the Weeds.
Tumbleweeds dance in the street
in this sad, deserted town,
no other life a-showin'
in this place of no renown.
And watchin' them weeds dancin',
what a won'drous thing to see,
just a-twirlin' in the breeze,
unrooted and dancin' free.
Now, if them weeds was money,
I'd be rollin' in the dough
'stead a-watchin' waltzin' weeds
as they do their fancy show.
But, still, it's entertainin',
'cause there's nothin' else to do
'cept watch the waltz of the weeds
'til their special dance is through.
This is a tribute to the wives of those who dared move into the unknown territory of the American West. Somehow many survived, some thrived, and some died along the way.
She was young and fair and lovely,
a dedicated wife,
follow'n her love toward the west,
pledging, with him, her life.
She walked beside the horse-drawn cart
with skirts pulled to her waist,
face shielded from the western sun,
an eastern girl displaced.
She walked the land as others did,
beneath that burning sun,
her pale face burned and dried from heat,
her journey scarce begun.
She aged by years e'en as she walked,
the prairie claimed her life,
no longer young and beautiful,
she seemed an aged wife.
The price she paid for loyalty,
the cost of moving west,
marked her love and dedication,
her body did attest.
The harshness of the prairie land,
the promise that it gave,
the mysteries that led men on,
promised an early grave.
A thousand graves and empty homes,
a tribute to such wives,
whose youth was lost and n'er regained,
just memory survives.
Sitting on the porch, or pausing your ride for a minute on a prairie hilltop, toward evening you can see sights and hear sounds that reward your eye and ear. The prairie's a wonderous place always changing, offering new beauty as the days and seasons change.
As we look across the prairie,
in the early evenin's light,
seems like all of God's creation
is preparin' for the night.
The reddish cast of settin' sun
on the hills out t'ward the west
is replaced by the moon's full glow,
as the daylight is suppressed.
The first lone call of coyotes,
on their early evenin' trail,
shatters the silence of the land
with their plaintive lonesome wail.
The night descends across these plains,
this great land that God has blessed,
and the glow of the stars grows bright
as the prairie goes to rest.
This was the result of a sort of challenge in a cowboy poets group on CowboySyndicate.com. In a way, the site is a social site with some interesting discussion and music.
It's always a good day for me
when I can really say
"I kept my job in spite of all
today's sad disarray."
'Though the economy looks bleak,
and could get bleaker still,
I look for it to get better,
I really think it will.
I'll be able to keep my horse,
plus my old pickup truck,
and the old shack I call my home;
I call that "cowboy luck."
This advice to cowboys was inspired by "Luckenbach Moon" by Hondo Crouch (1916-1976), a poet, artist, philosopher, and rancher of Luckenbach, Texas. Possibly a relative but I've never found a genealogical connection.
The western full moon is magic,
shinin' up in the sky,
bright'nin' up the whole universe
as time goes passin' by.
It's a mighty pleasant feelin',
to see it shinin' down,
like gettin' a shot of moonshine
when you go into town.
That moon changes the whole landscape,
addin' its moonlit hue,
makin' all the shadows deeper
and softnin' colors too.
It makes a cowboy handsomer,
the way he ought to be,
and makes ugly gals good lookin',
the kind you like to see.
But it can lead you into trouble
with moonlit gals like that
and can quickly move from smoochin'
to things that might begat.
So avoid that moon if you can,
'cause it could change your life
and you might wake up some mornin'
with a real ugly wife.
Land! Possessing it, owning it, living on it was the dream of so many families that moved west. Some were brutal, breaking the sod for modest crops and exposing the fragile soil to wind-blown destruction, then moving on and away from the land they had raped. Yet, given time the land can restore itself and that is the message buried in this sonnet.
A sea of grass on hills of sand,
green waves breaking across the land.
Eternal wind, a driving force,
a cooling breeze, for man and horse.
But broken sod, torn up by plow,
to desert wind gives access now,
ripping the land with thoughtless act,
without regard to its impact.
What has man wrought on this great plain,
senselessly raped for modest gain.
Let it now rest, its life restore,
so it can be just as before.
Where nature reigns o'er pristine land
with waves of grass on ev'ry hand.
Prairie fires were one of the most feared and devastating events as men fought to protect their homes, their families, their livelihood. It was interesting that, as I was working as a ranch hand, the boss would not allow us to smoke tailor-made cigarettes. The "roll your own" variety were loosely packed and would die out quickly if accidently or purposefully discarded while tailor-mades were more densely packed and would more easily start a fire. This particular fire on the Thompson place was started by a lightning strike.
It was a light'nin' flash from hell
in the middle of the night,
and satan's fire lighted up the sky
as though it was day light.
The boys crawled out from their bedrolls
as thunder cursed the night,
claps as loud as the devil's shouts,
as hills was lighted white.
Thompson Ridge in the distant hills
was visible that night,
crowned by a line of fiery flame,
dancin' and leapin' bright.
The boys, weepin' smoke from their eyes,
fought fire throughout that night,
slappin' blankets against the blaze
'though they'd near lost their sight.
As dawn peeked shyly in the east
and broke the dark of night,
rain finally fell from heavy clouds
and killed the fire outright.
The waddies played the hands they had,
fightin' hell's fire at night,
but Mother Nature won the game
and made things come out right.
Back in the Sandhills of Nebraska, and still played at some county fairs here and there, was an interesting raffle. It's a folk game that can be boring at times but the payoff is pretty good.
It was a giant checker board,
marked out in one-foot blocks,
and all the gamblers held their breaths
watchin' a lonely ox,
It was a lovely checker board,
marked out in lines of white,
across a fenced acre of land
with each block numbered right.
Players had bought a block or two
to play this prairie game,
a raffle where the wand'rin' ox
the winner would proclaim.
That solitary ox moved slow
across the floured land,
pausin' to rest or munch some grass
or just to stop and stand.
Folks all waited for hours it seemed
as time passed slowly by
and they watched what that ox would do...
if only he would try.
Well, that ox wandered here and there,
ignorin' all the crowd,
lookin' at folks with great distain,
and actin' quite uncowed.
But, did his tail raise just a bit
as he was pausin' there,
was he gonna name a winner
with some bovine flair?
No, he moved away from that spot,
buildin' up the suspense...
to watch him was a tirin' game,
makin' the gamblers tense.
Finally the ox lifted his tail
and left a splattered mark,
namin' the winner of the game,
there in that prairie park.
It was a way of passin' time,
to fill a borin' day,
by bettin' on prairie checkers
to chase the blues away.
The winner got his pot of gold,
the others had their fun
as they watched that old ox decide
which player 'twas that won.
Recently,
in reading a book of poetry, I noticed a lonely asterisk residing
after a line. Was it actually intended to reference some profound,
but missing, footnote or was it simply a typo? Its lonely presence
has become one of life's mysteries.
The
missing footnote in a book beneath an asterisk, I wonder what
it meant to say in hidden words so brisk.
Was it a
ref'rence to a horse, a comment on a cow, a statement so
profound, so clear that we should see it now?
The author
writ so subtly you might miss what was meant beneath that
asterisk so proud, that missing note's intent.
Ah, these
cloaked mysteries of life do plague our minds, you know, and
we may never be informed what truth 'twas meant to
show.
We've
all known those folks who rail against the sins of man and, in this,
are speaking all too frequently about their own weaknesses. It seems
that justice is served when they get caught with their own
hypocritical hands in the cookie jar of life. This poem is about one
such fellow, a sheriff back in Nebraska years ago, whose story came
to mind because of recent events involving some state and national
politicians.
I
have found in my long life some truths I'd like to share like
findin' some grand leader in just his underwear.
He'll
scream to all high heavens, about his purity, and profess his
innocence and his true verity.
But a character like
this, when faced with public wrath, will then surely change
his mind and move on a new path.
He'll profess his
ignorance, and publicly attest, in religious
innocence, that he has done his best.
But that man should
then explain about his underwear and how he came to be
caught in such a weird affair.
This
was inspired by one line, "of crimson joy," in a poem, "The Sick
Rose," by William Blake. It reminded me of a slender rose shrub
which I saw outside a deserted sod house in the Nebraska Sandhills
many years ago. It struggled for life but seemed, somehow, eternal.
The
crimson joy of flowers that bloom on thorny stems from
earthen womb.
When blossoms die, their lives now
gone, they leave their scent to greet the dawn.
One
of my heroes is Earl Pickles from the cartoon strip created by Brian
Crane and syndicated to newspapers throughout the U.S. Earl is a
real philosopher and occasionally blossoms out in cowboy boots,
Stetson hat, and snap-button shirt to write his version of cowboy
poetry.
Earl,
you're my hero, so brave, tall and true, a cowboy poet, a
real buckaroo.
In your cowboy boots and your cowboy
hat, with pencil in hand, you've got it down
pat.
You're a real poet, writin' cowboy verse, you've
proven to us your talent's diverse.
So write right
along on this trail you've found, turnin' out verses on
subjects profound.
Economic
conditions today remind a lot of us older folks about the Great
Depression. The times were stark, banks were closed, and life was
complicated by an extended drought. It left a lot of rural folks
without money and no prospect of crops.
Hank
stood, lookin' toward the east wonderin', as always, if change
would come with a new dawn and end these rainless
days.
Waitin' for change was the mantra he suffered though
each day, always wonderin' what would be if nature had it's
way.
The windmill was near pumpin' dust and cattle's ribs
were showin' from lack of good feed and water and their walk
was slowin'.
Even ma and the kids suffered from killin'
heat and dust but worst of all was not knowin' whether life
could adjust.
Oh, there was food in the pantry, enough to
just get by, but unless rains came pretty soon some stock
would surely die.
Beef was just five dollars a head, not
much but some for sure, to help us live out this dry spell and
see that we endure.
Hank held out hope for tomorrow, quite
cautiously indeed, but doubts troubled his mind and
thoughts, would nature intercede?
Some
cowboys are pretty good with rope tricks. I never saw one that could
twirl a lasso so fast it would catch fire but it might be
interesting if that happened.
Bill
was a ropin' fool, his ropin' was the best, and he was much
admired throughout the great Northwest.
When it came to
ropin' he was the greatest star, folks'd come to see
him from nearby and afar.
He'd do his ropin' tricks and
tell a tale or two, designed to get applause, and then he'd
start anew.
His last time on the stage, twirlin' that rope
so fast the loop began to smoke and folks was all
aghast.
The Feds showed up right then and hauled Bill off
to jail, 'cause of that smokin' hemp, 'though Bill ne'er did
inhale.
Being
alone doesn't necessarily make you feel alone or lonely. There's a
world of things to think about and cowboys truly do their share of
thinking when they're alone on the trail.
When
you ride out all by yourself, maybe lookin' for strays, you
never know how long you'll be, you may be gone for
days.
So you become quite efficient, in tendin' to your
needs, you've gotta eat and tend your horse while you avoid
misdeeds.
Approachin' eve'nin' you make camp... tendin'
your horse is first... so you serve up a cup of oats and
satisfy his thirst.
Your life depends on that old
horse, to get you out 'n back, so he gets pampered quite a
bit 'fore you can hit the sack.
Then you gather chips for
the fire and lay out evenin' grub, then spread out your canvas
bedroll beneath a sagebrush shrub.
You fry up some bacon
slices, to have there with your beans, then as a pot of coffee
boils, you enjoy eve'nin' scenes.
It ain't truely a lonely
life because you're not alone, the glitter of the western
stars will never be outshown,
There ain't no telephones
that ring, or cars a roarin' past, just the quiet peace of the
night, a wonderous contrast.
My
own boyhood dream was to be a cowboy and that dream came true. It
was a good healthy life and, although I enjoyed it, I never returned
to the ranch after I was discharged from the Army Air Corps at the
end of WWII.
It
is the dream of ev'ry boy to live out in the west, to live the
life of a cowboy, and there to meet life's test.
Oh, it'd
be so grand, they think, to live that kind of life, to ride
and rope and be so free, avoidin' daily strife.
To visit
Indians on the range, to camp out ev'ry night, to see the
colors of sunset, and early morning light.
Yes, it's a
dream that young lads have, seein' the glory side of life and
livin' on the range, of self-sufficient pride.
But the
truth is a bit diff'rent, there's heat and dust and cold and
the work is quite demandin', unlike what we've been
told.
But, boys, in spite of all that's said, it's a grand
place to live with adventure and challenges, demandin' all you
have to give.
Calamity
Jane was one of the most famous women of the west. From the time she
was about thirteen, she dressed and worked as a man, highly
respected for her shooting ability. One time she didn't have her
pistol handy so she used a meat cleaver to capture a killer.
Calamity
was one of the good guys, a friend and buddy to all, and it
was scarcely known to anyone that she weren't a guy at
all.
Underneath all them baggy clothes she wore, she was
female as could be. Her face was tanned and weathered by the
sun; male, so far as one could see.
Calamity sorta favored
Wild Bill but he fancied another gal and married her instead
of Calamity, regardin' Jane as just a pal.
Not much later,
Wild Bill Hickock was shot by a fame-seekin' joker, at the
Bell Union Saloon in Cheyenne, as he sat playin'
poker.
Jack McCall, the cruel killer of Wild Bill, hid in
Shurdy's butcher shop where he was found by Calamity Jane, his
hiddin' put to a stop.
Calamity waved a cleaver at him and
held him there for a while, he did escape, only to be
recaught, and then sent away for trial.
Didn't hurt
Calamity's feelin's none when old Jack was tried and hung and
she went on to become quite well known, stories of her deeds
still sung.
I've
never known a cowboy who hasn't experienced some painful conflict
with a saddle horn. There's a reason for that, them things are
alive! They've forgotten the reason for their creation was to be an
aid in roping and have invented other pastimes.
If
I was really meant to ride then I shoulda been born with some
natural protection against that saddle horn.
Saddle horns
was meant for ropin', and that's their only use, otherwise
they're inanimate, waitin' to give abuse.
I swear that
there's life in that horn, although it just sits there waitin'
for the right time to act, and you don't have a
prayer.
Now ev'ry thing there is has life, some aged
shamans say, and I reckon I believe that, it just seems
nature's way.
These saddle horns are devious, they're live
as they can be, just sittin' there on the saddle, and waitin'
there for me.
Waitin until I get bucked up and then come
down real hard, they pretend inanimation until I am off
guard.
So I'm done with western saddles, it's English ones
for me, 'cause they don't have no saddle horns fixed to their
saddle tree.
We
tried to be self-sufficient and raise what we could out on the ranch
but it seems like the bugs sometimes enjoyed the garden more than we
did. I remember pickin' bugs, potato bugs, seems like for days on
end. There was also a liberal use of sulphur and some other powdered
insecticides but they didn't seem to deter the bugs much.
Mama,
how does your garden grow? It grows with bugs galore, we kill
a million ev'ry day, that task's our daily chore.
We pick
a peck or more of bugs and cast them in the crick but each day
there's a whole bunch more, their birth rate is so
quick.
We'd rather grow some food for us. instead of
growin' bugs, but there's no time to harvest food, we just
reap garden thugs.
It
takes a special breed to be a cowboy. Much of the time, it's a
lonely job tending the herd and suffering the dust and heat and
cold; doing the mundane things that need doing around the ranch.
But, that said, cowboys are independent, hard-working, and dedicated
individuals who would most likely be unhappy doing anything else.
If
we could but see what a man could be, we'd surely
understand the challenges faced in a life so graced here in
this western land.
These cowboys out here have no cause to
fear, each day bringing the same, as they go their way with
plenty to say, and little chance for fame.
There's much
work to do, hands here are too few, so it's dawn until
dark, doin' all they can within the day's span, here where
life is so stark.
There are great rewards that this life
affords out here where men are free, where they labor on
dependin' on brawn, workin' for you and me.
Tendin' the
cattle, ready for battle, but peaceable are they, dislikin'
walkin', lovin' their talkin', livin' the western
way.
They stress they are free as they ought to
be. 'Though they work for the brand, their lives are their
own, they're not all alone, here in this western land.
Pay
was never very great out on the ranch and riding line or wintering
in a line shack could be mighty lonely. Cowboys always looked
forward to getting into town. They'd generally buy essentials and,
more frequently than not, shoot the rest on fun and relaxation.
I've
a hankerin' to go to town and get my whistle wet. I've been
stranded for weeks out here and I've begun to fret.
This
old line shack is mighty small, the walls are closin'
in, ain't seen no one for weeks on end, my temper's wearin'
thin.
I gotta talk to someone soon, palav'rin' is my
style, and I've been so doggone lonely, I'd settle for a
smile.
There's three months of pay in my kit, I'm lonely
as can be, so I'm gonna ride into town for a real spendin'
spree.
I'll visit Sue a time or two and spend some time in
bars. I'll eat some meals in Mom's Cafe and smoke some fine
cigars.
I'll be in town a week or so, 'til all my money's
spent, then I'll come back to this old shack wonderin' where
it went.
Herding
cattle isn't the easiest, most restful, thing in the world. So, when
evening comes and it isn't your turn to be on watch, it's great just
to kick back and rest a while.
When
the day is done and the herd's at rest and first watch is on
the line, then the boys kick back to rest for a while, as
the stars begin to shine.
When their chow is ate and
they've rolled their own and the cards are all laid out, they
begin to play and they fan the breeze to speak of tomorrow's
route.
When the game is done and the fire burns low and
talk has faded away, the bedroll's laid out and quiet
pervades, it's the endin' of the day.
When the day is
done and all are at rest, a great sense of peace
prevails, and the cowboy feels as he drops to sleep, his
love for these western trails.
This
poem was prompted by a wonderful photograph taken by Max Burke, an
Idaho photographer, when he made a winter visit to Yellowstone Park
where the buffalo seemed magically to appear from the snowy
mist.
The
herd plods through the Yellowstone, lone remnants of the
past, whited out by the swirling snows, backs to the winter's
blast.
The snowy trail is ill defined, great horned bulls
lead the way, protective of the cows and calves, watchful for
those that stray.
Grand beasts of prehistoric times, the
life of native men, offering up their very selves each day and
then again.
'Twas not so very long ago, their numbers
beyond count, they faced a great unending foe, odds near
beyond surmount.
The natives thanked the buffalo for
givin' up their lives, but, as outsiders reaped the herd, man,
not beast, survives.
But somehow they are living
still within this lone retreat, nosing through snow for
sustenance, accepting no defeat.
An
experiential violation some of my own biases. Inspired by a classic
poem first published in 1842 as a modern freeform poet might write
the first verse of it. The smithy was common in the small towns
where I lived or boarded to go to school and Longfellow's poem, "The
Village Smithy," provided a grand description of the business. While
in the 9th grade in Anselmo, Nebraska in 1942, I took a
blacksmithing segment of shop and it was a valuable and interesting
experience which I found useful on the ranches where I worked. The
classic poem is:
The Village
Smithy Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading
chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty
man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his
brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
vegetative
masses play games with sunlit skies growing
psyche
somehow enhanced in search of verity dreaming
brawn
beyond Eden's clay strengthened by
endeavor toiling
In
the old days, youngsters often had to quit school to help the family
with work around the home place. They felt there was some logic to
that because lessons were not directly related to the work that
needed to be done.
Hank
managed to get through grade three then quit goin' to
school, not one of the things they taught there was a good
ranchin' tool.
Any fool could sure count a herd and tally
on a stick, with just a stick and a sharp knife, countin' was
pretty quick.
You can't rope no cows with spellin', you
gotta understand, so a cowboy don't need to spell to be a good
ranch hand.
Readin' was a real exception, a good thing for
long nights when snow lays deep across the hills, the mind can
take grand flights.
But hist'ry, that was somethin'
else, intriguin' 'though it was, it was simply unrelated to
what a cowboy does.
They don't teach how to brand a
cow, or treat a calf with scours, or to tend a horse that's
foundered, or use your daytime hours.
There ain't no class
on cuttin' horns, or vaccinatin' stock, or harvestin' mountain
oysters, or patchin' up your sock.
So Hank just reckoned
he'd cut out and become a cowboy, to do the work he liked the
best t'was somethin' he'd enjoy.
Growing
up in the Great Depression and seeing the impact of that coupled
with a major drought can certainly influence a persons life. The
impression that lingers in my mind is that, despite everything,
there always seemed to be hope for tomorrow.
Beneath
an up-turned fingernail moon, a moon which promised no
rain, the rancher stood alone.
He knew that needed rain
must come soon, his entire herd felt the pain, the land, dry
as a stone.
But he'd heard before, this desert tune, the
dry winds in his domain, their hot, dry helpless
tone.
There was a promise, maybe by noon, there could be
some hint of rain, he stood there, all alone.
As
you get older seems like you start looking back a bit more. And, in
doing that, you marvel at all the changes which have occurred over
the years...like the daily paper now delivered at 5:00am! Even when
we were getting a daily paper, likely as not we'd get it a day
late.
Damn,
you're complainin' again, there ain't no cause for that, you
shoulda lived the life I lived back there along the
Platte.
We didn't have automobiles, we didn't patch no
tires, our horsepower had four legs to meet trav'lin'
desires.
Our newspaper came ev'ry month, that did seem
quite enough, and we looked forward to readin' about all kinds
a stuff.
We never did go a shoppin' like you folks do
today, we was always self-sufficient and made do ev'ry
day.
Food didn't come in frozen bags, or in tin cans too
much, ma canned it up in Mason jars that she kept in the
hutch.
I kept my six-gun right handy, but never killed no
one, 'twas just to scare off bigger guys that I could not
outrun.
We didn't have no home mortgage, our house was
made of sod, and the few things that we enjoyed all seemed
like gifts from God.
There's lots more than that, I
reckon, but, boy, you understand, you ain't got cause for no
complaint 'til you've lived off the land.
Times
were really tough during The Great Depression of the 1930's and life
was complicated by a severe, lingering drought in parts of the
country. Jobs were scarce, money was scarce, banks were closing, and
main street was deserted. Yet, people held hope in their hearts for
a better tomorrow.
"Mom's
Cafe" in faded letters, on a listless grey sign squeaking in
the gusty, dry wind, inviting folks to dine.
The
blue-plate special, sixty cents, and coffee five cents
more, all that a hungry man could eat just through that cafe
door.
On wood benches outside the door, men waited
helplessly waiting, for what they did not know, their eyes, a
silent plea.
Gaunt faces reflecting hunger, life, seeming
so unfair, delaying a return to home, to face their fam'lies
there.
With few pennies in their pockets men could but sit
outside, just waiting there for God knows what, stripped of
their manly pride.
From arid fields out to the west, wind
born dust filled the air, dimming the light of mid-day's
sun, a grey cloud of despair.
Dust-filled clouds above
boiled and rolled, offering no relief to dirt and heat and
endless days, to soothe them in their grief.
Yet within
those eyes a spark shone, hope, yes, for tomorrow. Things were
bound to be better then to ease this time of woe.
This
sort of happened years ago in Dunning, Nebraska. A feller had a new
Model-T and, on Halloween night, that Tin Lizzy wound up on the roof
of the lumber yard. The lesson seems to be, don't brag too much or
somebody's apt to get even with you.
That
Model T was quite a sight but it didn't fit in, it backfired
and scared the horses and made a frightful din.
Sam'd
bought that Lizzy in town with a smile on his face, he thought
he'd made a real good deal and drove it to our place.
He
seemed pretty snooty to us, braggin' about that car, and he
kept that up the whole day like a sea-goin' tar.
Well,
when night came us bunkhouse boys came up with a good
thought to take care of the noise and fumes made by that car
Sam bought.
We just disassembled that thing in the dark of
the night and reassembled it on the barn roof, chucklin' at
old Sam's plight.
When Sam got up the next mornin' he was
a sight to see, his new car way up on the roof and us laughin'
with glee.
With our help, he got the car down and he drove
right away and 'cause we'd got the best of him, he'd nothin'
more to say.