BUFFALO CHIPS

CONTENTS

Buffalo Chips

Turtle Boots

Dances with Horses

Train Day

Premonition

Growing Stones

Old Wives Lake Massacre

Waves of Memory

Eagles

Henry Moore

Armadillo

My Cousin Wayne

Alberta Air

One Room School

Copenhagen Kid

Swearing Off

Ode to the Farmer

BUFFALO CHIPS

Lily pads floating

on the sea of prairie grass

Heat for the Tepees

or the homesteaders cabin

Nothing wasted in the West

And every boy knew

that a good sharp stick or a pointy toed shoe

would let you know

if one was just right, or still a little too new

And I’m here to tell you, that compared to a

good dry chip

meeting a West wind’s invitation

A Frisbee is a weak and poor, plastic imitation

TURTLE BOOTS

I bought a pair of boots one time

made from an old sea turtles hide

The prettiest boots you ever saw

but a little bit tight along the side

I figured it would only take a while

to break these babies in just right

and in the meantime at least I’d have

the pleasure of taking them off at night

Now a hundred years don’t seem long

to an old sea turtle, or his next of kin

but it appeared it was gonna take that long

to break those miserable damn boots in

I tried everything to ease that constant pain

I soaked em, I oiled em, I bent em, I boiled em

If anyone had suggestions, no matter how wild

I got out those boots and sure enough tried em

But those son of a guns just continued to pinch

I couldn’t get them to move 1/16^th of an inch

wild thoughts of destruction started filling my

day

but the boots were to pretty I’d just give them

away

I gave them to my younger brother first

by logic his feet should be smaller you see

but after a month or so he gave them back said

he just couldn’t accept all that charity

So I gave them away to friend after friend

but I guess gratitude ain’t what it used to be

and the results were always the same in the end

I got those turtle boots back, but I mostly lost

the friend

and every time I got them back

I’d put them on and wear them a while

and never could figure how one pair of boots

could cause so much pain and still have so much

style

But I gave them at last to a chiropractor down in

Texas

and I didn’t get em back, so I expect he’s got em

beat

because if he can’t adjust those boots

he can always adjust his feet

DANCES WITH HORSES

And what is the poem of Rusty

who slips at full gallop and picks up all

four feet and sets them down sure on the next

dry spot

Of Lady still so afraid of wire she can buck

fourteen hours tired

if a four inch chunk should strike a hoof

And the dance of the wild mare in the corral

who kicks and one foot goes by on each side of

your head

And of the colts separated from the mothers flank

by a gunny sack in the face and a quick gate,

who turns a tight arc and comes back at you, and

you see it in the eyes and duck and he sails over

taking out the top rail

And you hear that your father gave you the first

compliment you’ve

ever heard by turning to the man beside him

and saying

“The damn fool will get himself killed someday”

TRAIN DAY

Once a week, once a week

they came from all around, all around

and swelled, and swelled, the size of our young

town

And the chugging grew, and the chugging grew

and the chugging grew, and the whistle blew

and all was new, and the children knew

But now the lines are down, all down

old folks and old dogs in the town

not a child nor a pup, nor a pup

and not one elevator up

PREMONITION

Carl Walenda used to say

He only felt alive

when walking the high wire

everything else was just waiting

Some rodeo cowboys feel the same way

for eight seconds on a good day

One day in South America

Carl Walenda checked his tie downs

something he never did

He went up on the wire anyway

and he fell

After all those years of butterflies

it’s hard to tell

which is the black one

GROWING STONES

Each spring on our farm

the old father sun turned up his warmth and

charm

melting the frost deep in the heart of the mother

earth

The

egg babies

thereby created

rose to the surface

to play in the open air

mischievious miscreants all

waiting to jam diskers and drills

and if they get a little grain to hide in

ambush swathers, combines, and oil pans of

grain trucks

so we had to gather them into

school bus stone boats and wagons and haul

them off to places where they could be with their

older brothers and sisters on the reform school

rock pile

there is still some hope

that someday they can learn to be pillars of the

community

OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE

THE LEGEND:

About a hundred and fifty or two hundred years

ago, in what is now south west Saskatchewan, a

band of Cree camping on the shore of a prairie

lake were surrounded by a much larger band of

Blackfoot warriors.

In order to save the lives of the young and strong,

they slipped out under cover of darkness while the

old and infirm stayed behind to keep the fires

burning and keep up the appearance of an

occupied camp.

When the Blackfoot attacked the next morning

they were furious at having been tricked in this

way and massacred all the remaining inhabitants

of the camp including all the old wives.

This unusual and powerful occurrence is

remembered to this day in the name of the lake.

I grew up and ranched along its shores.

OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE

THE POEM:

I have eaten the beef

that ate the grass

that grew on your unmarked graves

And the sadness I sing, I sing for you

for all the sadness is one sadness

all pain one pain

and all treachery one treachery

Many have eaten of the buffalo and the beef

They wake in the night

and do not know why they are sad

WAVES OF MEMORY

I was sailing into waves of memory

as I drove to my boyhood home

To find that some heavy breakers

had turned to light light foam

Here I walked for miles in freedom

and my home was warm and real

And here my good dog saved me

from coyotes tender meal

Here all my innocence was known

And most of it shattered too

As I remembered what people said

and then what they might do

I thought that I could face those waves

with the things that I now know

But I was more than a little surprised

by the strength of the undertow

EAGLES

I watched them glide and wondered

Do the eagles see the air

I know of course that I can

When there’s enough moisture there

But I was thinking about something extra

Like how a dog can hear high notes

And I can feel you from anywhere

When there’s enough moisture there

HENRY MOORE

Henry Moore was a smart old cowboy

a smart old cowboy was he

Just as sly as a fox

he bought twenty foot salt blocks

and set them out in West Texas in winter

Where a thousand tongues

changed those basis hard foods

into a bunch of reclining nudes

There are time when it bothers my conscience

to see

them hangin around London,

New York, and D.C.

Then I remember old Hank is one of the boys

just suckerin some dudes with these toys

So I decide not to chip off the bronze

THE ARMADILLO

The armadillo lies

in the center of the road

with his feet in the air

The shell on his back

for centuries over used

caused his spine in the neck

to become somewhat fused

So that when he hears

that danger is near

he has to leap and turn

to cover his rear

And if that sound is the front of a car

he leaps into a sudden marriage

of armadillo and undercarriage

So he lays on his back and he waves his feet

a warning to travelers from far and near

about the dangers of old fear

and old ways of dealing with it

MY COUSIN WAYNE

When Wayne was thirteen

he had the finest blonde hair

the finest features and the finest mind

of all the cousins round

A city boy and cooler about everything that all of us

until we took him hunting

When his first shot hit the rabbit

he ran and cried and held it till it died

At eighteen he quit school with A grades

a month before graduation to get a jump on a job

met a girl and bragged of achievement on first date

Over achievement it turned out to be

quick marriage, quick, two children three

Army for security, liquor for the pain

it was twenty years before I saw him again

He was in a bar

sitting there as coarse and thick as adobe brick

I wanted to roll it all back

reach in for the lost fineness and yank it all inside out

And hold him like the rabbit when he cried

still innocent when it died

ALBERTA AIR

(a song still waiting for the music)

Alberta air, Alberta air

You’ve gotta breathe

that good Alberta air

It rolls in over the mountains

it rolls out over the plains

it smells of age old glaciers

and brand new gentle rains

it’ll cleanse your heart of worries

and wash your soul of pains

for there’s a world of love and kindness there

feel it blowing through your hair

Alberta air, Alberta air

ONE ROOM SCHOOL

There were seven students and eight grades

With the inkwells covered to save the braids

The first day of school

the boys all rushed through the door

to fight for the seats

with their father’s initials carved thirty years

before

At recess there were garter snakes, and gophers,

and mice

Which girls who were being chased, and teachers

who had just opened desk drawers didn’t think

were so nice.

At recess you could get on the big teeter totter

on the North side. If you could get high enough,

long enough, you could get a bobbing glimpse of

one of the big boys, had outstretched for the

well deserved strap.

In winter the pot bellied stove was set up in the

back center of the room. How warm you were

depended how close you were to the back. The

teacher didn’t always teach from the front of the

class.

There was big tin shield five feet high around

the stove to keep us from burning ourselves

although it got hot enough itself to do a pretty

good job.

Any lapse in supervision added to its decor as

we melted our wax crayons into modern art on

its silver sides.

It was always great to hear the lessons

meant for other ears than these

and to sting the older kids in spelling bees

In those days outdoor toilets were cricket

and so was the game we played

with firewood for posts

and baseball bats

for bats.

THE COPENHAGEN KID

I didn’t kill a b’ar when I was only three

but I did start to chew before I was two

They say Copenhagen cowboys have a tendency to lie a

bit

usually it’s how young they started and how far they can

spit

Now I ain’t got many silver buckles to brag about

but this is for sure and without a doubt

I’ve got the record when it comes to snuff

for the earliest and shortest, addiction to the stuff

Now my memory’s a little foggy but the legend’s quite

clear

that somewhere between my first and second year

My daddy leaned over the crib to kiss me goodnight

with the can in his pocket not sittin too tight

It seems form the beginning that I sure liked the stuff

and, in no time al all, ate that whole box of snuff

Legend doesn’t tell my exact shades of green

but I hear there were some that had never been seen

Though out behind barns and sometimes in bars

I’ve tried cigarettes and a few good cigars

Still when folks pull out that old round can of thar’s

all my color comes back and they think I’m from Mars

SWEARING OFF

This story was told by my old friend Bill

about a time when he was four

well maybe a little less, maybe a little more

Seems he’d been rubbin up against some boys in town

and learned some language that made his Momma frown

His folks tried about everything from soap on down

but the lessons they were pouring just wouldn’t stay

down

Finally they said, now Billy my boy

the decision we’re makin gives us no joy

Because generally we like you, and you’re pretty good

with your chores

but there’s no room on this ranch for language like yours

So, though it’s sure to make us grieve

we’ve packed your bag, and you’ll have to leave

They peeked through the curtains as he walked down the

lane

with Dad remindin Mom that some lessons have pain

Billy stood at the road for 20 minutes or more

then slowly trudged back and knocked on the door

They slipped from the window and opened it slow

he said

“where the hell am I supposed to go?”

ODE TO THE FARMER

No one will be surprised by the report

that farming is a very dangerous sport

What flapping empty fingered gloves

point back to momentary lapses

What limbs with what power

have been taken off by

power take offs

What tendons snapped like glass

and bones cut clean as grass

by unthinking mowers

And what of those neighbors dead and true

who for a minute forgetting what they knew

through red machines combined

with their grain

All these have earned his dusty tear

and many a “who’s next” fear

Year after year, after year, after year

And yet deep in the soils of time

the seeds of his goodness are growing

While the world turns in slow seasons

And he will be ready

when at last they declare

a true war of poverty

and are willing to bomb with wheat

Back cover quote

“What the world needs

is a good Buffalo Chip poem”

-Eldon Gaunt

NEW TEXAS PRESS

AUSTIN, TEXAS

ISBN 1-8906360-1-0