
Horatian Ode* to the Horseman
Living to tell what the Lord has done Ps 118:17
Horatian Ode* to the Horseman
Son of the Legend?
7/’96 read at Grandmother’s funeral 9/11/’96
As old hands struggle to remember,
Young ones try not to forget
While bustin’ brush to cut their trails,
They ponder horseback- jet to jet.
The values of a generation
Past live on past lives ahead.
Philosophies live longer than
The personalities now dead.
For “As a man thinks…”in his heart
The man will prove indeed to be;
His children will reflect his ways.
His wisdom walking all will see.
If flow’rs of grass bloom in his heart,
His offspring soon will bear the seeds
That love the land, the horse, the cow
On through the howl of corporate greed.
Taught that a man can stand up straight,
Talk plain and look you in the eye,
To seal a deal with a bare handshake;
His word’s still good when times are dry.
To judge a horse, look at his feet,
The value of a cow- her teeth,
Best land is shown wrap’d in a drought,
A man’s word shows the man beneath.
From timberline to desert floor,
From Quakie cold to Cholla heat,
The buckaroo to cowboy band
All seem to march with same heartbeat
In leather proven, hidden mettle
Buried ‘neath a wooden cross,
They tamed a land, became a legend.
Children mourn’d, then fill’d the loss.
Yet, what was needed to obtain
Will be required to preserve.
The land cares for the character
That cares for land as it deserves.
So, in the nightwind’s harshest seasons
Hear the land’s soft, whisper’d question:
Is there a son of the legend?
Does their wisdom ride again?
Ropin’ Lessons – A True Story
Boys we were then, ages 12 and 10,
Brother Rick’s first year out using twine.
With lessons to learn, my saddle had turned
But the calf I had snared bedded fine.
My cinch was too slack, so I straightened the kack
The lariat tied fast to the tree.
With the saddle upright, the latigo pulled tight,
With fresh wind, the calf tried to flee.
While I’m still on the ground, with no help around,
That idiot rimfired my mount.
That pony did fly, snagged calf bounced so high
All his feet in the air I could count.
Durned calf in the sky, I’d figger he’d die
As my horse headed straight for Rick’s.
A’leadin’ his catch in, he soon lost his grin-
Loose horses and horn knots don’t mix.
‘Fore Rick could get down, my horse wrapped him ‘roun’
He got tangled in death-trap noose.
Roy Slagle dove in, riskin’ his own skin
With belt-knife, started cuttin’ Rick loose.
Now ropin’ I might, my cinch is near tight.
Even accuse me of a dallywelt.
Won’t tie to a horse I can’t trust, of course,
While I carry a knife on my belt.
3/8/95