May your horse never stumble, Your spurs never rust, Your guts never grumble, And your cinch never rust.Author Unknown Submitted by Loretta Jones
by Don Roland
We bedded the herd and ate supper that night, then swapped lies for a while by the campfires' light.
It'd been a long day, as the next one would be, so we spread out our bedrolls, them tired hands and me.
Next morning Slim woke with a snake in his bed, but old Slim was a cool one and he kept his head.
He eased out of that bedroll and put on his hat, picked up his gunbelt and buckled on that.
Then stood in his bare feet, not even his pants on, and shot up that bed `till his shells were all gone.
He roled up what was left and set it afire and smiled as he watched the whole thing expire.
Old Slim never feared any creature that walked, be we soon gathered, from the way that he talked,
that from anything crawling he'd shy away. He'd leave `em alone if they'd go their own way.
And about that misadventure, all slim ever said, "I reckon it just shouldn't have crawled in my bed."
Copyright - Don Roland - 1994
THAT HORSE by Don Roland
It was frosty that mornin', still an hour 'till light When the Cook and old Shorty and That Horse had their fight.
Breakfast was cooking, and the coffee was done. I'd Just poured a fresh cup when the rukus begun.
That Horse had caused grief more than once in the past. He was just downright ornery and pretty damned fast.
A good looking brute, for all of his wiles, And Shorty had vowed to get him straight in a while.
That Horse, I swear, had planned it that way, To get Shorty in dutch with the camp cook that day.
If the cook got real mad, off the handle he'd fly, And serve us burnt bisquits and horseapple pie.
He was a typical cook, their own special breed, His word was law and you'd better pay heed.
If he was happy, his grub couldn't be beat, But when he got riled, it wern't fitten to eat.
He'd made it plain it'd sure raise his ire, If we let those damned horses get near his cook fire.
So mostly we waited, `till breakfast was done, `Fore saddling those horses, which always was fun.
About half of them horses was barely green broke, And first thing each morning, at least one old cowpoke,
Had to fork him a bad one and the wreck would be on, So we'd wait `till the cook got his chuckwagon gone.
But Shorty got saddled `fore breakfast that day, And That Horse lit out for the fire right away.
That Horse had his mind set on trouble that day, And the cook was standing right smack in the way.
So That Horse ran him over, knocked him flat in the dirt. But the cook was already too mad to get hurt.
Old Shorty had about all he could handle, Just staying aboard in the midst of that scramble.
The cook swung a skillet at the head of That Horse, If he hadn't of missed, he'd of killed it, of course.
But That Horse dodged the skillet, and the cook spun around, Caught a boot on the wood pile and sprawled on the ground.
Shorty started losing his tenuous grip, His eyes getting bigger, saw the end of that trip.
That Horse hit the wood pile and scattered it fair, Bounced off the chuckwagon and dumped Shorty there.
The cook a' was cussin, throwing rocks at That Horse, And Shorty rolled right through our breakfast, of course.
He lit in the bisquits and plowed through the beans, knocked over the coffee and set fire to his jeans.
That Horse fairly wrecked our whole camp that day, Then stopped, pranced arounced and walked calmly away.
He strolled to the remuda and looked back at us, And I swear That Horse was real proud of the fuss.
Then the cook grabbed a club and took to Shorty with it, And they `bout killed each other `fore either would quit.
Some of the boys had some harsh things to say, All about Shorty wearing breakfast that way.
The cook stormed off and hitched up his team, Threw his plunder aboard and left with a scream.
Cussin' out Shorty and some choice words, of course, About what he was going to do to That Horse.
Copyright - 1994 - Don Roland
Find Don Roland at Dons' Designs & Boulder Creek Custom Leather P.O. Box 843, Philipsburg, Montana 59858, USA firstname.lastname@example.org HTTP://cii.vcsu.nodak.edu/rr1/dr telephone (406) 859-3726
GRANDFATHER'S WATCHING c 5/98 All Rights Reserved * David Kelley
Grandmother loved him dearly, straight from the very start. Though a mere child, it was still an affair of the heart.
Truly a family stalwart...with history pending, Through the generations, to an eventual ending.
I know Grandfather remembers when Dad turned up ill, From the onset of fever, and each and every pill.
He could probably recount each time the kids would cough, And the time Aunt Trudy, tumped over in that hog trough.
At family weddings, he stood stately and very proud, Anything at all but the same old face in the crowd.
Showing a wealth of knowledge....always knowing the time, When to plant the crop, and when the moon was in it's prime.
The grandkids were always rough, but he took it in stride, Tolling out daily and hourly chores with ample pride.
He never liked the dogs or the stain there on his foot. Really he would have preferred the kittens all stayed put.
A struggle with apparent laryngitis one Fall, Was Grandfather's only true sickness...as I recall.
With rehab he soon returned...and chimed in with the best, A voice clearly able to pass the choir masters test.
Always on the job before light peeking from the East, Ever the last one heard after evening's family feast.
Grandfather's age would certainly be reason to slow, But, from deep within, timely energy seems to flow.
Lives have come and gone while he's been steady at the helm, Overseeing all within the scope of his vast realm.
Stories would be endless, if he could but just recall, But....Grandfather's a huge clock, standing on yonder wall.
You can contact David Kelley at email@example.com
Visit his new web page Prickley Pear Poetry
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