At a coffee shop in Colorado Springs
Over a cup to shake out the daze,
I pondered the fate of western things,
And the downfall of cowboy ways.
I'd trailered my dapple an hour ago
By now he should be back to sleep.
I signaled for one last cup to go
My mood was too dark and deep.
As I walked to my truck I was dreaming
Of days when a man's word was pure gold
And our silver screen heroes were seeming
To win our hearts with the stories they told.
Had I somehow been sold this confusion?
In this world of traffic jams and being late?
Well, I'd promised myself a transfusion
Of open spaces with my horse for a date.
We drove out to the high lonesome
The air's coolness hung thick and sweet.
The cathedral like silence was awesome
A fog made the place seem complete.
On my pony the years didn't matter
A watch would have been out of place.
Behind me a world mad as hatters
Ahead was just wide-open space.
I watched a pair of eagles fly slow turns,
Past majestic mountains on a cobalt sky
And anyone that's ever seen this learns
It's a scene that can make you cry.
I saw a stream as pure as snow
And watched the willows bend
Against the waters as they flow
To an ocean where they'll end.
It seemed like a hundred years ago,
Or a thousand years, or maybe two
In this unspoiled place of peace I know
Into the grand old west I'd flew
I had to laugh at my foolish fear
Of the end of the old western ways
They live on in places such as here
Where the deer and the antelope plays
So whenever I get to missing the west
And all of these things I have seen,
I'll climb on my horse, cause It's seen best
On a four legged time machine.
Chance claims to have been butchering poetry in his own way since about 1995.
He was a wrangler by the age of 17, is part Cherokee and lives just north of Fort Worth, Texas. His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
I lost my friend a year ago.
The Good Lord called him away.
Never knew his name, though I called him Bo.
See, he couldn’t talk, but he had plenty to say.
Reckon you know the type I’m speakin’ of,
always quick to pitch in when you’re down.
Often he was like a gift from above,
like one night that we rode into town.
You don’t get many chances to kick up your heels
When you’re ridin’ up strays on the range.
In fact, the high point of life is your meals
and a trip into town can feel strange.
A few hands of poker and a drink or two
was the plan that I’d had for that night.
But a brown eyed beauty, name of Sue
Had me mixed up and rarin’ to fight.
Snarlin’ at the patrons of that old saloon,
whether they’d done me a slight or not,
I was a ruttin’ buck, singing loves’ tune
And mostly my temper was hot.
My friend Bo could see my frustration
as that saloon gal went to another.
And I was thinkin’ of that man’s castration,
I mean I was gonna hurt that sucker!
Outside old Bo commenced to wobble fast,
and he fell to the ground like a brick.
I was believin’ each breath was his last.
It pained me to see Bo so sick.
He looked kinda peek-ed, weak, and in pain
as he stood to his feet with my help.
I knew it had to hurt, but he didn’t complain,
But, if he could talk, he’d have let out a yelp!
You know I plumb forgot about Sue
in light of my friend’s failin’ health.
You see, Bo he’s cagey. He knew what to do.
And a good friend is better than wealth
Bo played his part almost perfect that night
So I lit out with him for our spread,
soon town was far out of sight
so Bo returned from the dead!
I knew that Bo had me playin’ the fool
but my sense had took roost in my head,
and fakin’ a sickness was his only tool
to keep me from ending up dead.
Well, good folks, that was one event,
and there’s a hundred more if there’s ten,
that Old Bo was the one to pay the rent
to save my sorry old skin.
Until that day them Davis’ boys came
With a killin’ look on their faces.
I reckon my eyes looked the same,
to be seen from both of their places.
It had taken a while for the feud to ignite
over some money I’d won fair and square.
That day wearin’ guns we decided to fight,
Maybe we’d die and I didn’t care!
I was shamed, they’d called me a cheat
and a low down snake and such,
and said other things I wouldn’t repeat.
I never liked them Davis’ boys much.
Well you know them boys was no damn good
And then rather than fight a fair fight,
they shot old Bo, right where he stood
like dyin’ was his only right.
Shootin’ my friend just to hurt me
Made me angry as I’ve ever been.
I slapped leather and squeezed off three,
Won’t have trouble with them Davis boys again.
My friend died in my arms that day
As the sheriff took charge of my fate.
But old sheriff Barnes was heard to say,
“When they killed Bo, the Devil’s their date! “
In the eyes of the law I was free
to return to the life I was livin’
but Bo was owed something by me
for all of the help he had given.
I put on the clothes of a preacher
and gave up my wild livin’ ways.
See Old Bo, … my horse, ….was my teacher.
Didn’t know he’s a horse, did you say ? ? ? ?
Chance claims to have been butchering poetry in his own way since about 1995.
He was a wrangler by the age of 17, is part Cherokee and lives just north of Fort Worth, Texas. His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
Growin' up in the north Arizona heat,
Makes you question the way things seem.
At mid-day the dust devils come out to play,
as the sunlight cooks your dreams.
Scratchin' a livin' out of dust and rock,
And some steers that the buzzards won't peck,
Days run together like the shifting sands.
Though some you'll remember (if you bother to check)
Days like Christmas or your birthdays stand out,
or those days that you drew your pay,
some you can recall from your childhood,
Across time I recollect one day.
You see, Pa and me was ridin' or range
in our used up Studebaker truck.
We were makin' good time time and spittin' out dust,
And mostly frettin' and cussin' our luck.
When a site seldom seen in the high desert air,
But a site that will fill you with dread,
like the spout of a whale from under the hood
heat bleedin, our old truck dead.
Pa said, "We have to find some shade."
and "A bucket of water won't hurt."
"Wear your hat down over your eyes."
And "Roll down them sleeves on your shirt."
I knew Pa was nothin' but edgey
and worried about this dang fix
cause it was twenty miles to good water,
and livin' and deserts don't mix.
Well this is the lot of a cowboy's life
And the August heat is tough, too.
It's the price you pay to earn your stay
in the land up the chimney's flue.
So we lit out to find us some shade
In the general direction of home,
Just me and my Pa walkin' hand in hand,
Walkin' far under a brutal blue dome.
It seems like clouds don't come to the desert much.
I wish I could teach 'em that trick.
My juices flowed out and into my clothes
And I commenced to feelin' sick.
With hopes fadin' fast on that day long ago
As the blister glowed deep on our skin,
Pa said, " Cheer up." And "It ain't far now."
"We'll be home for supper with our kin ! "
But Pa knew we weren't gonna make it
back home for supper tonight.
Maybe not for any more cookin'
with nothin' but desert in sight.
The heat starts to steal your hopes,
and a good piece of your mind as well.
So the story I'm here to tell you,
maybe truth or a mirage of that Hell.
Me and Pa believe and we always will
Of that man that was ever so kind,
An Indian man behind the wheel
of the truck we had left behind.
He opened the door, hopped out of our truck,
said " I'll bet you've been looking for this.
I was amazed just to see our truck run,
without any hint of a hiss.
Pa said, " Mister we're beholdin "
and " How did you get her to run? "
The Indian's left eye winked as he said,
" With my Medicine, that's how it's done. "
He called his self a Shaman
I didn't know what that could be.
I thought he must be an Angel,
or a personal savior for me.
The temperature gauge was normal,
The gas gauge read full, too.
In fact everything about our truck
Seemed a little too nice and new !
When we turned to thank, our new found friend,
and we looked both this way and that
He was long gone though we could see for miles.
Don't ask me to explain that.
Back home we checked the truck's water
And she was parched as dry as a bone.
We put water in but it ran out again,
So we decided to leave it alone.
The temperature gauge still reads normal
And the gas gauge always shows full.
It's now been nearly nineteen years
Since a tire or spark plug's been pulled.
It's a constant reminder of our Indian friend.
I'd have thanked him if I'd had my druthers.
He sure did save the day that day
And he taught me to help others.
I know that I'm just a cowboy
And do what the cowboys all do,
but ever since I met that man,
I've been a little bit Indian, too.
Growin' up in the north Arizona heat
Makes you question the way things seem.
At mid-day the dust devils come out to play,
As the sunlight cooks your dreams.
Chance claims to have been butchering poetry in his own way since about 1995.
He was a wrangler by the age of 17, is part Cherokee and lives just north of Fort Worth, Texas. His poetry is also available on cowboypoetry.com.
High Country Communications