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Michael Whitaker Cowboy Poetry |
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Range Horse
The season is comin’ to an end. You could feel it in the wind. Winter’s gently knockin’ on the door.
The sky and ground are turnin’ white. The evenin’s robbed of summer’s light. A reminder of cold winters felt before.
The loadin’ pens stand cold and bare. The clay ground is showin’ wear. Now time and land are quiet as can be.
The wind shoves snow across the hills. My blood and bones are filled with chill. The only life around is a range horse that I see.
The hair upon his weathered hide, His hair is long with mud that’s dried. His backside is facin’ towards the wind.
He pays no attention as I pass by. Takes a breath then gently sighs. The season’s just begun for my ol’ friend.
He worked hard in the summer sun. He’s finished with the cattle runs. Now he’s turned loose to roam upon this ground.
Long signs of winter are showin’. The wind and snow are blowin’. Not a shred of shelter to be found.
He was born upon this land that wears. A life within the cold Montana air. The seasons run thick within his blood.
Most horses could not bear the change Or live upon the open range. A life of heat, snow and mud.
Somehow tough has become a forgotten word. A horse from a rough stock herd. A line of horse that slowly fades away.
I eyed him for a brief spell. Tryin’ to capture what he might tell. He just stood there on that unforgivin’ day.
He is just a range horse. A warrior from a different sort. His shaggy mane sways within the wind.
A testament of breed and will. A hardened life in winter’s chill. A range horse to the bitter end.
Range Horse.
Michael Whitaker November 12th, 2005
Location: South of the Missouri Breaks in Montana.
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A Brick Cafe
At a brick cafe in a small cow town on west forth avenue. I ran into a hero, a man I wish I knew. He asked me to take a seat, a load off my feeble mind. Then we proceeded in conversation, we spoke of friends and time.
He spoke of sudden endings. The friends he lost this year. He touched upon mortality; his heart felt thoughts and fears. Without him exactly saying, I caught just what he meant. Thoughts of traveling gypsies and all the years they spent.
I knew he was the father of words, rhymes and such. But I caught a glimpse of passion, a heart felt gentle touch. See these folks were his family, a common thread that runs. A woven thread of words and rhymes; he knew them every one.
He caught me without words, but thoughts raced through my head. The words of how he lost JB is what I listen to instead. How he called Joelle before she past and just what it meant to him. Then I selfishly started thinking of my mortality and end.
I had some misconceptions of this hero sitting there. It’s funny how you speculate about a man’s affairs. Again I was taught a lesson. One I should have known. See, he is just a cowboy and a long, long ways from home.
I know that cowboys are tough as nails and have that no quit attitude. But most they have compassion, honest straight and true. A fool I now was feeling. I know how the rules apply. I was gently reminded by that look within that cowboy’s eyes.
I wanted to offer comfort to this new found thoughtful friend. Share some words of wisdom of how it’s really not the end. But instead I sat and pondered of the friends we both once knew. At a brick cafe in a small cow town on west forth avenue.
Michael Whitaker 2006
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Lasso the Moon
Where the night is filled with stars, Where you sing a song from far, Where the canyon cliffs are scared, I’ll lasso the moon.
Where lonely fills the night, Where there are a million stars so bright, Where life begins at morning light, I’ll lasso the moon.
Where you leave your soul unprotected, Where the evening sun is reflected, Where old thoughts are resurrected, I’ll lasso the moon.
Where the red cliffs surround you, Where the wild beauty just astounds you, Where a simple life has found you, I’ll lasso the moon.
Where the sun is slowly burning, Where the wind is forever churning, Where time is always turning, I’ll lasso the moon.
Where history lines the walls, Where there are echoes of cattle calls, Where the lone calf softly bawls, I’ll lasso the moon.
Where the sun is over head by noon, Where at night there’s a harvest moon, Where winter comes too soon, I’ll lasso the moon. I’ll lasso the moon. I’ll lasso the moon.
Michael Whitaker September 14th, 2006 |