Ethics and values making their way down the generations, the complexities of married life on a ranch, irreverence toward religious convention, and reverence for the Lord’s creations round out this issue’s selections.

Selected by guest poetry editor Rod Miller - continued

ONE-GUN SALUTE

It’s the Fourth of July in a small Texas church,
fulla cowboys, their wives, an’ their kids.
All are dressed up in their Sunday-best clothes,
an’ the cowpokes’ve took off their lids.

The preacher’s up front, jist a talkin’ away
an’ the menfolks is startin’ to yawn.
Outside, the sun’s shinin’, a slight breeze is up,
an’ birds are at play on the lawn.

Five-year-old Billy Bob Miller is there,
yawnin’ like the growed-up men.
He stretches, and shoves both hands in ’is jeans,
an’ a idea occurs to him then.

He’d fergot that he’d brought his new cap gun along
t’ help celebrate Fourth-of-July.
He knows that it’s wrong, but he takes the thing out,
to give it jist one little try.

He points that gun to the ceiling and squeezes
the trigger, an’ squeezes again.
Now, I guess you know ever’body wakes up,
includin’ the sleepy ol’ men.

Then Billy Bob’s ma takes ahold of his hand
an’ his pistol, it falls to the floor.
She yanks him up offa that hard, wooden bench
an’ heads with him straight fer the door.

Some folks is a-laughin’ an’ others is stunned.
Imagine, a cap gun in church!
The pastor sez, “You have my blessin’ Miz Miller,
t’ give ’im a taste of the birch.”

The chief usher sez, “Now don’t whip the young man.
I’ll explain, if you’ll lend me yer ears.
This boy scared the Devil outta more folks jist now
than our pastor in twenty-two years!”

—Hal Swift, Sparks, Nevada

A LITTLE BIT OF SHADE

Gets weary in the saddle Lord
on such a day as this.
The sun so hot above my head
that life can scarce exist.

Though it may seem a little thing
compared to all You’ve made,
I sure do thank you for this one—
a little bit of shade.

This tree out here ain’t ’posed to be
where none have grown before,
it seems a blessing to me now
too plain to be ignored.

’Cause nothin’ I could want more Lord
than respite in this glade,
a cowboy’s own oasis in
a little bit of shade.

I know I got to get along,
them cattle need me too.
I sure appreciate this time
I got to spend with You.

I’ll see You down the road again
before the sunset fades.
I’ll look for You as always ’neath
A little bit of shade.

—Rod Nichols, Missouri City, Texas
(Editor’s Note: Shortly after granting permission last December to publish his poem, Rod Nichols died unexpectedly. We include this verse in his memory and trust the poet has found his place in the shade.)

End of the Trail

History is proof that “gone” isn’t really gone. Things that go before leave echoes, and if we listen, we not only learn about those who precede us, but about ourselves as well. Hear what poet Mike Motoux learned from listening to echoes from the past.

SPIRITS STILL REMAIN

There are places tucked away from the sun and wind and rain
Where the homes are long abandoned but the spirits still remain.
They say that when the moon is full and the wind lies calm,
You can sense the presence of a people now a long time gone

I’ve seen the art that someone pecked into the varnished rock.
Found broken shards of painted vases, bowls, and maybe pots.
Peered through windows into rooms where once the children played.
Stood outside the kivas where they say the people prayed…. I don’t know.

And there are cabins on the prairie that only cowboys know;
Log ruins lost and so remote that no one ever goes.
They say some family built a ranch entirely by hand
And toughed it out for quite a while till bankers took the land.

I’ve seen the tiny shacks with the sod roofs all caved in.
Walked along the old corrals where the horses would have been.
Kicked around the dump heap, looking for some sign
That proved the ranch was something long ago, in a better time…. I don’t know.

And I can’t help but wonder about the last of all to leave—
Are they the ones whose presence lingers now for eternity?
Did they love a place so much that their memories never die?
When the moon is full and the wind lies calm is it them that I hear sigh?

One thing seems clear when you find yourself in such a lonely place
They made something out of nothing, and that’s damn hard to erase.
So if their spirits cling awhile to these outposts time forgot
Their souls have earned the right to claim what you and I can not.

—Mike Moutoux, Pinos Altos, New Mexico

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