Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Playing Cowboy

I know this post will have Wednesday on it, but it is actually my Thursday post. I occasionally do some low crawling for a local attorney here in town, and he gave me a little assignment today that will have me out before daylight trying to track down some illusive witnesses. So, I thought since I had a good response to the Cowboy style poetry yesterday, I'd ride the same horse (so to speak) today. I used to visit with my grandparents in that little Sears kit house you saw a couple of days ago, and I liked to ride whatever horses were available. My grandpa usually had some kind of horse around to pull his plow. He didn't farm big by the time I was old enough to ride, but he always had a big garden. Old trigger was one of his plow horses and the following poem is dedicated to my faithful steed.


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.