Tag Archives: Cows

THE FARM, THE RANCH AND THE NEED FOR GOD

THE FARM, THE RANCH
AND THE NEED FOR GOD

Who pray to when the rains don’t come
who forget to thank when they do

Who curse when the John Deere breaks
and the cow jumps over the moon
(by the moon of course I mean
the fence to the alfalfa field)

Who in the long nights pondering
under the stars too cold to be suns
a word big enough for big

HENRY MOORE

HENRY MOORE

Henry Moore was a smart old cowboy
a smart old cowboy was he

Just as sly as a fox
be bought twenty foot salt blocks
and set them out in West Texas in winter

Where a thousand strong tongues
changed those basis hard foods
into a bunch of reclining nudes

There are times 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

GRASS FED

GRASS FED

Shakespeare knows what we got 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
bursting 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 steroid de-sexed
when it comes to what we’ve gotta do next

ROUND UP

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
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

HEREFORDS

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

WINTER IN THE BARN

WINTER IN THE BARN

Steam rises off the backs of big horses

The old Holstein in the second stall
shifts her weight from side to side
matching the rhythm of the milking

and flicks her tail at memories
of summer flies

Across the width of the barn
I stand with wide mouth open
in my biggest five year old oval

catching most of the milk
squirted dead eye straight
by the laughing hired man

In the tack room
kittens wait by a tin plate
to put their morning moustache on

In my memory it is always warm in the barn