October 2014 Issue- Week 6
November 9, 2014
Let’s keep Rodney Nelson in our thoughts this week, he ventured out for a much needed surgery. Red Dashboard will also be publishing his newest book, Words For The Deed. He is a fine westen observer and poet!
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It’s been busy around the pub office since we began 1 year ago October with publishing authors poetry and flash fiction books.
We would love to see some western genre manuscripts come out way, since there are so many of you submitting to this ezine.
See our submission guidelines at http://www.reddashboard.com for more information, dates are Oct 1st – Feb 28th.
Enjoy this months previous issues 1, 2, 3, 4 & 5!
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It takes a certain kind of person to step into the ring with wild animals, a certain kind of person to love it enough to get close for a good shot! And we’ve are fortunate to have a number of rodeo submissions come our way this summer! Keep a scrollin’ on down and enjoy! Click on photos to enlarge for a closer look…
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My name is Chrystal Berche, I am a writer, photographer and artist living in North Central Iowa. The following photographs were taken at the fourth of July celebration in my town of Osage Iowa, at the rodeo. I have included five, per the submission guidelines, however if there is anything particular you like about these and wish to see more of, I have well over a thousand images taken on that way.
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Arroyo Al on Loyalty
Through the doors came a yellin’, “What’s tied to that thar post?”
“Ne’er have I seen such crowbait; I thought it was a ghost!”
I downed my pint and at once that youngin’ I engaged,
That thar is my ol’ pony, it matters not that he is aged.
For we have ridden through snow and rain and that ragin’ sun,
To him thrice o’er I owe my life for outpacin’ the blazin’ gun.
O’course, ol’ fella, he’s a beaut – he said it with such sass,
And in His honor, with one hook, I laid him on his ass.
Nicholas R. Larche is currently attending the University of Detroit Mercy School of Law. While native to Rochester, New York and a current resident of the greater Detroit metropolitan area, Nicholas has set his eyes westward and will be relocating to Colorado this May. An adept researcher, Nicholas has recently accepted an offer for publication with the Seton Hall Legislative Journal for his work involving an interstate comparison of sex trafficking laws. In addition to his academic studies, Nicholas enjoys writing flash fiction and poetry. His work has been published or is forthcoming in The Literary Hatchet, From the Depths, Penny Ante Feud, Superstition [Review], and Drunk Monkeys.
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THE VALLEY OF NOT A SHADOW OF IT
a narrow rain cloud brought the pink
of sundown into one draw of
the valley and the ravens were
at work around your camp until
oh holy night which you would not
have given a thought to if you
had not heard drunken caroling
a mile off down there at the wells
and you could see the building with
a piano bar no doubt and
a tower sign in red and white
you could not read from where you were
but the unwindy desert air
let the singing carry and now
you got to sleep to it and with
an odor of wet mineral
maybe weed even though the four-
minute rain had long gone away
and the stars were brightly shining
when you drove into sunup on
oh holy day the building with
no doubt a piano bar looked
hung over but somewhere within
the revelers would be waking
to pine in sin and error and
the ravenhood were up meanwhile
and you could not have named a few
of the colors the valley had
begun to take on as you rode
your way in clarity out of
the valley of not a shadow
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The Photographer’s Bio:
Chrystal Berche dabbles, lots, and somewhere in those dabbles blossoms ideas that take shape into images. Many of her current pieces of artwork start out as three minute gesture drawings and eventually get paired with some sort of still life photography and a lot of playing in photoshop. She loves to take pictures, especially out in the woods, where she can sit on a rock or a log and wait quietly, jotting notes for stories until something happens by. A free spirit, Chrystal digs in dirt, dances in rain and chases storms, all at the whims of her muses.
October 2014 Issue- Week 5
November 4, 2014
“Better late than never!” our managing editor Ms. Stelling says. It’s been busy around the pub office since we began 1 year to the date publishing authors poetry and flash fiction books. And we look forward to more manuscript submission for next fall! We would love to see some western genre manuscripts come out way, since there are so many of you submitting to this ezine.
See our submission guidelines at http://www.reddashboard.com for more information, dates are Oct 1st – Feb 28th.
Enjoy this months issues 1, 2, 3 & 4!
‘Gypsy Colts Winter Day’ photo by Linda Woods
“They are two year old Gupsy Vanner Colts at Magic Gypsy Ranch.”
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Whining Dog Road
Bumpy and narrow the gravel road
Twisted up the mountain
A red streak like a rusted spiral staircase.
No guardrail gave false assurance.
No warning signs marked the way.
The skidding tires on hairpin turns
Shushed the already quiet forest.
Only a lone raven glided overhead
Cackling caution.
From the back of the truck
Came a whimper and whine
As the dog registered his unhappiness.
The driver chuckled, “That dog must have to go.”
In a wide spot the truck halted,
The driver released the dog.
But, the passenger and the dog both knew
Nature’s call wasn’t the reason for the stop.
It was the wild ride on Whining Dog Road.
Donnaa Meyer lives in Prescott, Arizona with her husband and dog. She’s been a professional storyteller since 1980. Recently, having been exploring poetry as a vehicle for story. Donna is a graduate of Southern Illinois University with a Masters in Instructional Technology. Now retired, she was a children’s librarian for twenty-five years.
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Coyotes and Cowgirls
for Buffy St. Marie
1
Yes, the occasional rock was tossed,
but they were free to go and never left,
coyotes of the sidelong glances
and sidling steps and delicate paws.
2
No yellow eyes in my headlights tonight
but The Morning Call’s full of corroborated tales
3
Stories of the breasts of cowgirls
whose dresses rode over their calves.
More stories of the miners’ daughters
and sad parental sieves and pans.
4
And on her hip, a silver dagger.
That’s why I’m yodeling cowboy songs.
Ken Fifer’s poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Ploughshares, and other journals. Sometimes he wishes he were a cowboy.
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A Prairie Frost
Woke up this morning to a prairie frost.
Saw warm breath rising through cold air.
Rolled a bedroll in an oilcloth stiff with cold.
Hard frozen ground
and the crunch of frosted grass.
Heard the message and felt the change in the season.
Thought of warmer mornings in southern climes;
of lush evenings on coral shores.
Stood up, looked east into the rising sun.
Breathed deep the cold clear air.
Turned into the wind,
let it brush aside the years,
and clear my mind.
Rode in this morning through a prairie dawn.
This was a gift I could not ignore.
Stopped and spread my arms
across a golden arch.
Felt the sun push back the chill.
Felt blood flow.
Heard birdsong.
And from the Dawn came clarity
in that slow reveal.
Vision and understanding
not from a rising star
but from the turn of a wheel.
Rode home this morning through a prairie night.
Only thing bigger than a prairie sky.
Reached up to touch infinity.
Saw my hand washed by eternity.
Starlight from all of time.
All moments, in one moment.
All places, in one place.
All my life – an instant.
All my travels, home.
Time is not a prison
The future is no escape.
We are…All…Here…Now.
Andy Kerr-Wilson is a member of “LiPS”; a rural slam poetry collective in Lanark County, Ontario, Canada. After a lifetime of writing poetry in his head, he began performing and publishing 5 years ago and competed at the 2011, 2012 and 2013 Canadian National Slam competitions. His published works reflect his 40 years as a wilderness guide and a love of horses and back country rides. When not riding in the ring or on trails, he and his wife Nancy, live ‘off the grid’ on 9 acres of rock and trees and swamp in a self-built passive solar home.
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An Old West Hymn
Drag back his body alone and dead.
Sky bleeds dawn come a holsterin’ gun–
When he lassos moon by deed of dread.
Drag back his body alone and dead.
He shall see no stars from shallow bed!
Hunt sovereign beast, and if low he run:
Drag back his body–alone and dead.
Sky bleeds dawn come a holsterin’ gun.
Gabe Russo recently graduated from the University of North Carolina School of the Arts with a BFA in film-making. His films have played at various film festivals in Florida and North Carolina. Gabe enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, and screenplays, and currently reside in Melbourne, Florida. He is also also an avid John Ford cinephile.
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October 2014 Issue- Week 4
October 29, 2014
Enjoy this months issues 1, 2, & 3!
Artwork of ‘Texas Pepe and Clyde’ by Leroy Trussell
TEXAS PEPE AND CLYDE
TEXAS PEPE AND CLYDE
There comes ol’ Texas Pepe,
ridin’ his rugged tough Longhorn steer.
Caught him over yonder uh’ while back in the’ cactus and mesquite.
was headin’ uh’ cross the river, into the Wild Frontier.
Ol Clydes back, there ain’t no comparin’,
for a aii day ride.
Across the prairie uncaring,
just Texas Pepe and ol’ Clyde.
Clyde was just uh’ wild little calf,
when ol’ Texas Pepe came along.
Twas uh’ kind thought on Pepes behalf,
for Pete found him in uh’ wild Texas sand storm, blowin’ strong.
No halter upon his head,
just a pull on the horn,
An’ uh few kind words said,
across the prairie, never to forlorn.
As they go, Clyde tins to browse,
Pepe lays back and takes a nap.
When to encounter cows, ol’ Clyde will arouse.
Pepe just pulls on his earflap.
Clyde ain’t much on the run,
but he’s taken Texas Pepe many miles.
When to hit uh’ prairie town, people have a lot of fun,
leaving the folk’s there laughing, and Texas Pepe in smiles.
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DINNER AT UNCLE BILL’S
I was never
a real, horse-riding cowboy.
Just a hand.
Alfafa and prairie
hay hauling, fixing fence with
a ride-along,
wearing Converse tennis
shoes chasing black angus cows.
and calves towards
chutes, up into
long red cattle trucks, hauled
across the Kaw.
Then I had
the real cowboy’s accorded treat
following calf castration.
My job then
was to toss calves, spread
their hind legs,
watch scrotums’ emptied,
eat 100 mountain oysters fondued
with Uncle Bill
Raymond Hall is a Kansas writer who loves to spin tales and poetry about his past work on the range.
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A Little Longer Than The Moment
Dang. I left my camera in my other shirt
I say to myself like a tourist.
Wire-cutters I brought, a hammer,
a shovel, an iron bar,
and a coffee can full of nails I’d salvaged.
An extra pair of gloves. Water.
But a camera hadn’t made the list for months.
Not like there wasn’t room in the truck.
Plenty of space even for some pencils,
a lined pad or old faded receipts that could
still take a mark. I could have written something down.
Why, not even two weeks ago I saw the biggest snake
I’d ever encountered coiled up and around a post,
his head as pitted and gravelly as old adobe
resting flat on top, impassive as a mummy.
That would have been a picture. Or at least a good poem.
I’ve seen hawks fight to exhaustion over rabbits.
I’ve felt the wind blowing so hard
it embedded mesquite tines like bullets in the side of the truck.
I should have taken a picture of that.
I should have taken a picture of how many nails
a post can hold. Maybe I should have written about
how when the fence wire is tight enough it sings
a real low note. A good fence has to be at least that tight.
I’m sure I have a camera somewhere. Maybe tomorrow
I will at least put a pencil and a notepad in the truck.
I have left enough blood and sweat on this landscape.
I am no longer a tourist.
Alan Birkelbach is a native Texan, was the 2005 Poet Laureate of Texas. His work has appeared in journals and anthologies such as Grasslands Review, The Langdon Review, and Concho River Review. He has nine collections of poetry.
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The Outback Prince
Was told a tale hard to believe, about what a bull did achieve
Seems he was the best in the land
Spoiled, well-fed and groomed, washed daily and even perfumed
Hide was perfect no brand
His owner made a friendly bet, one he could live to regret
His pampered bovine at the core
Had to survive real life, in the outback with its strife
Nothing less nothing more
Handlers had to wean it off, being fed outta a trough
It ate desert brush, plants and twigs
No more baths or massage, and live without its entourage
They’d see how it like it’s new digs
The outback was the bulls new home; it was dropped and left to roam
The bet was the bull won’t last a year
Had to find his own food, and assorted predators elude
Including the odd wild steer
A year passed and no one knew if the pampered bull made it through
The cattle were in to be tagged and cut
Cowboys on horses were talking, when a bull began to walking
It actually started to strut
That bull was running fast, to where those horses were amassed
When the lead head calmly dismounted
The others knew he had guts, but thought him definitely nuts
But he stood there ready to be counted
The bull kept coming, it was almost numbing
Like a scene from a bad show
As the bull started to close, a cloud of dust arose
It ended with them toe to toe
There was an expression of joy between the bull and cowboy
The pampered bovine survived
He looked good and lean, but hadn’t turned mean
You could say that bull even thrived
His owner had won the bet, and became richer yet
The amount finally became known
It was hard to understand he only won five grand
On one of the finest Bulls ever shown.
Geof ‘Pappa Mac’ Mackay is a storyteller, entertainer, and rodeo clown (as seen in photo above). His poetry and music has been seen and heard- June 2013 Performed Pincher Creek Gathering; June 2013 Performed Manitoba Stampede July 2013; Performed at a CD Release party Palomino Club August 2013; Chosen to Clown Heartland Rodeo Finals September 2013; Performed Souris River Bend Trail ride September 2013; Performed Maple Creek Gathering September 2013; MC’d and Performed Quinton Blair CD Release Party October 2013, and Competing Columbia River gathering, Cowboy Idol- April 2014. Recently his work was published in our Unbridled Anthology representing Cowboy Poetry Press.
October 2014 Issue- Week 3
October 19, 2014
Enjoy this months issues 1 & 2 before this!
‘Narcissus’ by Christopher Woods
Chris said that horses are often afraid of their own reflection.
Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Texas. He has published a novel, THE DREAM PATCH, a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. His photographs can
be seen in his gallery – http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/
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The Reclaimed Dogs
Our family deals in discarded dogs,
all wagging tails and toothy grins
and wide watching eyes.
When the coyotes howl at the moon
our little pack offers them a response –
a warbling stalemate, a cold war on a cold night.
The beginning of summer is heralded
by handfuls of dog wool
pulled out by metals combs and loving hands,
and summer is over
when big beds of hay beckon to creatures
bred for the arctic.
In the fall not a berry or crabapple escapes them.
Not even falling pecans are safe.
They know what fire is, and how
hot dogs and marshmallows are sometimes nearby.
In the spring, when life is blooming,
see four dogs on a perpetual Easter egg hunt.
Horses watch with weary glances, only half interested.
I know the seasons by fur
and hunts
and berries
and hay,
by the twitch of a nose and the wag of a tail,
because my family deals in discarded dogs.
Virginia “Jena” McLaurin– Originally from Georgia, Virginia “Jena” McLaurin is of Eastern Cherokee and European descent. She is currently pursuing a doctorate degree in the Anthropology Department at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, with a primary interest in stereotypes of Native American peoples. Virginia finds inspiration for her poetry in issues she has faced since childhood – difficult subjects such as identity and misconceptions of Native people – but also from nature, her family, and her work with Native communities and especially Native youth. She aspires to write poems that reflect both the difficulties of being Native as well as the beauty and depth of Native cultures, and she hopes that her poetry inspires readers to reflect on their own family heritage and cultures.
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GLEANING
by Dawn Schout
She searches the ravaged,
muddy field, the broken
stalks, red cobs stripped
of kernels. The black
cat follows. She has to go
out further than normal. Corn
is harder to find this year.
The husks she expects
to find full are empty.
Time is against her, the sun
a rotting pumpkin, sinking
behind leafless trees.
She is ready to give
up searching when
something rolls under her black
boot. She rips
off the dried, freckled
husk, the silk,
wet from muddy water.
Gold greets her.
Dawn Schout’s poetry has appeared in more than 50 publications, including *Cowboy Poetry Press*, *Dagda Publishing*, *Poetry Quarterly*, *Red River Review*, and *Tipton Poetry Journal*. She was nominated for Best of the Net in 2013. Her debut poetry collection, *Wanderlust*, is scheduled to be published in January 2015 by WordTech Editions.
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CRACKED
He finally died of heat prostration;
old desert rat lived in a shack 52 years
before a simple sprain led to a short fall
onto a midsized rock that broke
a thin hip riddled with Osteoporosis
and he goes from rat to snake in a desperate crawl
in search of away from the sun
with tiny cacti for water but nothing for shade
except his old imagination that finally wandered
back to childhood in the Twin Cities moving
Minneapolis to St. Paul to Minneapolis
and so on winter by dark, white winter
until even barely breathing baked dust and sand
he still remembers the frostbite of childhood
and graces the canyon with one final, cracked smile.
Hubert Hix was born and raised in Oklahoma. His Grandfather Hix moved there as a teenager around the time of the land rush. He now lives in Minnesota. Recent publications include poems in Lilliput Review, Under the Basho, and Right Hand Pointing.
What’s New In June
July 2, 2014
Well, we got our first anthology out of the gate, Unbridled. It seems to have been a success, as we get orders on a weekly basis. And we want to thank all the contributors for their wonderful submissions!
Clark Crouch
C.B. Anderson
Tony Magistrale
Julia Klatt Singer
Debra Meyer
Al Ortolani
Alison L. Thalhammer
Nina Romano
Telly McGaha
Tyson West
Rodney Nelson
Larry Spotted Crow Mann
Ray Sharp
Nicole Yurcaba
Tom Sheehan
Lily Goderstad
Kevin Heaton
Greg T. Miraglia
Chrystal Berche
Linda M. Hasselstrom
Dawn Schout
Luke MacLean
Vera Constantineau
Chris Ridenour
John J. Brugaletta
Leroy Trussell
Andrew Jarvis
Bandon Black
Robert Krenz
Christopher Ackerman
Andy Kerr-Wilson
Geoff (Poppa Mac) Mackay
John Strickland
Courtney Leigh Jameson
Della West
Smokey Culver
Merle Grabhorn
Elaine Shea
Jack Phillip Lowe
Laura Jean Schneider
Stanley M. Noah
Henry Marchand
Robert Penven
Julia R. Barrett
Paul Piatkowski
Gary Ives
Nathaniel Towers
M.V. Montgomery
JD DeHart
Dawn Schout
Without you, we would just be an empty field of dreams…
What’s next?
There will be a 2015 issue, submissions are open Oct 2014-Feb. 28th, 2015.
And…
We are accepting submission for our fall issue of CPP, deadline is October 1st!
email: editor@reddashboard.com
December Issue- Week 3
December 16, 2013
There will be no Week 4 this go round. It’s the holidays and frankly we need a few weeks to recover from all the reading we are doing for the launching of our Red Dashboard LLC Publishing company and its new books. If you are interested in sending us your manuscript to consider for a Summer/Fall 2014 publication, email us at editor@reddashboard.com with a query letter and 5 pieces of poetry, or 10 pages of your short story/desert dime novel material/work.
Yuma Arizona foot hills, taken by our Managing Editor EAS while on a quest for water…
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Boots Crunching on Gravel
“You-all been washing gold along the creek,” I said, “but you never stopped to think where those grains of gold started from. Well, I found and staked the mother lode, staked her from Hell to breakfast, and one day’s take will be more than you’ve taken out since you started work. I figure now I’ll dig me out a goodly amount of money, then I’ll sell my claims and find me some friends that aren’t looking at me just to see what I got.” ~From “The Courting of Griselda” – Louis L’Amour
We started at daybreak with two rifles and plenty of ammunition. We rode out of there with the stars still in the sky. We rode across country with no dust in the sky. All of a sudden two men rode up. Nobody had anything to say but by the looks of it – the pans, the picks, the sacks, they were hunting gold. I looked over at my buddy his name of Jeb and I gave a slight nod. He stared straight ahead eying the men his fingers crawling slowly to his holster. If we had time for words, I’d know what he’d say: “Colt, there’s no such thing as a gunman’s crouch. Might make you less of a target but you need to hold a gun so’s it’s comfortable to you.” The men held their heads high and nodded towards the creek. I softened the grip on my rifle. The odor of stale whiskey lingered in the air. Finally the older of the two lifts his hat up off his head and nods. The younger follows suit. Then Jeb. Then me. And we pass along the trail, everything unguarded.
LB Sedlacek’s poems have been published in publications such as “The Broad River Review,” “Third Wednesday,” “Heritage Writer,” “Circle Magazine,” “Scribe and Quill,” “The Hurricane Review,” and others.
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Behind The Grease Paint
Another performance over and his work is done
Most of the grease paint was gone from his face
His life as a rodeo clown has just begun
It’s this new role he must now embrace
Many years ago he was in the cowboy protection
Making himself a target for fallen bull-riders
Each outin addin bumps,and bruises, to his collection
He’d shuck, and jive as if his feet were on gliders
His movements have been slowed by injury and age
He now walks at a much slower pace
It’s different as a clown takin centre stage
His new life is all about props, pranks, and fillin in space
No more will he be dodgin bulls, and makin saves
Instead he tells stories trades jabs with the announcer
He can no longer do what he craves
Dancing around the arena as if attached to a bouncer
The life of a rodeo clown in the sport that he loves
Is about making people happy with antics and a story.
He plays with audience and a barrel he shoves
It’s not the same as bullfighting you don’t get the glory
Without the grease paint he’s just like me or you
Not the one making them laugh
He’s turned the page on the life he once knew
and found new meaning in his rodeo path.
Behind the grease paint he lives as a clown
And the chance to make people laugh he’ll never turn down.
Geoff “Poppa Mac” Mackay is a storyteller, entertainer, and rodeo clown (as seen in photo above). His poetry and music has been seen and heard- June 2013 Performed Pincher Creek Gathering; June 2013 Performed Manitoba Stampede July 2013; Performed at a CD Release party Palomino Club August 2013; Chosen to Clown Heartland Rodeo Finals September 2013; Performed Souris River Bend Trail ride September 2013; Performed Maple Creek Gathering September 2013; MC’d and Performed Quinton Blair CD Release Party October 2013, and Competing Columbia River gathering, Cowboy Idol- April 2014.
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Ambling With My Companion
Trails intersect,
the criss-crossroads
made us bury
pictures of youth—
hooves of plain-spoke
language, stomped our
dead fallen tracks.
We’re ripping a
part of the land—
are no longer
frequently lost,
free-questrian,
elegant—we
always arrive
somewhere near our
forsaken home.
My ground and yours,
what we lived for—
poems in crowns,
adorned four-fold,
each season’s form
maintained between
forlorn borders.
Summer Is A Hot Kiss Of Death
I felt the crisp wind
take hold of my lips
transforming them into
the desert surface.
It also turned my face
a chronic cold of blue,
like poisoned horse lay
flat under oil-waved sky.
I only cried once.
I stared the two times
you held my grazing body
under white-washed sun.
Courtney Leigh Jameson recently graduated from Saint Mary’s College of California with an MFA in Poetry. Her work has appeared in *Similar:Peaks*<http://similarpeakspoetry.com/2013/06/05/two-poems-by-courtney-jameson/>and is forthcoming in *Clockwise Cat, FLARE, *and *Danse Macabre*. She currently resides in Arizona and is the The Bowhunter of *White Stag Journal*.
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December 2013- Week 2
December 10, 2013
Michael Hudson is a poet/preacher in Arizona, and is our resident ranch hand and roper sends us these great photos from time to time! He is the rider, but not sure who is down on the ground, but they do this from sun-up to sun-down, every day.
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MY CHARISMATIC COWBOY
Observe brash
imminent intimidation
every part of.
Like pauses in the flow,
we listen.
Inclusionists
crouched over this.
Our knowledge acts withered
slow to resist.
Faint lips
subjective in the telling.
Now willing to present
the kiss.
Thank you for traveling through time.
Passive histrionics
levitating beneath a rock.
Servitude’s meandering cracks,
where did I put that’s.
Forever and ever or
a horizon of stoics.
Impractically industrious.
I witnessed a fellow spirit
materialize without a comma
within the here is.
Colin James has a chapbook of poems available from Atlantean Publishing, and has been published via other journals and on-line lit magazines.
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Stage Coaches
Cowboy songs command the throng.
One falls off his hobbyhorse.
Some miss marks.
The sheriff stage-whispers cues
from a casting couch,
Hands up. Drop your drawers.
Unstellar heroine in the dark
— cut to black,
nothing but crickets.
Gerard Sarnat is the author of two critically acclaimed poetry collections, 2010’s “HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man” and 2012’s “Disputes.” His pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in over seventy journals and anthologies. Harvard and Stanford educated, Gerry’s been a physician who’s set up and staffed clinics for the disenfranchised, a CEO of health care organizations, and a Stanford professor. For “The Huffington Post” review of his work and more; visit GerardSarnat.com.
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Horse, pony, colt, filly waiting for a cowboy
Horse on the trail
waiting for a cow
waiting for a cowboy
traveling a trail
pony at a fair
waiting on a kid
waiting for a rider
traveling a circuit
colt born wild
colt waiting to run wild
colt waiting for a mustang wild run
colt traveling a wildness trail
filly born wild
filly in the wildness running wild
filly waiting for a drink of water
filly running in a wildness trail
cowboy tell me this
cowboy tell me that
cowboy tell me a horse tale
cowboy waiting on a cow trail
Working with a cow
working for along time on the cow trail
fencing the wild trail
gone wild are the horses
gone are the ponies
gone are the colts
gone wild are the fillies
how sad are the cowboys with fences
Clinton Seagle as a kid grew up on Cracker Box Route Fallon, Montana area. Worked a bit in Ekalaka Montana where one can see the end of the world is just a step away. Returned Peace Corps Volunteer from Bolivia an other end of the world stepping stone. This is his first attempt at publishing his work.
June Issue- Week 4
June 24, 2013
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A Poet-of-Place Observes Early Signs of Spring During a Night of Drinking
by Ray Sharp
1. Standing far below the stars with a south breeze on his face, he feels his sap rising and his ear lobes swelling.
2. Behind the din of the neighbor’s sled dogs yapping, he thinks he hears coyote pups barking. Their mother calls them back into the den, where they pull at her chapped teats.
3. When he makes a piss hole of melted snow on the driveway snow mat, he can almost see down to gravel.
4. The snow is soft enough that it doesn’t hurt at all when he falls.
Under an August Moon
by Ray Sharp
Coyote, wise old trickster
shuffling across the road
under an August moon,
you look a little shaggy,
a little grayer,
but you and I know
the best blueberry patches,
the way across the swale,
how to step light
over a thin crust of wind-packed snow,
when to chase
and when to lay in wait.
The moon casts
reflected sunlight
on the old familiar trails,
as the summer night
gathers memories
of distant, bygone loves,
and traces a crooked path
upon my dark betrodden heart.
Previously published in vox poetica, September 1st, 2009
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Old Dog
“Got ’n old dog needs shot,” the man says, shuffling in from the cold. The porch door slams shut behind him. He trails the father and son into the kitchen where the cook stove casts a dry heat, the chipped enameled kettle on the stove top diffusing clouds of murky water. “Sit,” says the father. The man sits, his bony frame disappearing in his loose trousers.
“I won’t shoot no dog for you,” says the father.
The son glances down at the filthy linoleum.
“Don’t have to, I kin do it.” The man bobs his lopsided head earnestly, ears bright red from the bitter winter wind, ancient skin flushed.
“He needs a gun, Da,” says the son, looking at his father.
“I need a gun,” says the man. “He’s right. I hate to do it, but he ain’t gonna make it through to Christmas.”
Tomorrow, thinks the son.
“Well’s long as I ain’t doing the shooting, I s’pose you can use this,” the father says as he slides a .22 revolver out from behind the toaster oven. He pops open the cylinder, slips six cartridges inside, hands it to his neighbor.
The old man traps tears behind his watery blue eyes, rough lips wobbling. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s fer the best.” He raises a gnarled hand, steps carefully down the icy steps, walks toward his pickup. Then he stops; turns. “Merry Christmas,” he hollers.
“Same t’ you,” the father calls back. He walks into the kitchen, to his son and the wood fire and the game of crazy eight’s, the news droning on the three-channel television set, and the smell of elk roast rising from the oven.
Uncle stops by on New Year’s. He sips whiskey on the rocks with his brother, asks if he’d heard about old Smith.
“Nope,” the father says.
“Old Smith, he done offed hisself.”
The father looks over at his son. The son stares back, silent.
“Yep, over’d the community center.” The uncle mashes an ice cube between his teeth. “Christmas Eve.”
“That’s ’mpossible,” says the father.
“He was over here,” says the son.
“When?” the uncle asks.
“‘ ’Bout four. Four, huh?”
The father stares at his son.
“Sure, four,” the son nodded.
“Well, this was ‘bout seven, sheriff said.”
The uncle reaches for the bottle, unscrews the cap, and adds three fingers to his water-spotted glass.
“Done shot hisself in the head with a .22 pistol.”
The father and son say “an old dog” at the same moment.
June Issue- Week 3
June 18, 2013
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at the campfire’s edge
where light falls into silence
we cherish our dark
that gives life to your secret
and leaves mine forever dead
Tyson West is a is a traditional western poet whose aesthetic continually shape shifts. He watches the Northwest with veiled and hooded lynx eyes, broods among the conifers and quarrels with Coyote. He has a degree in history, but writes a variety of poetry styles, and has written a series of poems around Spokane Garry who is our local magical Indian. One of Tyson’s Western poems was published in Spoke Magazine called “Floorshow”, which is based on a picture of a 1922 floorshow in the Davenport Hotel which photo you can find on line. He lives in the middle of Eastern Washington, which is definitely cowboy country. There are two Washingtons, Eastern and Western, and they are as different as a Mocah Mint Latte with organic goats milk and black boiled coffee at a chuck wagon fire.
************
Who We Are
1.
We are the Wampum Belt-
Open at both Ends –
Still
Weaving Our Story.
We are the Sacred Drum.
That- Resilient Beat-
Pulsating
Within Mother Earth.
We are the 7th Fire-
Ignited by our past -Carrying the
Light
For our Future.
We are the Cedar Basket,
Sewn from the Roots of the Universe-
Forever
Expanding Our Spirit.
2.
We are the Survivors
& Revivers.
The Relations of the Forest-
& Educated by the Sun.
We Rise- like the sturdy Green Cornfields –
That Kiss the Cranberry Dawn.
We are the Deep Red Ocean-
Flowing within the Arteries –
Of Turtle Island.
3.
And-Yes.
We Swam through the Blood Soaked Tears-
Traversed the Wave over 500 Years.
The Unmarked Graves have Scarred our Dreams-
Long Walks & Trails- across the Icy Streams.
Those Boarding Schools and Reservations-
Malefic Schemes to encourage Limitations.
Mountains of Pain Shielded by a Smile-
Sometimes Surviving – means living in Denial.
Lethal Storms- Rain down like Shattered Glass,
Broken like Treaties – Amnesia of the Past.
Hair & Language- detached by foreign Hands-
But they both Return –as should Usurped Lands .
Our History & Journey- Carved from a Shell-
They do Not spill Oil-only Mark our Life’s Trail.
The tribe of Human Beings -is Who we Are-
Because All of Us- Revolve around the Same Star.
A Ceremony of Condolence –Is how We All Must Begin-
This is life’s Round Dance – a Circle with no End.
Larry Spotted Crow Mann is a writer, performer, Nipmuck cultural educator and citizen of the Nipmuck tribe of Massachusetts. He serves as the Drum Keeper of the Tribe which is a sacred trust. Their group is known as the Quabbin Lake Singers. He travels throughout the United States and Canada to schools, colleges, pow wows and other organizations sharing the music, culture and history of Nipmuck people. He has also given lectures at universities throughout New England on issues ranging from Native American Sovereignty to Identity.
************
Cowgirls Factory Blues
Rising before the electric rooster crows,
Before the sun hugs the earth,
Ella slides out of bed
With an aching hip
Giving old Whiskey Breath a nudge
As he grunts and swears
In the same ritual every morning
For the past forty years as
She sets the chipped porcelain kettle
On the flame
To brew a morning cup
Sweetly reminding Larry
To fetch his own damn vittles, dear,
Feeding her leftover biscuits and bland gravy
To the little doggies
Before riding away in a dusty Mustang
To that brick and steel hold
Where she lassos washers and bolts
Head counting and time keeping
To the beat of her own twang
Until the workers in the factory embrace
Mosey out of the gate, single file,
Roaming free through the night,
While Ella stretches and cracks and creaks,
Thankful for her short journey home
After a wearisome day
On the urban range
That trounces too many spirits
Before the final ride off into the sunset
Denise Janikowski-Krewal is a Midwestern poet and writer of short fiction. She currently lives in the Milwaukee, WI area, and can be found at “the lost beat”where she collaborates with her cousin and fiction writer Tom Janikowski.
************
Retreat From The Willamette
a family I knew began to go apart
when mother and daughter moved to Cascadia
dark little mountain hamlet
of woe in the rain oh woe
father and son remained at what was left of home
and in the bowling alley no one had to talk
and the river was up and had to get higher
but what did it have to do with the family
who reunited every weekend in a
dark little mountain hamlet
of woe in the rain oh woe
a Mormon-redneck town or just redneck-Mormon
of work and no chatter where the pine trees were high
and still growing on yew-ess twenty all the way
and the family had nothing to add either
as they waited out the fall of Sunday in that
dark little mountain hamlet
of woe in the rain oh woe
June Issue- Week 2
June 10, 2013
Drinking With the Angels
I don’t claim to be an angel
But I know
I’ll be drinking with the angels when I go
Now, I’m not claiming to be free of sin, nor pure
But there’s one thing that I know for certain sure,
When my time is up here’s what I plan to do:
Before I go I’m gonna have a drink or two
I’ll have a short one for the road, then one for you
I’ll have a chaser for my friends
And maybe while
My elbow bends
I’ll raise a toast to Mom and one to dear old Dad
And when that’s gone I’ll maybe pour me just a tad
To toast the gone, forgotten times
Then, as the midnight hour chimes
I’ll stand the house a round or three to say goodbye
Before I head out to that Big Bar in the Sky
Now, where I’m going, well there ain’t no closing time
And all the spirits in those bottles are sublime
And every hour is happy hour
The angels toast each meteor shower
And the tab you’re running’s stamped Eternity
So pardon me
If I don’t claim to be an angel
But I know
I’ll sure be drinkin’ with the angels
I’ll be drinkin with the angels when I go
Judith Mesch reads like a fish drinks, total immersion, that is, from an early age through a late and lingering adolescence, and wrote feverishly through my teens. Then I stopped writing, stopped reading very much, too, for decades until a few years ago when I started writing bits and pieces, then some light verse, a couple of short stories a little flash fiction. I have two children’s stories epublished on Amazon for Kindle and on Smashwords by Twenty or Less Press. They are actually kind of country, “The Strange and Wonderful Cornfield” and A Circle of Frogs”. I had a few pieces published in ezines and a children’s poem in Off The Coast Journal.
************
Scars
by Dawn Schout
The rough
spot on my knee
from when I fell off
my first pony
onto gravel after taking
a corner too fast.
A thin, pale line
above my elbow
where my horse kicked me
on my bare skin.
A darkened line on the edge
of my cuticle
where Destiny stepped
on my toe before he died,
the pain remaining
after he’s gone.
Furrowed Sky
by Dawn Schout
Long rows of clouds look ready for planting.
If plowed by constant gusts
of wind, stars will start to push through.
************
Prospectin’
You slimy ol’ scoundrel!
Keep comin’ after me
I dare ya! I double dare ya!
You sleazy ol’ geezer
Tryin’ to rope and outwit me
And my buddies
You got a few of ‘em and
I’m still mad as hell
There ain’t no forgivin’
I’m gonna kick your teeth in
And give your arse some scars
You relentless sucker!
I hate your pigeon liver guts
And yer billy goat tenacity
(Learned me that word
From a preacher in a camp once)
Keep comin’ after me
Like them spikes in a gear
Back to back pot shots
Missed again! Ha!
You squirrely varmint
Y’ almost got me this time!
I reckon you’ll catch up with me
One day
Until then, piss on you…Death!
Denise Janikowski-Krewal was born on the south-side of Milwaukee, Wisconsin and raised with a blue-collar upbringing. Her varied work background includes years of writing technical correspondence. She is passionate about storytelling and researching genealogy. Please check out her official website at: The Lost Beat http://denisejanikowskikrewal.webs.com/More of her poetry is available on the lost beat blog
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