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haikow

My friend John, who encouraged me to read publicly for the first time, was also a big-time fan of cowboy poetry. So I've been having some fun with it.

yippee yiy kaiy… thud
me ‘n’ my rig in the mud
… forgot to cinch it 

horse unspurred leaps edge
steep slope straight-legg’d fall-flyin’
grizzly stays behind

stable hand dreamin’
his mind’s on the wide prairie
his boots are knee-deep

the barn is burnin’
all hands are in helpin’ out
winter two-steppin’

see purdy lass grin
arms reach. . . but pinch sleepin’ Slim!
another dang dream!!

stompin’ off traildust
stompin’ to fiddle and bass 
stompin’ on — dang! — my hat! 

cantankerous coot
the ol’ cowboy won’t remove
his hat for haircut
flippin’ fat flapjacks
sizzlin’ sausages, scramblin’ eggs
steamin’ coffee …  heaven

leather old and worn
spurs dull, rope smooth, hat felt stained
sharp eye for trouble

noise! cluckin’, quackin’,
barkin’, general ruckus…
good to be back home

alt:        chickens are cluckin’
              me ’n’ the little woman shuckin [1]
              good to be back home

tall in the saddle
you shore cain’t say for Shorty
unless he’s in it

chewin’ and spittin’
had to pass some time sittin’
lost three cows today

reckon I should come…
was a long time friend of mine…
stayed away too long

_____________________________________________
[1]  (corn... corn!... What were you thinkin’?!)
“sign here” the clerk said
hard-earned pay now my own spread
my ‘x’ marks the spot

work sweat fight spit cuss
cows ever’ which way but loose
Bar None brandin’ time

quiet in the chute
out over up butt down ouch
rodeo rider

gone at crack of dawn
these ponies ready to run
after long snowstorm

he’s mounted… he’s off
still one foot in the stirrup…
patient pony waits

hands doin’ shooters
and pigs just doin’ their thing
both end up in mud

beans ’n’ beer all night
make musical interlude
and shitter stampede 

a mean bronc he is
don’t cotton to no greenhorns
old hands let him be

redeye in mornin’
young cowhand takes no warnin’
world’s longest traildrive

kicked up a ruckus
so bad… can’t even pull string
on tobacco bag

naked in her arms
old buckaroo died smilin’…
with hat and boots on

under Tornado
Smithy’s shakin’ and sweatin’
new shoe… gulp… don’t fit!

nearsighted blacksmith
more times he bangs on his thumb
better’s the target
© Copyright 1970 through 2017 - David Alan Foster - All rights reserved.