Cowboys, Poets,

Cowboys, Poets,

and Pilots

A. Neil Meili

I gratefully acknowledge these editors,

and the following publications, for their

support and encouragement, and for

first printing a number of these poems:

The Dry Crik Review

(a most wonderful and important magazine);

Riding the Northern Range,

“Poems from the last best West” –

Red Deer Press, publisher, Ted Stone, editor;

Maverick Western Verse –

Gibbs Smith, publisher, John C. Dofflemyer, editor.

CONTENTS

Cowboys, Poets, and Pilots

COWBOYS

Kenny and Me

Herefords

First Art Project

Deer Gone

Go Gently

Prairie Ear

Roundup

Rope Burns

Mother on Horseback

Too Crowded

Grass Fed

Old Dry Guy and the Bath

Blue Roan/Blue Planet

Good Old Boys

PILOTS

Wouldn’t It Be Nice

Solo

Grand Canyon

Headwind

Clouds

POETS

Shirley

Forced Rhyme

Sheep in Night

Dark Eyed Lady

Poetry

Exclused

For the Poetry

Word Divisions

Mona Lisa

Pilots Poets and Cowboys

Requiem

THE COWBOYS THE PILOTS AND POETS

THE COWBOYS THE PILOTS AND POETS

THE GIRLS THEY SAY LOVE THEM ALL

FOR PILOTS HAVE AN AIR OF THE DANGER

OF THOSE WHO CAN DIE IF THEY FALL

WHILE A POET’S CRUSHED PETAL SCENT

REFLECTS ALL THEIR BEAUTY AND PAIN

AND A COWBOY HAS A FEEL OF THE OPEN

AND A SMELL WE WON’T SPEAK OF AGAIN

MAYBE THE PILOTS HELP THEM FEEL

LIFES EDGE OF PUREST BLUE

WHILE THE POETS ACT AS MIRRORS

TO DEPTHS THEY NEVER KNEW

AND THE COWBOYS, OH THE COWBOYS

CAN TOUCH THEM WHERE IT HURTS

AND THEY’VE GOT THOSE FAST

SNAP BUTTONS SHIRTS.

Cowboys

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 pitch forks

and passed gas

in a thousand acre field

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 the earth and blood

Rolling with white faced foam

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 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

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 could 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

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

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

ROUND UP

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

and through it all 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

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 that 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

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 whey she didn’t do it more

TOO CROWDED

My folks took some time off in the sixties

from their Saskatchewan ranching and

traveled down through South Texas

One day they stopped to talk to an

old cowboy sittin and a wittlin

on a rickety ranch porch

When he found out where they were from he said

“say do you know a man up there

by the name of Bill Prior?”

They said “Yes, he’s an old bachelor who lives up

past our North pasture, why do you ask?”

“Well” he said, “About 1928 Bill and I were out lookin

for some strays when we saw another rider

coming over the furthest hill.”

Bill said to me “It’s getting too damn crowded down here,

I’m heading for Canada.”

“He turned his horse North and I haven’t

seen him since.”

GRASS FED

Shakespeare knows what we gotta do first

but let’s get rid of the feed lots next

Oats was made for breakfast

and corn was made for whiskey

cows was made for eatin grass

and calves for runnin frisky

Surely not for standin around

bustin their livers on a lot of hot feed

that they don’t need, and we don’t need

The beef might be

a little tougher to chew

but our hearts and our jaws

would soon be back to as good as new

And it might

come in real handy

not to be steeroid de-sexed

when it comes to what we’ve gotta do next

THE OLD DRY GRY AND THE BATH

The old timers were all setting around the general store

I think they’d been there forever or a few days more

hocking up gossip and spit and an occasional snore

And as it’s always been in the West or the East

the one who know the most said the least

He had a face like old harness and one bad eye

to myself I called him “the old dry guy”

Late January one year the old boys were a buzz

Old Jeb had got scalded and burned off some fuzz

He’d been bathing in his kitchen in the old tin tub

and reached across for the kettle to warm up the rub

slipping he’d split it and lost some skin and some hair

and the boys were all speculatin’ how much and where

They’d talked it around for about three hours or more

when the ‘old dry guy’ moved in his chair by the door

They all got real quiet and leaned closer to hear

He said

“Serves the damn fool right, takin a bath this time a year”

THE OLD BLUE PLANET / BLUE ROAN

She’s been rode hard

and not put away yet

She’s got a bad scraped hide

from a long rough ride

She’s been secticided and pesticided

and damned sure blind sided

with more spray and dip and hot feed

than any ten could stand or need

So think about loosenin that cinch a bit

and givin her a good long rest

and a deep drink of that old cool water

from the spring she likes the best

And stop that “Greenhorn” spurrin

whatever else you do

or you’re gonna have a good horse

dead under you

GOOD OLD BOYS

For years you’ve been cleaning up your act

But now the good old boys are coming back

And the guy they’re coming back to see

Is the good old boy that you used to be

You broke some broncs and drank some

beers

And played tough football in those

years

Cruised to front and back seat double

features

And took big guns to kill small timid

creatures

Since then you’ve passed through many a

door

But can’t say to them. I’m not that person

anymore

Of course they may have changed too

But how oh how could they tell… You

Pilots

WOULDN’T IT BE NICE

Wouldn’t it be nice

if you went out with your instructor one morning

and the blue foothills sky was full of white puff ball clouds

And you smiled at each other

and began to play in and out of their magic

of shadows and light

And it felt as much lighter than air

as air is lighter than earth

And the hour took moments and forever

and the silence and awe followed you back

and he wouldn’t even take your money for the ride

Now I know it’s not legal to fly in clouds like that

so I’m not exactly saying that it happened

But wouldn’t it be nice

SOLO

It was first solo cross country night

with all the fears of those new a flight

But the full winter moon lit a chess-board

of snow covered stubble and black fallow fields

and small creeks, winding east, from the mountains

All of the fears into the liquid moonlight melted

while flared nerves stayed open to the beauty

And the Cessna ran smooth at five thousand feet

I couldn’t have been higher, at fifty

GRAND CANYON

Eight triple on Gulf, this is seventy eight Tango Sierra

how would you like to drop in to Grand Canyon airport?

We were flying Calgary-Phoenix; he, Phoenix-Sun Valley

a friend had just lost an engine. He needed to land

and wanted a ride to Phoenix

I didn’t know the runway but I followed him in

It’s not a very long runway, and at the end

are some pretty big trees.

I was low and slow in the old Twin Commander

the one with the geared engines

The ones you always had to handle oh so gentle

like your throttles were a handful of eggs

So I played the game and brought in the power easy

Too slow and you eat the trees

too fast and you eat the pistons, and the trees

And it was mighty pretty runway

when you were standing on the ground

On the way back from Phoenix

It was late afternoon we were lured

by the siren beauty of the Grand Canyon.

Right turn diversion, West to East as slow as we could go

Just below the rim the whole length of it

watching the magic colors as the sun

behind us lit up the canyon walls

Almost out of fuel we finally pulled ourselves away and

turned north to find a runway.

The wind from the west and we had to land into the

blinding light of the sun just before it went down.

It was as if it had turned on us, this light that had made us

feel so alive, (although we had really turned on it), and was

about to kill us now because we didn’t have enough fuel to

go around and we had to face it

straight on.

With two pilots passengers looking out the side windows and

calling out heights and directions, and a little luck we got

down. And we felt good again, very good.

Always the turnings, always the changing, always the other

side of the coin. So many times in that part

of my life it seemed that the beauty and the

pleasure were but a thin membrane away

from the fear and the danger.

HEADWIND

Heading west for stampede city

doing two miles a minute through air

with a Chinook pouring over the mountains

and a rising feelin that you’ll never get there

You’re going slower and slower

over the rough wind swept ground

and you don’t want to land in that field

and of course, you don’t dare turn around

The needle and your knees

are all three on empty, knocking

and if you had a car, you’d pull over

get out the old can, and start walking

But you’ve made it, you land, and you park

and you know there’s someone to thank

when the boys put thirty two gallons

in your thirty two gallon tank

CLOUDS

Clouds are a part of living

and if you fly, a big part of staying alive

I remember an airport and the sky closing behind me

a brand new pilots license and no instrument time

a terrible, deadly, damn fool policy

I hope they’ve changed it

I had a few lessons from my brother

he told me about believing the instruments

Of course I didn’t really, actually, believe them

but I did follow the one that said “we’re right side up”

When my inner ear said; “you’re not,” “turn”, “turn or die”

And I throttled back and let the plane sink into the dark

we might land or hit something at less than full speed

and then there was a little space and a little light

and a landmark, and the lost ground was found

And the time flying from Calgary to Salt Lake

with two cloud layers twenty feet apart

and the big twin fling V.F.R. between

and the feeling in my heart

But the best is a grey cloudy day

when the whole world is too sad to play

and old mother nature seems to ring out her mop

and you have a little courage and you know

That there’s no light like the light

when you break out on top

Poets

SHIRLEY

Remind me to write you a poem someday

There are lots of things that I’d like to say

Your opening up has been to me

A beautiful beautiful thing to see

I haven’t the words to express it today

But remind me to write you a poem someday

FORCED RHYME

Pardon me pardner if my words don’t rhyme – all the time

but sometimes they just don’t fit worth a hoot

And I’ve never liked shovin my size ten foot

in a size eight boot

Or a longhorn in a

calf chute

SLEEP IN NIGHT

It was in the old Taos hotel in New Mexico. I had just spent

the night there on my way back from the Light Institute In

Santa Fe, and picked up a book in their little reading room.

It contained this wonderful description.

A poet is something strange and apart, a favorite of the Gods, who

have bestowed on him an extreme sensitiveness and sensibility,

like open doors and windows, to subtle and delicate impressions

that but bruise themselves against other men’s walls; these he cap-

tures and coaxes to sing to him, and intoxicated by the beauty of

their melodies builds for them a gold cage and feeds them on

honey from the sweetest flowers in his garden: till they in their

happiness become so musical, fancying themselves in heaven, that

Jove confers immortality on them, and swinging in their golden

cages they sing sweetly forever, lifting up the hearts of men in

every clime and generation.

As I read in the lobby a lady sat down opposite me in a com-

fortable old sofa, about four feet away across a gently rugged

coffee table.

I had heard the desk clerk greet her as she entered and ask

her how her writing was going. We smiled at each other as

she sat down. There was a warmth and a recognition in the

smile and a knowing that we would each have liked to say

something, but we didn’t.

Later I passed her and a companion having lunch and we

again shared the, “Hi, old friend I’ve known forever,” smiles,

but didn’t speak.

A couple of hours later I was sprinting across the street on the

way back to the hotel when a car stopped to let me cross in

front of it. It was her again. This time we both laughed and

smiled and went our separate ways.

Maybe we were laughing at fate and it’s three good tries, and

our ability to ignore them all, or the lack or courage that had

allowed us to pass – like two sheeps in the night

DARK EYED LADY

An instant connection

with richness and light

that’s deeper than centuries

and warmer then life

Though if death’s darkness

is as welcoming as this

no wonder people hurry

to sink into that bliss

And though I’m pretty sure

I’m not ready to be dead

I’d like to sit by those waters

and rest my weary head

And drop pebbles of my poetry

just to watch the ripples spread

POETRY

I have this special picture

of poetry at times

that goes so far beyond

all the words and rhymes

I see the poet picking

the emotions and the thought

then sifting, sifting, sifting

to clean what he has got.

Then compressing into form

with all his skill and might

the essence and the heart

of his sacred inner sight.

And there it sits upon some page

holding love or silent rage

endless treasures there to find

all you have to add is mind.

And it will grow and grow

how far only you will know

for there may be in that verse

enough to fill a universe

Aye…sometimes enough to expand it.

EXCLUSED

Erato can be more than a bit erratic

and daily living lead to static

So sometimes when my lovely muse

seems my tender soul to abuse

and my simple mind confuse

I seek some gentler, kinder muse

And somewhere warm to sing the blues.

(and sometimes a little booze)

Whereupon my main muse, is not amused

and lets me know she feels abused

and certainly, not sufficiently exclused

and it’s choose! choose! choose!

As if, having been chosen

a poet could still choose

FOR POETRY

The ups and downs of loving you

may grind me up before we’re through

And my friends see a victim, namely me

but then again it just might be

that I’m only in it

for the poetry

WORD DIVISIONS

You can know your native language

and still feel all alone

as pilots talk to pilots

in a code that’s all their own

Yet not even one to one

can they share that love of air

or touch the others feelings

of the fear and beauty there

Sailors talk to sailors

of wind and sail and rope

of nights upon the ocean

of courage and of hope

Yet the words just can’t convey

their love of sea and air

nor touch the other’s feelings

of the fear and beauty there

And though cowboys talk to cowboys

in a special kind of drawl

there’s still a space between them

the words can’t tell it all

Not those nights of cold and stars

with the coyotes on the air

nor the call of open spaces

with the fear and beauty there

Watch as lovers talk to lovers

in ways only two can share

as they build between them

a framework light and fair

While a web that’s spun of maybes

hangs so fragile in the air

that one false word can shatter

into pain, the beauty there

And yet

There are still some crazy poets

out riding hatless in the sun

still trying to do the very thing

we all know can’t be done

Still Quixoting for a language

that can speak to everyone

MONA LISA

I’m so thankful you were there

like a Mona Lisa fair

To show me things I’d never see

and to model for my poetry

Which is not to compare

the artist or the style

But only to confirm again

the value of a smile

POETS PILOTS AND COWBOYS

A poet will try to dissect the world

and he’ll try to show you each part

and he’ll write it all down with a pen

that he’s dipped in an old carin’ heart

While pilots have the eyes of a hawk

and a strut in the way that they walk

and they give all that’s in them to give

and they live every moment they live

And most cowboys are gentle not loud

and they’re not all that good in a crowd

and they talk like they’re about half asleep

but what they know boys and girls

they know deep

REQUIEM

“There is nothing sad about an empty shell.”

-THE LITTLE PRINCE

poetry

is the shell

I leave you now.

It’s spiraled substance

all I’ve known of life and love.

See how it winds, and ever opens

stained with all the colors of my growth

and every gift and every touch of all of you and more.

Hold it to your ear

you may hear the ocean.

Back cover quote:

Neil is a Cowboy Poet with a Zen twist.

He’ll set you up easy, then shoot you

right between the frontal lobes.”

Thom “the world poet”

Austin Texas · International Poetry Festival 1993

ISBN 1-8906360-3-7