Since I live in one of the states most associated with Cowboys, I thought it might be good to feature these icons of Americana. I have never been a cowboy, nor do I claim to have any special knowledge about what they did in a historical sense, or what they do today. However, like most males my age, I was at one time extremely taken with the notion I might want to be one. I have ridden a horse on numerous occasions and I once roped a large calf at my grandfather's farm. I was not on the horse when I roped the calf. I realized my error after a short session of cow lot skiing at the end of that rope. I had the best two gun rigs Mattel had to offer and I watched all the popular cowboy icons at the movies and on television. I continue to enjoy movies about cowboys, I still watch Bull Riding on T.V., and I read and write a little cowboy poetry. I think we love their independence, toughness, and devil may care attitude. I have two pairs of starched Wrangler jeans, a pearl snap shirt, and a pair of boots. I can waltz and two step with the best of them - but alas, I am not a cowboy. I wrote the first of the next two poems based on my idealistic perception and the latter based on stark reality.
COWBOYS
High atop the mesa
cowboys sit in restful pose
and watch the sun
slide down the western sky.
Purple, pink, golden hues
bathe
bleak and rugged scenes
in ever changing show
from dusk to night.
In saddles, worn.
On ponies, tired.
They sit in awe as stars appear
and know,
why they, are richer than most men.
OLD TRIGGER
Trigger was a plow horse
Who, seldom saw a saddle.
I was just a big kid
Who rarely rode a straddle.
I lived in the city,
Away from field and barn.
When school was out I’d visit
Old Trigger on the farm.
I thought I’d try and ride him,
And made a split-bit bridle.
I knew it might not stop him,
But hoped it’d make him idle.
Uncle Barney’s saddle
Was split right down the middle.
It was old, the leather dry,
The cinch strap cracked and brittle.
I saddled Trigger, led him round
Beside an old steel drum.
I stood on top and jumped aboard
He snorted, bucked, and spun.
The summer sun was brutal
Old Trigger soon lost steam.
He plodded down the gravel road,
At plowing pace it seemed.
I tried to make him pick up speed
With kick, and click, and whistle.
Then I turned him toward the barn
And he became a missile.
I rocked back and grabbed the horn,
Pulled hard on cotton reins.
But Trigger galloped faster
As he barreled down the lane.
The barn loomed large before us.
He stopped just past the door.
I became a yard dart,
Flying headfirst to the floor.
When I regained my senses
I made this observation:
That you shouldn’t ride a plow horse
For fun or transportation.
