He reminded me of Peter Ustinov,
In “We’re No Angels”, with Bogie and Aldo Ray,
Each time he looked at me he was repeating that one line,
“Oh, it’s that delicious fat woman from yesterday!”
One thing that I don’t tolerate,
In children or a horse,
Is excessive use of one’s teeth,
It’s the rule I strictly enforce.
But he would lurk behind the tool shed,
Laying in wait for his chance,
To take a hefty nip or two,
From the seat of my ample pants.
He always took his nibbles,
When my husband didn’t see,
And like a fool I let my husband
Lull me into a false sense of security.
He said the Stud was full of spirit,
And I was just misunderstanding,
The horse only wanted my attention,
He was just a little demanding.
And like a MORON I listened,
And I learned a lesson hard,
On why you trust your gut instincts,
And never drop your guard.
A month went by and he kept in check,
His over-sized pearly-whites,
So confidently I went about
My feeding chores one night.
That day, The Demon decided,
I’d make a tasty snack,
And while I was unlocking the corral gate,
He bit me, in the back.
I’ve been in a bad car wreck and had two kids,
And I cringe when I remember the pain of those nights,
But I plumb forgot all about childbirth,
From the searing pain of that bite.
I’m not real sure what happened next,
I just know I was totally un-composed,
‘Cause all of a sudden I was standing there,
With a handful of that Stud’s nose.
I had my thumb and fingers in his nostrils,
And I was squeezing with all my might,
And it must have had the desired effect,
‘Cause his eyes were filled with fright,
I backed him across the corral,
And right on in to a stall,
I figured it was my moment,
So, I began to squall...
I yelled at him like a wayward child,
I brought his legitimacy into question,
And all the while I shook his head,
Back and forth, like a piston.
I told him he’d be sorry,
And that I’d get even good,
Then one more time, just for good measure,
I disparaged his parent-hood.
At this point, my husband’s convinced,
I went entirely insane,
But that’s not true, or there’d have been
A changing of that horse’s name...
He would have become Alpo,
Or possibly Old Roy,
But I realized I had too much invested,
In the training of the old boy.
You see, I can be down right reasonable,
When given the time to calm down,
Especially when I remember I make all the decisions,
When my husband is not around.
So, now the Stud’s a Gelding,
And his whole attitude has changed,
‘Cause that same afternoon I called the Vet.,
And had his anatomy re-arranged.
Now on our place, there are a few rules,
But they’re just not that hard to follow,
Number one, is only make promises you will keep,
Don’t speak words that are hollow...
Number two, is clean your room,
And hang up your pajamas...
And number three, is use your head,
And never, for any reason, ever bite Mamma.
Debra Coppinger Hill, of Chelsea, Oklahoma, lives the rural life she writes about. As the full-time ranch manager of the 4DH, she draws on everyday experiences, people and family members to give her poetry it’s first hand feel. She and her family raise Doc O’lena bred cutting horses, and Brahman cross cattle, as well as bermuda hay. Her love of the West comes from her Grandfathers and Great-grandfathers who told the tales of Texas, Cowboy life and the stories of the Cherokees.
Her cassette “Cattle Calls” was nominated by the Academy of Western Artists for Best Cowboy Poetry Cassette of 1998, where it made the Top Five List. In addition to her poetry, Debra is a songwriter and bead artist and
performs with her partner, Gerry Allen in The Outriders. It is their goal to share and preserve the Spirit of the West through poetry, song and
education.
Debra is active in the Western Music Association, the Academy of Western Artists and the Texas Cowboy Poets Association. She is a member and
current Director of Promotions and Publicity for the International Charley
Russell Western Heritage Association. Her column, “Ridin’ Drag” appears in their publication, the Cowboy Gazette.
Debra Has had the good fortune to share the stage with Red Steagall, Gerry Allen, Michael Martin Murphey, Jean & Gary Prescott, Fred Hargrove & Paul Davidson.
She has had her work appear in Rope Burns and on the Internet at www.cowpoke.org and Cattle-Call e-zine. She was recently featured in the new Southwest Whispers book, “Cowboys Are Part Human”. Her own book is scheduled to be out in the fall of 1999, along with a second tape, with partner Gerry Allen. Her work is available form Yellow Slicker Productions, Rt 2 Box 3800, Chelsea, Ok. 74016. Her poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
Rocky Mountain memories
are painting up the air.
The painting’s called “Wyoming”;
and memories paint me there.
The Yellowstone’s majestic falls…
I see them wash the canyon walls
with water plunging from on high,
then spewing mist into the sky.
Pastel colors sunshine kissed,
I see the rainbows on the mist.
I’m western-born and western-bred;
fed on trout and crisp corn-bread.
I’d like to cast my fishing line,
and watch a rainbow trout
leap up and snap my favorite fly-
then whip the line about.
It’s never really mattered much
if I was short on fishing skill.
With God’s own glory all around,
my eyes have always caught my fill.
I’m western-born and western-bred-
fed on elk and bannock bread.
When memory paints the Rockies,
it paints a living prayer,
whose sheer magnificence proclaims,
“There is a God!” He’s there!
The Tetons beckon! Spring is near.
It’s time to pack the camping gear.
It’s time to spread my wings and soar
into those distant peaks once more.
Michael "Coyote" Schroll is a poet from Cheyenne, Wyoming. He is available for readings and performances and can be reached at his web site: http://www.cowboypoems.com/. His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
Michael "Coyote" Schroll is a poet from Cheyenne, Wyoming. He is available for readings and performances and can be reached at his web site: http://www.cowboypoems.com/. His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
Some say it's courage. Others grit.
Others call it The Cowboy Way.
Why do bull riders pick themselves up
And get on another day?
They get stepped on with a ton of feet
And slammed with spinning rumps,
Gored with horns of all shapes and sizes
And run over like so many speed bumps;
They get hung up and jerked around
When they buck off over their hand,
Kicked by wildly flying hooves,
Even hurt by the dirt when they land.
So why do they come back time and again;
Look death in the eye and never blink?
Is it guts? Is it character? Is it bravery?
No. Amnesia, is what I think.
High Country Communications