Monthly Archives: October 2013


This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Almost anyone can do nothing.

It takes someone with vision to do something.

Cowboy’s Prayer

This comes from Autumn Leaves:

Now I lay me down to sleep

In open spaces

Lest I weep.

Saddle for a pillow,

Chaps for a spread,

Starlit canopy overhead.

And should I die

Before dawn’s break,

Thank you, Lord, for your fair shake.


The Cowboy

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


At the age of sixteen,

He was tall, hard and lean

As he began his long-dreamed-of quest.


On an old swayback nag,

He’d push, pull or drag.

He followed the setting sun west.


By a lightning-bolt chance,

He found work on a ranch

Where he grew into a man.


He worked hard every day

For very little pay,

But always he rode for the brand.


He worked for thirty and found,

As he glanced around town,

And strolled into the Lady Luck Saloon.


He ordered Rot-Gut-Red,

You know the fiery kind

That has to be sipped from a spoon.


When he was right,

He wouldn’t back down,

Never a question of budgin’.


If a man disagreed,

He could go for his gun —

Old Sam Colt would do the judgin’!


He learned to live by his word

As he helped round up the herd —

A cowboy’s life is sure tough!


He learned about whiskey,

Women and cardsĀ  —

Why, he even learned to dip snuff!


On a north-bound trail,

Headed towards Kansas rail,

They sweated and worked without rest.


The deck was stacked

When the redskins attacked,

And he heard their loud, piercing yells.


O’er noise of bawling cattle,

Came sounds of the battle.

He clutched an arrow buried deep in his chest.


They found a six-gun by his hand,

His blood mixed with the land —

His dying words, “Tell ’em I done my best!”


Where the buffalo roam,

The young cowboy makes home,

A cross by a small bubbling stream.


He’s rode his last hoss,

And he’s roped his last steer,

But he’s fulfilled both his quest and dream!


This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:

Beautiful Colorado,

I offer you this salutation:

Your lofty grandeur and cold, clear streams

Have captured my admiration.

I’ve watches you each year, changing apparel

Through different seasons,

Each more beautiful than a melody,

And I’m enraptured for these reasons.

Your flowered aspen meadows turn green,

Then to red and gold;

In summer, your lofty mountains are bareheaded,

Yet white-capped in winter’s cold.

Quiet beauty of your secret places

Are in the eyes of the beholder,

Changes with the seasons,

Like colored pictures in a folder.

When first my eyes beheld you,

I knew from the start,

I was chained by your beauty

Like a horse harnessed to a cart.

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Prayers, Dreams and Goals

When you pray for something, add feet to your prayers – Do something about it.


When you dream, add wings to your dreams – Take action, no matter how small.


If you have a goal, write it down and put it somewhere you can see it.

You will be reminding yourself that you are working towards and end,

not just wandering aimlessly.


Anyone can do nothing – It takes someone to accomplish something.


Don’t forget Synergy – an object in motion generates forward movement.


Remember Serendipity – Along the way, enjoy all the good stuff that happens.

Broken Dreams

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


It stands on a hilltop,

Abandoned, forlorn,

Weathered and beaten,

Shingles missing and torn.


What tales would it tell,

If talk it could?

Peeling paint clings

Precariously to ancient wood.


Its old warped floors

Probably knew tiny feet

Of children born there,

So cuddly and sweet.


Conversations crossed over

The old kitchen table…

Voices filled with hope,

And arms that were able.


With a heart full of prayer,

A bucket full of sweat,

They worked the land

The harvest to get.


No one left now

To toil on the land.

Tombstones out back

Mark the passing of man.


The old house now stands

Ramshackle, alone —

Its boards bleached out

Like a skeleton of bones.


A prayer holds it together

From breaking at the seams —

A monument to man

And his broken dreams.


I’ll Be There

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Where wild winds rush,

Causing sea waves through tall grass.


Where crystal clear water

Crashes and dances in rocky stream beds.


Where tall stately evergreens

Climb up mountain ladders.


Where eyes narrow and strain

To absorb distant, hazy vistas.


Where wild animals still find refuge

In nature’s embrace.


Where eagles still glide free

Through space and time.


Where colorful cutthroat trout

Lurk in clear, cold, rocky domains.


Where golden aspen leaves shake,

Then fall in cold, clean air.


Find this special place and look for me —

Cause I’ll be there.


This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Thoughts locked in transparent time warp

Struggle and search for an outlet.

Agonizing effort to render expression,

Lapse into gnawing, frustrated silence.


Moments earlier, a single thought

Crystallizes into unfragmented clarity,

Sinks back into an abyss of grey matter,

Suffocated by wandering mind clutter.


Multicolored patterns ebb and flow,

Aimlessly, without purpose or reason,

Fluttering a boat on silent wings

Into a gulf stream of infinity.


Because it’s gone, it’s lost,

Never again to be recalled

Or formed into the uttered word,

But, did it ever really matter?

Summer’s Gone

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Strung out and “V’d” against the sky,

They honk out a noisy farewell.

Magnificent sight in early morning’s light,

They’ll fly over hill and dale.


No clock or calendar tells them —

Their flight plans long-since laid.

Stroking determined wings in flight, day and night,

Until their journey’s made.


Winter’s coming. It’s kind of sad

As they wing their way down south.

They’ll return when the weather warms,

And a smile will again adorn my mouth.

Old Sentinel

This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:


Quietly, he watched

With clear, beady eye

Toward snow-freckled landscape,

Ghostly, grey sky.


Frigid wind knifed

Into feathery bone.

Old Canadian Goose

Now completely alone.


Southern fly-ways beckoned

With their annual ring.

Members of his flock

Disappeared on strong wing.


Too old and weak,

No strength left to fly.

Instinct forbade him

To even try.


He honked farewell tiredly

With his remaining might,

As last departing stragglers

Disappeared from sight.


Primary flight feathers,

Ragged, unpreened —

No protection from freezing wind,

Unchecked, unscreened.


Soon white snow

Would blanket the land,

Bringing silent death

To hapless animal and man.


From gosling to maturity,

Years long since gone,

He would die where he hatched

On this small lake he knew as home.




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