Blog Archives
Attitude
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.
Amen
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 cards —
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!
Colorado
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.
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.
Thoughts
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.
wfosterwelborn 