I NEVER SAW MY MOTHER ON HORSEBACK
I understand that
she used to ride to school
but she was little and it was a farm
and somehow that didn’t seem to count
When she was about 75 she told me
about going with dad to the far end of the ranch
on a beautiful day a long time ago
to help round up some strays
She said that she liked it a lot
and couldn’t remember why she didn’t do it more
ROPE BURNS
I want to be able to bring home to you
Not only what I caught today
but the rope burns from
the ones that got away
Not only the buckles for the ones
that I stayed on for the eight
but the taste of the dirt
and other stuff I ate
Not only the meat from that old bear
but all the claw marks he left there
That you’re the one I want to kiss them well
also shows the love that I can’t tell
ROUNDUP
It’s about the hardest dustiest best work a man can get
The pride of the heeling rope, thrown snake quick from a
good horse and the slow steady pull, dragging the white face
out where the boys with the hot irons
can record the feat
Three hundred cows sing of calves lost and found, and above
all through it all the full strong laugh of one of the boys,
where a slip was made or a kick well placed
At the end of the day, you wrap a rope sore hand around a
spring cold beer, and lean back against the old pole fence
deep in the pain, and the sweat, and the moment
Completely released from the wheel of desire
There’s no place you’d rather be
There’s no one you’d rather be with
and you’re too damn tired to move anyway
PRAIRIE EAR
Outer ear gathering
sounds of birds and wind
and hooves on spring grasses
Playing them soft on the drum
as hammer and anvil and stirrup
pass on the faint creaking leather
of my old Texas boot in the stirrup
Ripples wave down inner membranes
and tiny thousands of hair cells
move like grass in the valley
From pressure to impulse
and from sound to
symbol of
sound
All floating in the liquid balance of an easy lope
GO GENTLY
When you break horses and break land
you end up with broken horses
and broken land
When you approach with the reverence
of a listening friend
It is amazing how far
they are willing
to carry you
DEER GONE
A tough shot, 600 yards at least, running left to right
in the open sights of the 303. Aim to the top of the
third jump ahead, move the gun in a smooth arc
and squeeze slow
It was a kill
I saw it as great skill
a source of blood fed pride
and the deer… well it just died
The Indians used to see it as a kind of revolving door
the spirit of the animal would come back soon
enough in another body if you used the one
he had given up to you with gratitude
There are not many deer in these parts anymore
I wonder if they are trapped
waiting for the gratitude
Indians lost in whiskey
and we never knew
FIRST ART PROJECT
It took a long time to pound
a whole keg of brand
new spikes
into the hard ranch yard
A silvery path
paved with shining heads
danced bright in the prairie sun
I stood back young and strong
and proud and knew
that it was beautiful and good
My father thought he had to teach
There was no room for art
in a hard yard
in a hard world
It was a long time before I tried again
HEREFORDS
They’re not as storied as the Texas longhorn
nor as hairy as the Highland creed
And they’re not nearly so sophisticated
as the latest European breed
They sure don’t calf out as easy as Angus
but all around, they’re all you need
(AND THEY’RE PRETTY TOO)
I remember
few things as beautiful
as looking back from the point
and seeing a few hundred Herefords
pouring through a cleft in the hills
down to the home corrals
like a spring flood
red as earth and blood
Rolling with white faced foam
KENNY and ME
(or Ranching at Eighteen)
Together we were young
and strong and very bold
And together we could drink
more beer than we could hold
We could drive home late and fast
singing every Johnny Horton song
And then fall asleep for minutes
and still answer the morning gong
We would work it out in the hot hot sun
(so easy then did the poisons yield)
As we sweated bales with pith forks
and passed gas
in a thousand acre field
GOPHER TAILS
When I was seven
gopher tails were three cents
The county had a bounty to arrest the little pest
not exactly a price on their heads
but you get the picture
So we hauled buckets of water
to drown them out
learned from the bigger boys
how to tie a noose in binder twine
placed it around the hole
and waited
Curiosity, which has been known to kill cats
is not very good for gophers either
Once caught
they were run in mad races
spun to centrifugal asphyxiation
or finished off in other cruel ways
before yielding us our hard earned bounty
In the spring we watched their return
to the snow speckled pasture
running tumbling wrestling
making love
And the wonderful babies
when they first ventured out
to try sunshine grass and shaky legs
It amazes me now
that as boys
We could take such joy
in their playful
beauty
And in their deaths