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Cowboy Poetry
The rodeo road is a long one; the life sometimes dangerous and often monotonous. Humor is a common antidote. Here are three poems penned by real rodeo folks who know, commenting on relationships between partners, spouses, and a poet and his audience.
BOGUS BUCKLE
As a young header,
but aspiring still,
I roped with a heeler
with twice of my skill.
If we were flagged out
or didn’t do fine
I couldn’t blame Bronc
’cause the fault would be mine.
But I ducked one, one day,
to be six flat or less
and Bronc threw a loop
that was mostly a mess.
I mentioned to him
as I rode to the gate
that I had been thinking
and planning of late—
I’d take part of the money
from calves that I sold
and buy me a buckle
of silver and gold.
“Champion Header at Salinas”
the engraving would say;
I just may attract
better heelers that way.
Bronc never paused
as he was no dunce.
“I think you should try it.
It’s bound to work once!”
—Rodney Nelson, Almont, North Dakota
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
He didn’t know I’d come back home and thought he was alone
and I couldn’t help but overhear him talking on the phone.
He was talking to a friend of his, a roping buddy “Fred,”
and I was getting quite upset from things that I heard said.
It was obvious another gal was what they talked about
and the solid bond between us was suddenly in doubt.
He said, “You’ll think I’m braggin’ and I don’t mean to gloat,
but she’s really quite the looker!” …then a lump came in my throat.
If he’d known that I was listening, I’m sure he’d harbor guilt
as he went right into detail telling Fred how well she’s built;
how she likes to rub against him as he pats her on the thigh
and he knows she loves him too from the soft look in her eye.
I’m thinking she’s a “go-go” from the moves that he described,
how she swings around the poles and you ought to see her slide.
And it was plain disgusting to hear him talk so silly
telling Fred how nuts he was about this red hot little filly.
By then I’d had enough, thought I’d make my presence known.
I’d let him know I’d heard, and his secret had been blown.
When he saw how much it hurt me, he’d know how much I care;
then it dawned on me this “girlfriend” was only his new mare!
—Yvonne Hollenbeck, Clearfield, South Dakota
BALDERDASH!
There should be warning labels the fans can plainly see
On this avalanche of balderdash called cowboy poetry.
I been hooked, bitten, kicked but there never was a time
My wrecks had any rhythm and they damn sure didn’t rhyme.
The fact is, lack of rhythm is what’s apt to cause a wreck—
If something throws your timing off a guy can break his neck.
It’s all just a bunch of hooey, it’s a total waste of my time
To expect a true rendition that would even vaguely rhyme.
The sound effects, for instance, of foul noises that’s released.
And even if they did rhyme they’d embarrass man and beast.
What rhymes with HHMMPH?—a common noise when wrecked;
Then that steady stream of cusswords would be outlawed I suspect.
There is no truth or substance in these wild ghastly tales;
Just expressionless transparencies of life out on the trails.
Tonight at the bar I’ll recite you a gen-ewe-wine cowboy poem.
Take my advice, it’s not very nice—leave the women and sissies at home.
—Pat Richardson, Merced, California
End of the Trail
Ronnie Rossen—“Punch” to his friends—was bull riding champion of the world in 1961. His attraction to the rodeo arena was a strong one, and lasted well past his prime. Bob Schild, a cowboy and poet who traveled the rodeo road with Rossen, writes of their relationship and the result of his friend’s final ride in an old-timers’ competition in Colorado.
RIDE FOR NINETY-ONE
Free-spoken words one yesteryear, before Punch journeyed on
Left doubt to crowd our heart-to-heart: were bulls or we the pawn?
Through foamy glass time’s bubbles passed from ev’ning into dawn.
The hours between exposed to me the hollow spot in Ron.
“A deed,” says he, “impresses me; not windy, boastful words.
The testy toros I’ve been through ain’t found in dairy herds.
They add up like pulsing feathers in skies blocked out by birds.
I never aimed to conquer them for seconds, fourths, or thirds.
“I beat the best I ever seen, from Butler, Steiner, Todd.
I’d set my mind to get the bell, then take my wraps and nod.
I topped the greats the business owned, then dodged them on the prod,
’Cause I never liked man-eaters a-batterin’ my bod’.
“But there’s one last goal remaining—forever tempting me.
I earned a ninety-one on Spec...Showman earned ninety-three.
Spec always was the tougher ox so he’s the goal you see.
My pride lacks one more ninety-one to let my soul fly free.”
Punch faced his great obsession, determined he’d not fail;
Hand-warmed the rope and nod the head, beware the greasy tail.
A hoof, a horn, unplanned abort—abruptly ends the trail,
A rip instead, a gush of red, a cowboy’s face turned pale.
God penned his epitaph in full before the day was done.
The final score on Ron’s last ride—a blazing ninety-one.
Punch fulfilled his great ambitions. The life-long race was run—
One balmy autumn afternoon.... The year was ninety-one!
—Bob Schild, Blackfoot, Idaho
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