BUD McKAGUE
You can’t take it with you
they all say
And I believed it
till today
But that was gold
and crowns and
worldly glories
Bud beat those odds
he took his stories
(Bud, who knew and could tell more stories than anyone collapsed and died last year shortly after getting a standing ovation at Pincher Creek)
MOTHER’S POEM
The kitchen has always been the center
of the universe of any farm or ranch
She feeds their sleepy forms in morning
clothes them for the cold or warm
and prays them safe from harm
Looks out her window to the East
where barn shadows and rolling hills
greet them as they start their day
Men in firm direction to their work
children scattering to play
Then South across the lake to catch
the water’s mood foretelling wind or calm
Sometimes
sees in morning
mirages of cutbanks rising
like mountains along the Eastern shore
Or more directly to the South
forms of her old neighbour’s homes
rising and shimmering
like memories of her youth
Seasons spiral out and in from this center
crocus and buttercups in the greening grass
cactus flowers and the joy of newborn calves
The growing season of the grain
and golden glory of a well stooked field
The shortening of days into winter
and the ever present stars
joined by the dance
of Northern
lights
Within each season she has watched
the play of seasons of each day
men return from roundup
children from their play
While she waits always at the center
to warm and love and feed
and safely tuck away
THE DAY I SAW THE UFO
I’m sitting
with my back against the tractor tire
eating lunch in the long field by the lake
It flies over
directly South to North
plenty high and far from humanly fast
It is made of a metal that shines out of itself
I rise with a smile
brush the crumbs from my jeans
set my eyes on the furrow
and let out the clutch
WHAT A BOY LOOKS UP TO
Del Dube; thin cowhand in the rafters
helping Dad to build the shed
Torn jeans and old bent boots
too full of holes for walking
but good enough to ride
Stepping light
from beam to beam
held up by air and cowboy pride
and a young boy’s adoration
COWBOY POETRY
This is not the poetry of pulling calves
in a cold wind and a foot or so of spring snow
with only a vest and a bottle of rye
to keep you dry
This
is the poetry
of that calf that would have died
standing on shaky legs
to drink warm milk
from the cow that would have died
REED BETWEEN THE LIONS
My mother’s will was always
stronger than my won’t
My father’s won’t was always
stronger than my will
Caretaker soft or Cowboy strong
How quick I learned to change my face
to face the faces that I faced
And’
I can still spin that mirror now so you
can see the face you want to see
But neither you nor I will know
which one is me
BLUE EYED BOY
Blue eyed boy
blasts off from breakfast like a quail on a rail
Collie dog leaps on board
and they’re off across the prairie
barely touching the tops of hills
Sun gives warmth or cloud gives shade
all depending on his whim
birds and rocks and swaying grass
everything living embraces him
Burrs don’t stick and thorns don’t prick
even fences joining in the play
happily turning their barbs away
Floating along on the wings of four
not long now till they slam that door
FROST BITE
On the prairies they know
that you have to use snow
In January on the Wood River
the laces got wet and then stiff
and could not be untied
Walked the whimpering long mile home
in one frozen skate and one warm boot
part of my foot and all my toes
numb and milky white
On the prairies they know
that you have to use snow
Too much warmth all at once
can bring the feeling rushing back
with more pain than you can stand
I have since learned
and this is the sad part
It is the same way with the heart
FOR MARY WHO LOVES HORSES
I have ridden the fence line
without believing in fences
I have been one with the movement of horse
the strength and speed of horse
the grace of horse and the
soul of horse
I have been one with the wind
and the high rolling hills
and the sky
I have stepped down
with my hands filled with staples and pliers
For the welfare of cattle and neighbours
who still have need of believing
in fences
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 neighbours 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 on poverty
and are willing to bomb with wheat