Old Rodeo Cowboy

OLD RODEO CHAMP

I saw an old pickup all loaded with melons

one hot summer’s evening not too far from Austin.

Sitting beside it, a graying bent cowboy

in faded blue Wranglers watching the cars pass.

I stopped, we spoke, he arose from his lawn chair,

struggled to stand, and walked to his truck’s bed.

“Good ones?” I asked. “Sweet ones?”

He nodded. “Three dollars a piece or two for a five spot.”

“Pick me a good one.” I said as we stood there.

He turned a few over, and looked at their skin.

“Rabbits won’t scratch the ones that aren’t sweet.”

He said nonchalantly, his blue eyes a’ sparkle.

I found a scarred one and placed it aside.

“I’m Dennis,” I offered.

“I’m Joe,” he replied

“Did you farm all your life?

He answered, “No”.

Then I stood there and listened for two hours or so.

“I’m a Rodeo Champ.” He smiled as he spoke.

“Or I was through the fifties, that’s a few years ago.”

“I did it all. Rough stock, ropin’.

“We had to back then - the purses were small.”

“Bulls were my favorite. Everyone liked them.

I got extra money when side bets were made.”

He told me about it, the good rides, the great ones.

Clay Bank, Poison Ivy, the rankest of all.

Each ride was re-told from cinching to buzzer.

The bucks, the twists, the bruising come downs.

I finally left. He was smiling and waving.

Three bucks and two hours well spent for us both.

Dennis Price

Staying in Touch.

Here's an anonymous cowboy poem with a great message.

Jake, the rancher, went one day
To fix a distant fence.
The wind was cold and gusty
And the clouds rolled gray and dense.

As he pounded the last staples in
And gathered tools to go,
The temperature had fallen,
The wind and snow began to blow.

When he finally reached his pickup,
He felt a heavy heart.
From the sound of that ignition
He knew it wouldn't start.

So Jake did what most of us
Would do if we had been there.
He humbly bowed his balding head
And sent aloft a prayer.

As he turned the key for the last time,
He softly cursed his luck
They found him three days later,
Frozen stiff in that old truck.

Now Jake had been around in life
And done his share of roaming.
But when he saw Heaven, he was shocked --
It looked just like Wyoming !

Of all the saints in Heaven,
His favorite was St. Peter.

So they sat and talked a minute or two,
Or maybe it was three.
Nobody was keeping' score --
In Heaven, time is free.

'I've always heard,' Jake said to Pete,
'that God will answer prayer,
But one time I asked for help,
Well, he just plain wasn't there.'

'Does God answer prayers of some,
And ignore the prayers of others?
That don't seem exactly square --
I know all men are brothers.'

'Or does he randomly reply,
Without good rhyme or reason?
Maybe, it's the time of day,
The weather or the season.'

'Now I ain't trying to act smart,
It's just the way I feel.
And I was wondering', could you tell me --
What the heck's the deal?!'

Peter listened very patiently
And when Jake was done,
There were smiles of recognition,
And he said, 'So, you're the one!!'

That day your truck, it wouldn't start,
And you sent your prayer a flying,
You gave us all a real bad time,
With hundreds of us trying.'

'A thousand angels rushed,
To check the status of your file,
But you know, Jake, we hadn't heard
From you in quite a long while.'

'And though all prayers are answered,
And God ain't got no quota,
He didn't recognize your voice,
And started a truck in Minnesota'

Be sure to stay in touch.

Jake and Shorty

               JAKE AND SHORTY

 

The day was hot when he was born

Midst bushes low and full of thorns.

Without the aid of doctor’s skill,

Just mid-wife and his mother’s will.

With serenade of howling wind.

In shanty house with roof of tin.

 

And there he grew, a ranch-hand’s son.

He learned to ride and use a gun.

Roping, throwing, branding steers

Hard work hardened through the years.

A lot of man on stubby frame,

Shorty Briscoe was his name.

 

Jake Reed was another hand.

He and Shorty raised some sand.

They worked from dawn to setting sun,

Then went to town when work was done.

Jake was tall, wiry and hard,

And Shorty Briscoe was his Pard.

 

One weekend when the work was done

They rode to town to have some fun.

Ambling through the swinging door

At Pecos Rose’s as before.

They spied a stranger standing there

A fancy Dan with perfumed hair.

 

The stranger’s gun was tied down low

With yellowed ivory grips for show.

His eyes were steely gray and mean,

Soft hands with fingers long and lean.

He drank alone, but glanced their way

Inviting them to make a play.

 

Jake just laughed and turned away.

A grave mistake - He’d make them pay.

The stranger called for Jake to draw.

Jake moved and faced the pale outlaw.

The gunman’s move was smooth and fast

Jake hit the floor ‘neath fiery blast.

  

There was Shorty standing tall.

The bullet missed and hit the wall.

The shootist knew he’d erred that day

As Shorty Briscoe blazed away.

When smoke had cleared, the stranger fell;

Jake stood up alive and well.

 

Dennis Price

 

The world is governed more by appearances than realities, so that it is fully as necessary to seem to know something as to know it.
  - Daniel Webster

 

Grateful

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.

Dennis Price

The Picture Show

The Lay of The Land


The cowboy lay across four seats
at a local picture show.
The patrons thought it rude of him
and said he had to go.

They called the usher on him
to make him settle down.
They said he groaned and snorted
each time he moved around.

The usher told him, “Sir,
you can only use one seat,
and if you can’t be quiet
I’ll show you to the street.”

The cowboy didn’t budge an inch.
Like he didn’t understand.
He just lay there making noises
with his hat clutched in his hand.

A Texas Ranger got the call
and came to end this game.
“I’ll only ask you only once my friend,
where you’re from and what’s your name?”

The cowboy slowly raised his head
and said so painfully,
“Sir, my name is Sam
and I’m from the balcony.”

Dennis Price

Cowboys

The old Texican has mounted up and ridden west. I'll be on autopost for a few days so you'll be on your own. I thought you might like to see a few of my poems again.

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.

Going to the Show

I don't know how they talked where you grew up, but in Mississippi we called the Movie Theater a "Show." If your mom or dad asked (and they usually did), "Where do you kids think your going?", we might respond, "We're all going to the show." If you were from a small town like me, there was probably only one theater. No twenty one screen megaplex jobs like we have today. If you didn't like what was showing, you just had to wait a week or two. Popcorn and a Coke didn't cost twenty dollars, and many of the old theaters had balconies. There were real ushers to seat you (or at least help with seating) and they watched for unruly patrons. The ushers or managers would escort people out of the theater if they failed to comply with the rules. I had to present that background information for some who never enjoyed those pleasant days of yesteryear.

The Lay of The Land


The cowboy lay across four seats
at a local picture show.
The patrons thought it rude of him
and said he had to go.

They called the usher on him
to make him settle down.
They said he groaned and snorted
each time he moved around.

The usher told him, “Sir,
you can only use one seat,
and if you can’t be quiet
I’ll show you to the street.”

The cowboy didn’t budge an inch.
Like he didn’t understand.
He just lay there making noises
with his hat clutched in his hand.

A Texas Ranger got the call
and came to end this game.
“I’ll only ask you only once my friend,
where you’re from and what’s your name?”

The cowboy slowly raised his head
and said so painfully,
“Sir, my name is Sam
and I’m from the balcony.”

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.

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.

Cowboy Poetry

Some of my new readers have expressed an interest in my poetry. I am living in south Texas where we have many huge ranches and we still have real cowboys. Some of you are familiar with the famous Cowboy poets, but you won't find my name listed in their ranks. I have listened to and enjoyed their work, and I have borrowed from their styles. I write very eclectic poetry. Like many of you I still enjoy the old Westerns and some of the new ones, and I like the tough independent personna portrayed in those films. I hope you enjoy the story of Shorty and Jake.

I believe this painting by Douglas Wodark is entitled; "Cowboys Jawin'"

JAKE AND SHORTY

The day was hot when he was born
Midst bushes low and full of thorns.
Without the aid of doctor’s skill,
Just mid-wife and his mother’s will.
With serenade of howling wind.
In shanty house with roof of tin.

And there he grew, a ranch-hand’s son.
He learned to ride and use a gun.
Roping, throwing, branding steers
Hard work hardened through the years.
A lot of man on stubby frame,
Shorty Briscoe was his name.

Jake Reed was another hand.
He and Shorty raised some sand.
They worked from dawn to setting sun,
Then went to town when work was done.
Jake was tall, wiry and hard,
And Shorty Briscoe was his Pard.

One weekend when the work was done
They rode to town to have some fun.
Ambling through the swinging door
At Pecos Rose’s as before.
They spied a stranger standing there
A fancy Dan with perfumed hair.

The stranger’s gun was tied down low
With yellowed ivory grips for show.
His eyes were steely gray and mean,
Soft hands with fingers long and lean.
He drank alone, but glanced their way
Inviting them to make a play.

Jake just laughed and turned away.
A grave mistake - He’d make them pay.
The stranger called for Jake to draw.
Jake moved and faced the pale outlaw.
The gunman’s move was smooth and fast
Jake hit the floor ‘neath fiery blast.

There was Shorty standing tall.
The bullet missed and hit the wall.
The shootist knew he’d erred that day
As Shorty Briscoe blazed away.
When smoke had cleared, the stranger fell;
Jake stood up alive and well.

Historians are like deaf people who go on answering questions that no one has asked them. - Leo Tolstoy