A Look Into History
October 13, 2016
The managing editor’s history that is. Elizabeth Akin Stelling was born in Fort Worth, Texas, but spent plenty of time in Mineral Wells, Breckenridge, and Odessa, Texas. She had heard family stories, old timer’s they called each other, about how rough living in west and far west Texas was, back in the early century when cowboys and ranches filled the dusty roadways. Elizabeth was born in 1961, and began a love affair with the old west, Native Americans (her great-grandfather mentioned was part Cherokee, and her mother was Choctaw), the oil boom her family benefited from, and how her father taught her to live off the land–even though she was a “sort of” city girl in modern eyes. It never left her, thus Cowboy Poetry Press was born in 2010.
Recently someone from her family’s past approached her on one of her personal blogs, and turned out to have been engaged to her father (what a surprise!), eventually marrying one of his 2nd cousins, paternal-maternal Estill side of the family. Much about her great-grandfather was a mystery, Corine has brought him to light. This old article was shared…
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Estill Moving West
—Mineral Wells Oldtimer Recalls Cattle Drives Through Ft.Worth
By Ray McGehee MINERAL WELLS, Texas
In 1879, a slight, tow-headed, five-year-old boy stood in front of a Fort Worth general store and watched a dusty herd of big South Texas steers amble up Main Street on their way to Kansas. Wide-eyed, he watched as cowboys, their faces covered with dirty handkerchiefs, cursed and cracked long whips to keep the herd moving westward, to bed ground outside town.
Awed by campfire stories of Texas, heard from travelers he’d encountered since his family left their (Stamping Ground) Scott County, Kentucky farm, Clarence R. Estill was soon to be a part of Texas history which few people can still remember. Although his 84 years have dimmed his sight and hearing, Clarence Estill lives today in a world of keen memories of the development of a part of this state which many historians have termed, “the toughest, roughest country, mile-for-mile, to be found anywhere.”
“It was a lust to move west,” Estill says, “which caused Papa to sell his Kentucky farm and pack up for Texas.” But this lust subsided a few days west of Fort Worth when he pulled his team up and made camp near the present town of Cisco in Eastland County. Here the Estill family planted its roots amid the torrid aftermath of Civil War with its carpetbaggers, outlaw rule, cattle rustling, coming of the railroads, and later the era of oil booms.
While still a boy, Estill assumed the role of a man when the first railroad moved westward from Fort Worth into the cedar breaks of Eastland and Palo Pinto counties. For 15 cents an hour he turned in 10-hour days on the railroad to help supplement the family’s meager income. Rough Times, Herd Justice “Those were rough times.” he says, “and I well remember one day a man rode into Eastland and said he had been robbed just west of town by two ornery looking Clarence Estill characters. It didn’t take long for a bunch of men hanging around the livery stable to saddle up and go out looking. “I didn’t hear any more until I started home the next morning and saw two men hanging by their necks from a big oak tree.
We had pretty fast justice in those days; but you know it was a longtime before anybody else was robbed around Eastland.” After living in tents and dugouts while following the railroads, and not sleeping in a “built” house for six years, Estill’s father moved to a small farm just south of Fort Worth near the present town of Benbrook. Farming was hard in those days, and a large portion of the people were drawing daily rations from government soup lines, but the senior Estill decided to give up his small farm for a larger one near Mineral Wells.
In 1886 when Clarence was 12, they moved to a place four miles east of Mineral Wells. And despite the fact that folks there too, were in soup lines, the Estill family managed to make ends meet. Eleven years after his family moved to Palo Pinto County, Clarence, then 23, met and married Delia Mary Connaster, the daughter of a Palo Pinto rancher, who have their own story of moving westward from York, PA, originally from Germay. As he recently recounted his long and interesting life, Delia, in a voice too low for his failing ears, added many details which otherwise would have been omitted.
One of his memorable experiences took place shortly after the turn of the century when a man named George Lock offered Estill $25 to deliver two mares to his brother near Robert Lee in Coke County-a distance of about 190 miles.
“I took the job under one condition,” Estill said, “that being that I could make the trip as fast as the horses would take me. You see, I had a family by then, and since I’ve always been a family man I didn’t like being away from home too long.”
“Well,” Lock told him, “they’re good-blooded mares and in good road shape, so I guess it’ll be all right if you don’t kill ’em.”
Estill saddled what looked like the best of the two and headed west, riding one and leading the other. 190 Miles in 36 Hours “For36 hours I rode that mare and never took the saddle off until I reached Lock’s house about a mile from Robert Lee. “I never will forget stopping at a house just south of Buffalo Gap. I rode up and asked a lady if I could water my horses. She said I could, and if I had time she would make a pot of coffee. I waited in the shade of a big oak tree until she came out with the best coffee I ever drank. “I got to Winters, south of Abilene late that afternoon and ate in a boarding house. That was the first real food I’d had since leaving home. “Just after dark I headed west from Winters and made the 20-oddmiles to a little town near the Colorado river (the present town of Bronte) where I rested and watered the horses again. It was a little before day light then, and when I learned it was only 12 miles to my destination, I rode on and got there about mid-morning. “Seeing how tired and sleepy I was, Mr. Lock insisted I have a good meal and a night’s sleep before heading home. “That was a mighty fine night’s sleep, and the next morning Mr. Lock wanted me to go with him to a horse race, but I declined, saying I had to get home. And after one of his hands tied my saddle in a wool bag, I boarded the train for home with my $25 hidden in my boot.”
Last year at 83 and assisted by his son Virgil, a Brazos County peace officer, Estill realized a lifetime ambition. After years of searching, he was able to find his mother’s grave in a small cemetery near Cisco.
“I had hunted her resting place since her death when I was just a kid, but was never able to find it. But with Virgil’s help and some old documents, we found it clearly marked with a stone my father had erected.” Estill credits his long life to what he terms “homemade” wisdom. “I’ve never taken a drink of anything stronger than good black coffee, and I’ve never used tobacco in any form,” he says, adding: “And about 61 years ago I made sure I found and married a good woman.” Mr. and Mrs. Estill live alone near the outskirts of Mineral Wells. She still does all her own housework while he “piddles” around the yard. Here’s how one of his neighbors describes him: “Mr. Estill is a serious minded old timer, but certainly from the old school where a man’s word was his bond.”
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Elizabeth remembers her Dad’s fondness for that set of grandparents. His mother would tell her the story of how she’d pack up an old doctor’s bag and drop him off old Jackson Highway, pointing him toward old highway 80, west, towards the Estill home, he would hitchhike the hour and half, or more to their house for a week or so. He loved the butter beans that waited on the old wood stove. And the good black coffee he continued to drink as his daughter grew up. “Daddy would take us out on hikes around that old farm, an area called Indian Creek. I have fond memories of that place, and I miss seeing Clarence’s wife, my great-grandmother, we called Mammaw Estill, rocking on the front porch, waiting for us to visit.”
“Daddy confirmed his mother’s stories, saying back then it was safe as a 13 year old to walk and often catch rides from sheriffs, farmers, and random salesmen in old model-T fords along the road.” Elizabeth couldn’t imagine, but she herself has his adventuresome spirit.
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Keep an eye out for the newest volume of Unbridled III, 2016. It’s been a long grueling year with personal time off, but we’re back up and running!
2015 October Issue- Week 5
October 29, 2015
“Longhorn Grazing” by Merle Grabhorn
Mending
by Karla K. Morton
The world is tethered,
strung too tight for too long,
coiling the only way it knows –
wild riot, chaos, mob;
looting neighbour’s stores
for vodka and cell phones;
knots like this bobbin,
spinning wrong;
winding worse with each half hour;
God straining to hear
through screaming, torched police cars,
spewing cans of tear gas.
I stop for a moment
to listen to the night,
the soft nicker of the horses;
the pull and munch of grass.
Somewhere in Ferguson, Missouri,
New York, LA and Dallas,
grass grows just like this,
offering up its gentle hands.
Slowly I unwind
and wind again the bobbin,
ease the grey thread
into the slim steel eyes.
All the colours of the world combined
make grey.
I like the way such tiny stitches
move into two fabrics;
the way they bind through tug and storm;
the way the sewing machine hums as it works,
though no one else but the horses can hear;
the way mothers and grandmothers
reach for needle and thread;
the slow mending of the ravel.
THE BUTTEFIELD OVERLAND MAIL
by Max Sparber
There’s a town I know in Arizone
And a stagecoach hauling scrip
There’s a bandit waiting up for it
And she’ll rob that brother whip
She’s a pistol with a .38
And a thatch of well-shorn hair
And Pearl she is on the shoot
As she rides her crowbait mare
She’ll relieve whatever is in the boot
And the bullwhacker his gun
She’ll lighten the load of each passenger
But give a dollar to every one
O will you stop her
On the Butterfield Overland Mail
O when Pearl Hart comes for you
On the Globe to Florence trail
There’s a town I know in Arizone
Where a girl bandit can be found
And there’s a posse headed there for her
She’s the grave or prison bound
PING
by Mark F. Geatches
Ping
The man watched the red-brown glob ooze down the pitted face of the spittoon. His expression held a twisted smirk like a man trying to drop a stubborn ordure. The saloon was aphonic except for a couple of whores weeping and such. Wiping his forehead with a checkered handkerchief the man propped himself against the tired bar. He counted eight, mostly men, sprawled dead in odd comfortable positions.
Ping
“Damned if I ain’t still got it,” he croaked.
Walking toward the doors the man tipped his hat and wheezed, “Ladies.”
The mahogany doors continued to beat the air as he crumbled onto the parched road.
BREAKING TRAIL
By Seth Ehret
From far down the valley the two riders struggled through the ever deepening snow. The heavy flakes plummeted down, blurring the image of the approaching riders. Had there been anyone to watch from the top of the valley, their straining eyes would have become confused by the dark spots that dashed and disappeared and reformed into shapes that tricked the mind and blinded the eyes.
The two riders were returning from a hunt. The burlap sacks tied to their saddles were empty and their rifles sat frozen in the scabbards. They were named George and Bill, and the horses were a reflection of the men they carried. In the lead, George rode a tall, dark, young gelding, whose strong legs propelled him forward in lunges that shook the snow from George’s shoulders and cleared a trail behind him. Following was Bill, atop a tired grey gelding whose best days lay behind him. It had a shrunken appearance as it shambled along through the late October storm. Its head hung low collecting ice and snow. Both men had their hats pulled down and their bandannas tied tightly around their faces to protect from the driving snow that began to sting as the wind increased and the temperatures dipped.
The sky was a leaden veil, heavy and foreboding, a couple hours till daylights fail. Every once in a while, George had to stop and look back to make sure that Bill still followed behind. The visibility was now so poor that if they were to become separated by more than fifty feet they would be lost to each other. As George and his horse blazed on ahead the gap between them would increase. The farther behind Bill fell the more George’s trail would get filled in and the harder it became for Bill to follow. Each time George stopped to wait it would be a little longer until Bill and his old grey horse caught up and they could start out again.
One of these times, when George stopped, it was in front of an especially deep drift of snow. He twisted his body in the saddle to look back and saw no sign of Bill. Instead of waiting hunched over letting the cold grab hold of him, he decided to jump off and do some of the work to break trail himself, giving the horse a rest and warming himself up in the process. He slid off the saddle and sunk down to his knees, and he wasn’t a short man. Leading the horse behind him, he began fighting his way into the drift, shoveling snow out of the way with his arms and stomping down to force a path. The snow on either side of him was level with his waist by the time he stopped to take a rest. He glanced back to see that Bill had caught up and was leaning down close to his horse’s neck. To curse it to hell or lift its spirits George couldn’t tell. George threw himself back at the snowdrift, forcing his way through the last ten feet and coming out of it with a pretty good sweat worked up beneath his coat. Bill and the horses followed close on his heels into the slightly shallower snow on the other side.
George stepped into the saddle and let Bill ride up close beside him. “You ever seen anything like it?” he shouted, leaning over to the older man.
“Plenty of times, sure, much worse than this.” Bill boomed back.
“Oh? Well in that case why don’t you lead the way?”
“Because this horse is too tired and lazy. You’d have been home a long time ago already if you didn’t have to wait for us all the time.”
“To tell you the truth I don’t know if I could even find my way home right now.” George admitted. “You’ll have to tell me if I’m still heading the right direction.”
“You know as well as I do to just stick to this incline till the top of the valley, and besides, the horses would probably find their way home without our help anyway.” Bill said with a sharp edge to his voice. “Just stop wasting time already.”
At that George spurred his horse ahead, once again taking the lead. Bill was right, George did know the way home, and he wasn’t worried, he had just wanted Bill to feel like he was contributing something. With Bill having such a hard time, George tried to look appropriately miserable, but he was weathering the storm with relative ease. All George had to do to forget the biting cold and stinging snow was to think of his wife and baby waiting for him at home by the fire, probably with some hot food prepared. Bill had no one waiting for him at his nearby cabin. George would have to invite him to stop so that he could warm up and wait out the storm. Besides, it had been quite a while since Bill had come over for supper.
They pushed on through the snow, George holding his horse back so that he didn’t get too far ahead, and Bill pushing his harder in an effort to keep up. At that pace, their progress was steady, but it was taking a hard toll on Bill’s horse. They could tell that they were nearing the top of the valley because the slope was getting gradually steeper. The last stretch before they reached the flat plain would be difficult, even for George’s horse, who was doing a lot of work to forge a trail through the deep snow. Behind them the bottom of the valley was swallowed in a grey, swirling abyss that grasped after the fleeing men to pull them down into its darkness and despair.
George stopped when he heard a yell from Bill and turned around to look. They were on the steepest part, Bill’s horse had stopped and wouldn’t move forward. Its sides were heaving and even through the snow the hot air shooting from its nostrils was easily visible, shaking the built up frost and ice around the horse’s mouth as it stood and trembled. From the horse’s back Bill was feverishly kicking his boots into the horse’s sides and whipping the reins against its rump. All of this effort exhausted Bill, he dropped his arms to his side and slumped his shoulders, his own chest heaved trying to catch his breath.
George called back to Bill. “Should we use my rope to try to pull it the rest of the way?”
Bill took a while to answer. “What’s the use? I should just leave the damn thing here. It wouldn’t make any difference.” He looked down at the horse. “What good are you anyway?”
Looking back at his old friend, George could think of nothing to say. There was nothing he could do to help Bill if he didn’t want to help himself. “It’s not very far to the top now, we’re almost there.” George said to him before he turned and let his horse plunge ahead the rest of the way. From up on the plain the sky looked clearer towards home and the wind had blown some of the snow away so that it wasn’t as deep. Back down the trail, it was still hard to see, but through squinted eyes he was sure he could make out Bill’s figure standing in front of his old horse, and it looked like he was leading the way out of the valley.
Seth Ehret is a a young rancher from south-eastern Alberta. He attended the University of Alberta where he took creative writing courses instructed by Thomas Wharton. Seth Ehret enjoys writing about animals and nature and draw much inspiration from my horses.
2015 October Issue- Week 4
October 26, 2015
“Windmill 2” by Leroy Trussell
Bill
by Richard Manly Heiman
Bill hunkered down in his four bit room. He shrank
Inside his own legend. He cursed
His treacherous eyes, without no tears.
I’ll tell you, once the man saw keen!
Quick as a bobcat he picked up the infinitesimal move, the slight shift of a finger
Before a hand jerked and the tranquil exploded and somebody died.
Bill wiped with his sleeve, once snowy, now
All stained with road grit. Bill stared bat-like through the window grime and curtains
Film before his eyes, he dimly made out Jane.
Disheveled girl, that Jane. Tumbledown, all drunk on whiskey
Lurching along in the hell-flea-bit town. Hell, Jane.
Sister of mercy, Jane/ Scout of the Black Hills, Jane
Swam the Platte /Wrote her legend
Lied about Custer she /Freak talked old Sitting Bull/Jane.
Bill slept a lot, threw cards
Stroked his mustachios, aimed at targets
Missed, had visions, saw dark spots on a tall sun he
Dreamed of gold and endless buffaloed plains.
Bill heard shadows wailing out of Abilene
From Hays and nameless places, pushing him to some foregone
Conclusion, facing the wall
Staring down black aces, turning to stone.
Richard Manly (Rick) Heiman lives in the Northern California “Gold
Country” where there is currently little gold left and no water from which
to pan it. He works as a substitute teacher and writes mornings, evenings,
weekends and when the kids are at recess. He is in his fourth quarter of
the Lindenwood U. MFA Writing program. Rick rides horses whenever he can
find one slow and low enough to mount up!
Pine Creek Clocks c. 1982 *
By Denis Robillard
In a far off place I hear duelling clocks
In a room on a ranch.
The burdens of the day lie deep and heavy
Inside the entrails of clocks.
Breathing expanding
Exhorting themselves in slingshot time.
Above the scene a gun totting Brautigan
Takes pot shots at these dueling clocks,
His poem bullets splitting the targets
Like rotten logs,
Mind dangling metaphors
Splitting through amnesiac veil of booze
Trying to find another blackberry motorboat.
Another watermelon waterfall trapped
Underneath.
Summer in Del Rio
by Suzanne Bailie
Two years since a drop of rain whispered through town,
Even tress withered right out of the ground.
Folk clung to the shade afraid of day light hours,
Their petrified souls cried for cool water.
Under the dark of a new moon a lone
Silhouette appeared on the outskirts of Del Rio.
A rider, an angel of sorts, with icy blue eyes darting with fire.
God’s eternal foe in black hat and buckskin.
Whispered thoughts led him to the saloon.
Where he flowed on a motionless breeze.
All drinking ceased. Even the flies held their breath.
The place became as still as a cathedral.
Glancing round the room with predator knowing.
He strode right by their hollow desperate souls.
Wisps of smoke curled from his dark skin boots.
“Large whiskey,” the simple order.
“I’m powerful thirsty and I’ve a fiendish ride.
Pour me your best golden fire.”
With shaking hands, the barkeep filled an empty glass.
Whiskey downed through pale thin lips.
On the wooden counter, he tossed a gold coin.
It burned forever all who tried to claim it.
With a Sulphur sigh, he left the bar
and people still claim to this day.
When Lucifer, himself, needs a shot.
It must be summer in Del Rio.
2015 October Issue- Week 3
October 15, 2015
“Just About Lost” by Leroy Trussell
JUST ABOUT LOST
by Leroy Trussell
Shucks just got ’em
maybe two hours ago
can’t say where from
tried to buy American, but these
came from Mexico.
I just had them in my hand,
must uh’ laid them down somewhere.
sure nuff messes up my working plans,
been uh lookin’, but can’t find em anywhere.
Looked out in the old barn
wudn’t in the pickup seat
dat-burn, wish they’d transform
thank gudness I always keep that store receipt.
Not long ago in town I got ’em
at Crownover Feed, Marble Falls, Texas
boy this is such a cowboy mayhem,
for blisters I don’t want ’em, but for sure ’nuff I need ’em.
Guess I could borrow my Sons’,
but they seem a bit small.
and by their looks, they are far gone
an pert near be a bad judgment call.
Well guess I’ll drive back to Town, buy another pair
gonna get ’em in rawhide leather
back Home, well shoot, there the others sittin’ in my lazyboy chair
you bet it’s good to have a spare, when hard work comes ta’ gather.
In The Hay Loft
by Scott Lennox
Boys of ten or eleven, we sat in the shadows,
avoiding the sunlight that spilled across the dusty wooden floor.
Looking down at the horses and riders circling in the corral,
I tried to imagine the years and the comings and goings
in the old barn with its smells of horses, manure and hay.
I pictured Texas cowboys, saddled up and riding out,
proud and alone, heading west across open prairie.
When I pushed back against a half-strewn bale,
I struck something hard and reached behind me to find
a sawed-off shotgun, its double barrels aged but clean,
the pistol-grip handle rubbed smooth.
Our chatter stopped as, trembling, heart racing,
I thumbed the latch and slowly opened the breech,
relieved to find no shells inside.
“He could still be here!” one boy whispered,
sure that we were being watched. “If he finds out…”
“Shhhht,” I hushed, sliding the weapon back where I found it,
but hand and mind reluctant to let go.
For a moment, each of us studied the others,
then scattered like cat-spied mice from a feed bin.
For no reason I can tell, we never spoke of it again.
But my mind, for more than fifty years, has climbed that ladder,
over and over, inventing stories about the loft,
about the one with dreadful secrets to be kept,
his murderous plans, his treachery carried out.
Strange, the way the past hangs on, retelling itself,
when we would just as soon be done, but fascinated,
ask to hear the story one more time.
Scott Lennox is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker with more than 20 years of clinical experience in mental health working in hospital and private practice setting He has developed his own training program, Compassion In Action, teaching professionals and others the measurable actions of compassion toward more effective relationships.
Scott’s friends know him to be a true renaissance man. As an accomplished artist, poet, photographer, musician, gourmet cook, horseman, and public speaker, Lennox demonstrates his passion for being fully alive and helping others to do the same.
His background includes radio and television, commercial photography, and more than three decades of facilitating personal excellence with individuals and groups in educational, clinical, and corporate settings.
Lennox’s drawings and paintings are held in public and private collections and two of his drybrush watercolor landscapes hung in the United States Embassy residence in Geneva, Switzerland and later, in the United States Embassy in Moscow. Scott self-published In Brazos River Country, a limited edition volume of twenty-four poems. He is currently in production of a recorded version and is collaborating to develop a bilingual printed version in English and Spanish.
After serving as a medic in combat in Southeast Asia, where he was decorated for valor, Scott earned his Bachelor’s degree from Texas Christian University and his Master’s from the University of Texas at Arlington.
ALMOST
by Larry Bradfield
He was just a boy when he rode out-
Long legs and knobby knees
Rode drag to Denver from Santa Fe
An’ grew by twos and threes
He learned the trade of punchin’ cows
An’ silence of the men
He was alone but so were they –
Not like it was back then
Not like the days of sweepin’ floors
In brothels and the bars
An orphan lookin’ for a meal
An’ washin’ whiskey jars
Now he crossed the plains wide and free
And saw the mountains rise
It was almost, almost enough
‘Til he recalled her eyes
She’d been sixteen an’ so had he
They didn’t know ’bout love
So they held hands and talked all night
An’ counted stars above
Then she was gone, just slipped away –
An’ he was punchin’ cows
He had the world to call his own
With all the heres an’ nows
And so he looked at all the world
An’ marveled at its size
It was almost, almost enough
‘Til he recalled her eyes
Larry Bradfield is a retired physicist / aerospace executive who was born and raised in the midst of sand, oil and cattle in the Permian Basin of West Texas and Eastern New Mexico. After living and working on both coasts and the borders of Mexico and Canada, he has retired to Texas and still feels his roots in the cattle country. He is the author of two books of cowboy poetry – One Foot in the Stirrup and Out Where the Blacktop Ends – and has publshed a number of poems in the on-line world.
His wife, Joyce, is a proud Pennsylvania native who has taken easily to the Texas soil.
Cowboys We Are
by Karla K. Morton
Into the night, the steer fear the dawning
Skittish of the dark, they low and they bray
So we, before bed, hum through our yawning
These heavenly moments under star spray.
Come sing the night song, come stoke the old fires
Drink makes us young and drink makes us liars.
Girls make us bold, old dogs make us criers
But cowboys we are at the end of day.
A little more padding under our bed,
Coffee we drink now with sugar and cream.
Callouses softened, our belly’s, well fed
But time can’t erase our open range dream.
Come sing the night song, come stoke the old fires
Drink makes us young and drink makes us liars
Girls make us bold, old dogs make us criers
Cowboys we are at the end of the day.
We might work in banks or a bar in town
Be plumbers or lawyers — cleaning what sours
Watching the clock as it makes its countdown,
For long weekends here – these rich, sacred hours.
Cities are charging each pasture and tree,
The world is changing from trail to highway
But as long as man needs sky to be free
Horses we’ll saddle to round up each stray
Come sing the night song, come stoke the old fires
Drink makes us young and drink makes us liars
Girls make us bold, old dogs make us criers
Cowboys we are at the end of the day.
Karla K. Morton, the 2010 Texas Poet Laureate, is a Councilor of the Texas Institute of Letters, member of the Western Writers of America, and graduate of Texas A&M University. Described as “one of the most adventurous voices in American poetry,” she is a Betsy Colquitt Award Winner, twice an Indie National Book Award Winner and a North Texas Book Award Festival Winner. Morton is the recipient of the Writer-in-Residency E2C Grant, and has ten collections of poetry. She is widely published, is a nominee for the National Cowgirl Hall of Fame, and established an ekphrastic collaborative touring exhibit titled: No End of Vision: Texas as Seen By Two Laureates, pairing photography with poetry.
2015 October Issue- Week 2
October 7, 2015
Herding Longhorns (Authors Collection) – Merle Grabhorn
CAIRN
by Richard Manly Heiman
I blear down from beyond the canyon rim
out there
where shadows still refuse the light
that clearing where you justify the night
The funneled wind up the arroyo breathes
a murmur of your name
stirring the leaves
gaunt cottonwoods on fire with the dawn
And on the thermal, rising with the day
kee-eeeee-ar
a red-tail takes flight
screaming forth her elemental life
My palomino paws the chalky earth
tosses his head
he strains against the girth
impatient with my hesitation now
But I will linger still
and set it down
to memory
where I laid you in the ground
Richard Manly (Rick) Heiman lives in the Northern California “Gold Country” where there is currently little gold left and no water from which to pan it. He works as a substitute teacher and writes mornings, evenings, weekends and when the kids are at recess. He is in his fourth quarter of the Lindenwood U. MFA Writing program. Rick rides horses whenever he can find one slow and low enough to mount up!
Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω
The Tenderfoot And Nasty
by Larry Bradfield
“Well, lookey here !” Bob said with glee
“We’ve got a tenderfoot !
He’s got all this brand new gear , you see
He don’t know where to put ”
“He says he comes from way Back East
Teach him a thing or two
Let’s put him on that unbroke beast
And see what he can do”
The hoss they gave him don’t look mean
Though Nasty was his name
He did seem sometimes really keen
On makin’ riders lame
It seemed so like an awful match
New guy on this terror
This plot somehow just didn’t hatch
We all judged in error
The greenhorn climbed upon that hoss
A move as slick as rain
He spurred to show him who was boss
And let him have the rein
Now Nasty gave him all he had
He bucked and whirled and screamed
The rider smiled, said “This ain’t bad !
It’s nothin’ like I dreamed.”
That hoss gave up, plum’ tuckered out
The rider just stepped down.
Bob said “The East you lied about!
You’ve rode before this town !”
The new guy said, “Not in the least.
This here’s New Mexico.
The whole of Texas lies Back East
I do believe it’s so !”
They called him tenderfoot no more
He made a real smart hand
He came from Texas that’s for shore
And that ole boy’s got sand
Larry Bradfield is a retired physicist / aerospace executive who was born and raised in the midst of sand, oil and cattle in the Permian Basin of West Texas and Eastern New Mexico. After living and working on both coasts and the borders of Mexico and Canada, he has retired to Texas and still feels his roots in the cattle country. He is the author of two books of cowboy poetry – One Foot in the Stirrup and Out Where the Blacktop Ends – and has publshed a number of poems in the on-line world.
His wife, Joyce, is a proud Pennsylvania native who has taken easily to the Texas soil.
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Chimney Rock Cemetary
Melbita, Nebraska
by Andrew Hubbard
This speck of land
On the Oregon Trail
Is a tiny cemetery.
In the high plains vastness
In the cold, cold wind
Below the tumbled gray sky
Untended for fifty years,
Maybe a hundred.
The picket fence is missing slats,
The hand-hewn, wooden markers
Are bleached, askew,
Some fallen over.
Each marker has a full name
And dates of birth and death.
Some have a few words of a Bible verse.
But it’s the dates that tear at me:
This one lived four years…
This one seven.
I try to imagine
Being seven, sick, fevered,
So far from home
And so afraid.
This is the high plains:
There was no wood for a box,
The parents would have wrapped her
In a blanket—if they could spare one.
Digging a hole in the tough sod
Was a day’s work for the man
And the brothers. The sisters
And mother sat back in the wagon
And didn’t look.
Father came back stone-faced
Wiping his hands on his pants.
The horses needed tending,
And then it was westward,
Westward toward the great ocean.
It was a shame:
His wife died before the house was finished,
And on a farm
The work is never done.
Thirty years went by
Before he could sit back
And finally cry for his baby girl
Dead and buried
On the Oregon Trail.
In the high plains vastness
In the cold, cold wind
Below the tumbled gray sky.
Andrew Hubbard holds degrees in English and Creative Writing, from Dartmouth College and Columbia University respectively. He is the author of three business-related books, one book on gemology, and one book of poetry, “Things That Get You,” produced by Interactive Press. He lives in rural Indiana with his wife, intermittent children, two Siberian huskies and a demon cat. When not writing poetry, he is a passable outdoor and wildlife photographer, a licensed handgun instructor, a former competitive weightlifter and martial arts instructor, and a collector of edged weapons.
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2015 October Issue- Week 1
September 30, 2015
Longhorns Eating Cactus-Living on Poor Forage
From an old Postcard (Authors Collection)
HOW THE LONGHORNS WERE SAVED
by Merle Grabhorn
It may surprise you that, by the beginning of the 20th century, the icon of the American West, the Longhorns, were virtually extinct. Thirty years previously, they had been the dominant breed of cattle in the US; however, by 1900 Longhorns were considered trash or” scrub cattle.“ What happened? Longhorns were hardy, had evolved disease resistance, ease of calving, strong mothering instincts, and other traits such as hard hooves and dangerous horns to protect themselves. What’s more, they could walk for miles for water, utilize poor forage, and raise strong healthy calves year after year. They were the perfect breed for the American West. It was ranching economics, not genetics, that led to the decline and near extinction of the Longhorn.
Three Strikes and You’re Out
There were three causes that led to the decline and near extinction of Longhorns. The first strike against Longhorns was that new breeds of cattle began showing up in the West. Towards the end of the 19th century, purebred cattle breeds from Europe and Asia became available such as Hereford, Shorthorn, and Angus.
Since Angus beef is often marketed in grocery stores and even fast food chains, a comparison between Angus and Longhorn tells the story. An Angus cow can reach an average weight of 1,200 to 1,800 pounds, while a Longhorn cow will average 1000 pounds. Thusly, an Angus can easily average about 25 percent more weight than a Longhorn. That’s a 25 percent increase in profit per head. Further, Angus have what cattlemen call “Superior Feed Conversion” which means that an Angus will return larger amounts of beef for the same amount of feed. The Angus reaches maturity relatively early in comparison to the Longhorn. Calves are born sooner and they mature faster. That said, the return on Angus is both greater and quicker.
Strike Two-The Need for Fat
The Longhorn is a very lean animal. Compared to an Angus it has about 80percent less fat per pound. Historically, candles, soaps, lubricants and cooking all required tallow. The demand for the tallow and hides was a driving force for the cattle business. Hides could be obtained from Longhorns but not much fat. Cattle processing companies were willing to pay more for cattle with fat that could be rendered for tallow. Also, Longhorns had a reputation for producing tougher, stringier, and less appetizing meat.
To the steak connoisseur, the rib-eye is a choice cut, taste of which comes from the marbling of fat around the steak. Sure, there is fat around a Longhorn ribeye, just not very much. Longhorn beef cooks quickly due to its low fat content. The less fat, the quicker the cooking time. It’s very easy to overcook meat that is lean and when you overcook it, it toughens up. The “old-time” cowboys knew the trick was to eat their Longhorn steaks rare. But as America became more urban, the knowledge of how to cook very lean meat all but vanished and the ads from meat packing companies advertising the “better” beef didn’t help. We know today not only that Longhorn beef is leaner than that of other breeds, it is also lower in saturated fats. Longhorn beef even has less cholesterol and calories than chicken, a very healthy meat.
Strike Three-Cattle Tick Fever
It is ironic that one of the strengths of the Longhorn was also a cause of its near extinction. Fever in cattle is carried by ticks and, unlike other breeds, the Longhorns had developed immunity to this disease. In the good old days, when Longhorns were moved along cattle trails during the great drives, the ticks dropped off and found local cattle to feed on. In this way, the ticks transmitted the deadly disease that would decimate entire herds. It took a little time but ranchers soon realized that tick or Texas fever as they called it, was somehow related to the Longhorns. They didn’t know the how of it, but they knew the results: the loss of their herds of valuable Angus, Herefords, and Shorthorns.
Longhorns were disease carriers that no one wanted. Soon, cattle drives were met with armed resistance. This led to an event recorded in Western history as the “Winchester Quarantine”. Texas Panhandle cattlemen, Charles Goodnight of the JA Ranch and Orville Nelson of the Shoe Bar Ranch, posted cowhands armed with Winchester rifles at their southern boundaries to keep out tick-infested South Texas Longhorns. The cowhands were armed with Winchesters. Goodnight warned the drivers, “You will not treat this as idle talk. I simply say you will not pass through here in good health.” Years later, movie and TV Westerns would draw on this event for some of their stories.
It’s Almost Too Late
As ranchers began the transition to other, more profitable cattle breeds, they sent most of their Longhorns off to slaughter. However, some did retain a few Longhorns to try to crossbreed with the more valuable cattle in hopes that they could combine the desirable attributes of both. This hybridization further led to the decline of pure Longhorn stocks. Eventually the remaining pure Longhorns were sent to slaughter or died. Mostly, they were just bred out of existence.
However, there were a few cattlemen who saw that the Longhorns were disappearing and started to bring some of the best they could find to their ranches. They were sometimes hidden on remote parts of the ranch to prevent scorn from neighbors who scoffed at the “relics.” A total of six ranchers, Butler, Marks, Peeler, Phillips, Yates and Wright saved what was thought to be the last pure Longhorns. They kept their other cattle separate so there were no mixing of the herds. These ranchers were diligent and strict purists in breeding, record keeping and maintaining their Longhorns. This created six isolated gene pools. All Longhorns alive today come from these six gene pools plus one more, the WR herd.
The Government Steps In with the WR Herd
In 1927, conservationists and historians asked Congress for money to establish a federal herd of purebred Texas Longhorn cattle with the object of saving Western Heritage. The cattle were supposed to be established in the Wichita Mountain Wildlife Refuge located in Southeast Oklahoma as a “for show herd” to allow tourists to see and photograph. Three thousand dollars were appropriated for the task. It was also supposed to have been be easy to assemble the herd, as at one time there had been somewhere between four and six million Longhorns in Texas alone. However, it did not turn out to be so easy.
For several years, two U.S. Forest Service rangers searched South Texas and Northern Mexico for Longhorns. They inspected over thirty thousand head of cattle and found only twenty cows, three bulls, and four calves (two bulls and two heifers). Those found did not include any from the six other herds then known to exist. This became the basis for what would eventually be known as the WR (Wildlife Refuge) herd and would become the seventh gene pool. The search continued and a few years later, two more Longhorns were bought from Zunigas Y. Cia of Monterey Mexico for sixteen dollars each. Shipping was more than seven times the value of the animals and one of them later had to be discarded as there were indications of a Jersey cattle bloodline. Strict conservation of the breed was and as is the mandate of the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge and this herd is highly regarded due to its pure and strict Longhorn lineage and distinctive conformation.
Meat Packers wanted “good” beef and not Longhorn beef
(Saturday Evening Post Ad 1927 Authors Collection)
The Turnaround
About 1943 the-refuge herd had increased and the Forest Service began to hold annual sales of surplus animals. The six other herds sold a few of their Longhorns beginning about this time as well. At first, Cowmen purchased them as curiosities, but interest began to grow. New herds began to appear and gained recognition. Two these were the SPEAR-E herd which Elvin Blevins of Wynnewood, Oklahoma started in 1952 (primarily from WR and Yates stock), and the Ox-Yoke T herd bred by Ken Humphrey of Okreek, South Dakota in 1950 (50 percent Niobrara Refuge, 25 percent WR and 25 percent Yates).
In 1964, a small group of cattlemen banded together to preserve the unique heritage of these and started the Texas Longhorn Breeders Association. The mission was to maintain a pure breed registry and to increase the population. Although interest was renewing, there was still danger to the Longhorns. When Milby Butler, one of the breeders, died in 1971, the Longhorns on his ranch were rounded up and sold. Some 80 percent of his cattle were never accounted for said to be sold for slaughter. The remaining 20 percent were scattered among different breeders who had been fortunate to hear that they were for sale. This led to the almost total destruction of one of the last Longhorn gene pools. Today, it is estimated that only 5 percent of existing Longhorn cattle have the Butler Bloodline.
As time passed, interest continued to grow even more and today, every Longhorn carries registration papers similar to those of American Kennel Club show dogs. Most present day Texas Longhorn cattle are descended from those seven families, each of which had its own distinctive attributes. To a Longhorn cowman today, it is vitally important to have an understanding of an animal’s pedigree and the degree to which it has been genetically influenced by one or more of those families. DNA testing is often performed to insure that a bull or cow falls in the acceptable range to be a true Longhorn.
Today, Longhorns are far from the “worthless relics” they once were. Their numbers have grown since the 1920’s to well over three hundred thousand today. Although cattle for the WR refuge were purchased for $16 dollars apiece (about two-hundred twelve dollars in 2015) today, a Longhorn with outstanding genetics can fetch upwards of forty thousand at auction with a record price for a cow of one-hundred seventy thousand dollars.
Longhorns are once again being raised for their “healthier” meat which is often seen in organic grocery stores. Ranchers prize these cattle on their ability to live on marginal pasture land. So, if you happen to see a true Longhorn, you are seeing a real piece of American history that was almost lost. From trash to distinction, not bad for worthless old relics.
Author’s Biography:
Merle Grabhorn is a rancher living in the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma. And like many ranchers, has an interest in cattle, horses, and Western History. Like all ranchers, he diversifies so Row Crops such as Wheat or Soybeans are part of the Ranch Economics. Of course he feels, part of Ranching is attending State Fairs and other venues to show cattle or horses, enhancing the value of the herd.
Shown below, Merle with his favorite Paint Horse: “Radified” or “Rad” for short. Rad is a Registered Paint, Registered Pinto, and is an APHA Breeders Trust Horse. In competition and shows, Rad has won over 300 awards, including a number of Grand and Reserve Championships. He has been in Multiple National and World Championship competitions where he has won recognition and awards.
The article by Merle, about the History of Longhorn cattle, is mostly from research– coming from an interest in starting a herd of Longhorns. The herd hasn’t been established….yet. Only the future knows.
Great News For Our Press!
March 20, 2015
Managing editor, Elizabeth Akin Stelling (left), Sherry Monahan, President of WWA, and Alan Birkelback (right)
Cowboy Poetry Press and Red Dashboard LLC Publishing are proud to announce Alan Birkelbach has won the 2015 Spur Award for his poem, A Little Longer Than the Moment, first published in October 2014– Week 6. It also means CPP and Red Dashboard get the award!
The Spur Award is given to many categories, and if you feel your work merits any submission to Western Writers and other journals, then do so, we encourage it.
RedD has already seen an increase in readership in its books, and CPP’s Facebook page has gotten many many likes over the past week since Alan emailed our managing editor the good news.
We appreciate everyone submitting to the ezine and anthology each year!
Here’s to another great year, and to those of you well on your way to winning an award…
October 2014 Issue- Week 2
October 14, 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 www.reddashboard.com for more information, dates are Oct 1st – Feb 28th.
Enjoy this months issues!
Photo by Malinda Fillingim of David Fillingim singing at a chuck wagon event at the Booth Western Museum, Cartersville, GA.
COWBOY SHOWERS
She never liked the smell of cattle
Keeping me clean was always her battle
I sprayed myself twice a day
Just to keep the fighting at bay.
It never dawned on me
That my arm pits stank
But daily she reminded me
With many big yanks.
Get in the shower
She’d loudly declare
While I wash out
Your dirty underwear.
I wonder if her
Love is enough
To keep me clean
Not smelling of snuff
Maybe it is,
Maybe it’s not,
But this shower
Is way too hot.
She can’t cook
Her love’s gone sour,
So why am I here
Scrubbing in a shower?
I’ll grab my clothes
And all that’s pretty
And find a woman
Who’ll love me dirty!
Malinda and David Fillingim have been married for over 30 years and live in Leland, NC. They both teach at Cape Fear Community College, Wilmington, NC. David is an award winning writer of many books and articles, including Georgia Cowboy Poets and Malinda takes really good photos with a camera she bought at a thrift store for one dollar. Contact either one at fillingam@ec.rr.com.
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INDIAN CAMP OF THE HUDSON VALLEY – A True Story
There was no reservation,
only houses and shanties
in the wetlands along the Esopus Creek.
Not good land, it flooded
in the Springs when the run-off
to the river was high.
Dutch burghers and Tory descendants
disdained it, but
it was place to these displaced Algonquians,
Lenape from New Jersey, Manhattan and Delaware.
They took the twenty-fours dollars worth of trinkets
for land they did not own,
and they knew farming,
how to make fabric from plants and skins.
They had kitchen gardens
tended by women and children.
In time before driven out of the valley,
men worked the slate mines,
skidding great gray slabs on timbers
to Hudson’s stolen river.
Straining horses and men delivered
the sidewalks of New York
to barges dipping and bowing
in the residual tides of estuary.
Commerce walked like a ghost
on the water
of the Creek and of the River,
slipping away toward Manhattan
and the sea.
Howard Winn has published over 400 poems and short stories in various competitive selection literary magazines. He’s published one book of poetry, and has been nominated for a Push Cart Press Award three times. Winn has appeared in two poetry anthologies, one published in the Ashland Poetry Series and one of Hudson Valley poets edited by Mary Gordon. He’s been included in one anthology celebrating the 300th year anniversary of the discovery of the Hudson River.
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Blessings Be Upon You, Horace Greely
“Go West, young man, go West and grow up with the country.”
So, I followed the Conestogas
and found forever, an Eden,
endless vistas that promised
vast possibilities of success.
With no gaurantee in my pocket,
save that of manhood’s training,
I trusted myself,
and called myself frontiersman
when in truth I was a gambler separated
from those who sought safety in civilization.
And I, a being formed by space itself,
untamed, unrestrained
except by natural age and failing,
chart my course by stars named
Sea. Sage. Sequoia.
Mesa, rio, arroyo—
commissioned by God to dare.
Experiment.
Build.
Fashion.
A demigod in boots and chaps
wielding a branding iron instead of lightning bolts,
I did not know the Great Divide
was more than just geography,
that those contented
with being Europe’s mirror
would become my enemy
because they fear the freedom
of the ultimate question:
Now that God has made him,
what can a man make of himself?
Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, a former community college instructor who taught Political Science and Sociology, and is finishing a certificate in Veteran Studies. Her fiction has been published in a slew of print and on-line journals including Cigale Literary Magazine, 100 Doors to Madness Anthology, Mad Swirl and The Moon; her poetry has been accepted by Van Gogh’s Ear and Page & Spine; and her photographs have appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Journal and Off the Coast Magazine among others. Her novel, The 9th Circle was published by Barbarian Books, serials Raphael Redcloak and Retrolands can be found on Jukepop.com. Web-page: Jenean-McBrearty.com.
October is also dedicated to Robert Penven, one of our beloved poets passed last night after a surgery that wasn’t suppose to cause problems. He was 81, and was one of our biggest supporters, lived here in New Jersey, about an hour away from the managing editor who met him at a local Vineland poetry group, Poetry-go-round once a month. RIP dear cowboy, you are missed…
October 2014 Issue- Week 1
October 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 www.reddashboard.com for more information, dates are Oct 1st – Feb 28th.
Enjoy this months issues!
(Click to enlarge)
Watercolor ‘Steeds’ by Anj Marth
Ocean steeds was inspired by a story my great-grandmother told me when I first started riding horseback. Selkies are beautiful horses that live in the sea, and come to shore to tempt people to try to catch them. If you bridle one, or get on its back (it will let you) it will drag you into the deeps with it, and there’s no escape.
Anj Marth was born in the early 70s, and grew up on the east coast of the US, near Philadelphia. She has since moved and traveled all over the country, by road. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest and
considers it home. She works in a variety of mediums and has been a professional,licensed tattoo artist since the late 90s.
Her condensed portfolio can be seen here- Anj Marth Portfolio
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KODACHROME BOOTS
This here’s a tale bout widow Beall and me,
a very close call as far as I can see.
Nearly hung myself from a stout oak tree,
when she proclaimed she’s “a gonna marry thee”!
Now, widow Beall was a comely lass,
much appeal and a cute little…….well.
Dumb as a sheep and not much class,
spit fire temper and a whole lot of sass.
Not fix’n to marry, ner give’n a dang hoot,
rather ride me a bronc, raise hell and shoot.
Single I’ll stay, til I be a grizzled old coot,
and all this started o’er a Kodachrome boot.
A life riding single with a little spare loot,
I’d spent honest big money on Kodachrome boots.
With huge eagle wings, patterns fanciful stitched,
never reckoned on them boots a get’n me hitched.
Them knee high boots just glowed by day,
bright yellar and red with horned lizard inlay.
Strong ride’n heels built up real high,
with side seam piping, blue as the sky.
Chartreuse pull straps above scalloped top,
a rainbow of colors that seemed never to stop.
Big ole eagles, blueish green and dark taupe,
tawdry beauty from some boot makers shop.
Kodachrome boots made from the best of cowhide,
brash as a peacock cowboy on an afternoon ride.
Clean shirt, fresh hat, pants stuffed inside,
One of a kind boots, whispered ego and pride.
When corralled by the widow, I couldn’t break free,
She’d always look down and then I could see,
her eyes come alive, twinkling romance and glee,
It was them boots she truly loved and not really me!
I hatched an idea to get me outta her plan,
and git back on the trail as fast as I can.
Just need to convince my first cousin Stan,
widow Beall needs some lov’n and he is her man.
Got Stan a new Stetson, wild rag and new suit,
a bath, and some tonic, why he looked darn right cute.
And to sweet’n the deal, first time in the chute,
I gave him my pair of those kodachrome boots.
Marc Bradshaw– Though raised in the hills and hollows of central Kentucky, the southwest U.S. beckoned immediately after high school graduation. Over the next 50 years California’s San Joaquin valley and parts south of Bakersfield, in Santa Fe New Mexico, and currently Mesquite Nevada were home to life and
work.
************
COME HAVEN OR LOW WATER
when we hear the recorded whoop of
a cowboy cello we’re not truant
only away from our home butte
on the Niobrara
we are the men of earth we have been
and when we reinvent the odor
of horse and hay we ride and forget
what larrupt us to town
there won’t ever be a flareout of
the world or a man-roping event
in the oil range we hold the dream to
on the Niobrara
************
COWBOY OF THE SEA
His name is Keealani,
a cowboy of the sea.
Needs the wind upon his back,
that bucking ride to set him free.
He wrestles surf and ocean
gripping tight and holding strong,
waiting for horns blowing
counting seconds short and long.
Got his lasso round his ankle
his bolo tie, a string of shells,
biggest difference in this cowboy
is his fishy stinky smell.
No manure or dirt upon him,
just the residue of sand,
cause this cowboy’s ride is over
when he steps upon the land.
Heather M. Browne is a faith-based psychotherapist and recently emerged poet, published in the Orange Room, Boston Literary Review, Page & Spine, Eunoia Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Poetry Bus, Red Fez, The Muse, An International Journal of Poetry, Deep Water Literary Journal, Electric Windmill, Maelstrom, mad swirl, and Dual Coast. Her first chapbook, We Look for Magic and Feed the Hungry has been published by MCI. She just won the Nantucket Poetry Competition, a semi-finalist in Casey Shay chapbook competition, and has her first collection coming out this winter with Red Dashboard Publishing. Recently widowed from her love of 21 years, she lives with her 2 amazing teens, and can be found frolicking in the waves. Follow her: www.thehealedheart.net
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Back in the Saddle, and A Few Words From the Editor
September 15, 2014
October is almost here, which means summer slipped by us again, at least me. We are getting ready for new book releases from some great author, especially our Cowboy Poetry/Western section over at http://www.reddashboard.com (catalog page). I am proud to be posting some great poetry, fiction, and non-fiction from many of you out there, so keep ’em comin’ in!
It was brought to my attention that a poet, won’t mention any names, said that cowboy poetry (and they are in fact a cowboy(girl) poet in their own right), in order to be good, possibly acceptable only in certain circles, that words have to rhyme exactly– rhyme/time, but not rhyme/sign. What does that mean? Wouldn’t we run out of words? Wouldn’t all cowboy poetry end up the same? How do you write perfect cowboy poetry?
Well I’ve read, and keep on reading as much as I can about this (I get asked often). Example is usually the best information. But the big problem with that is, it changes. Poetry has moved from proper meter and rhyme, to what they call free verse, to what can be jarring at times. We accept most forms here.
This site began as a way of allowing those like myself who write western themed pieces to be accepted, where no other journal existed. I’ll confess something here, because that is who I am, it used to irritate me to read poems where every line rhymed. There are poets out there who think that is what poetry is, every other line, or abab, aabb, and aabb ccdd stanzas end with a word that perfectly rhymes. I moved on. I realized it’s the story that matters, with some of that, and a little of other things.
Now I embrace so much more, and its made me a happier editor, a grateful reader, and other things. I love to read. I love to write. It has its healing benefits, but I won’t get into that. Back to Cowboy Poetry…
This genre started way before the West began to disappear, before it had literally been settled as we know it now, or my generation, in the nineteen-fifties through seventies– via television and other sources. Historical records show us it (cowboy poetry) was created as a song to sooth bovine and other livestock, mostly on the trail, when cattle had to be moved into the market place, dab smack in the middle of a town (hence cow-town). These long and harsh, usually unbearable weather, starry nights the cowpoke, ranch hands, and steer needed to ease their woas (fear of wolf and Native American attacks, possibly cattle rustlers).
So they sang (poems and songs are pretty close). If you know about song-writing, you know its a craft of measuring beats, and lyrics of sorts (Sonnets and other artforms of poetry started it all). To amuse themselves, cowpokes began to insert stories with a punch-line. They began to entertain each other around the campfire, on night patrol over the herds, and I assume as a competition of memory over time.
I’ve been taught songs are easy and catchy ways of remembering (by musician friends, I run open-mics), as a way of helping me recite them by memory, my poetry. Now most who lived that life, on the trail, unless you were the owner, even then they were struggling, it wasn’t an easy life–not many were educated. Education back then was a luxury, something that began to be forced upon the off-spring, as a way of calming the Wild West down. Not many knew how to spell. So….what I’m trying to say is, that words were chosen for memory and sounds. Things that rhyme just happened.
Not many wrote these things down, so it’s rare that you find a rule book of sorts from that era, on cowboy poetry and song-writing. But tradition keeps on, like it does in the western world. If you go to the well-remembered cowboy poets of the fifties (and earlier), read their work, study Baxter Black, buy a few cowboy poetry books, read the work. I do. And most improvise the rhyming. If you want to go on the radio and say, “this is how it is, or it ain’t what you think”, you can, but don’t scare our poets. I don’t want them thinking they have to re-write a whole slew of poetry to fit someones idea of perfect cowboy poetry.
I’m trying to keep this post under a million words, as I’ve learned in the writing business, yeah I’ve gotten a few checks for my work (does that make me an expert? Nope) we all have our idols, those who we study and learn from, but even they’d tell you, “I’m no expert, even with awards and such, just follow your heart, and study the craft.” And if you want to win an award, remember this (I’ve done competition as a chef, and won) it all boils down to, who’s at the judging table, it’s a matter of opinion. A matter of taste, and what they think is the right thing. That sort of bugs me, like being chosen for a poetry and fiction edition, anthology, or magazine issue, it all boils down to what someone likes at that moment. Truth. But, if not just one person (judge) is doing the choosing, then you have a better chance. Also, being a good entertainer helps as well. Anyone can be a winner, and we are all still learning. As my big cowboy used to say, Daddy, ever’bodies a winner, there are no losers.
This has got me thinking, maybe it’s about time someone wrote a book about the art of cowboy poetry, or maybe not. Where’s Baxter Black when you need ’em? And then again, if someone did, then there will be someone out there who has a different opinion, it happens.
Keep reading. Keep writing, and keep sending us your wonderful work!
EAS
aka managing editor, Red Dashboard LLC Publishing (and all its ezines- Z-composition, Cowboy Poetry Press, and Annapurna Magazine),
a Texas poet,
and I’m adding ‘Rural Philosopher’ to my title (Baxter Black did it!)
October Issue Deadlines? November 28th, no exceptions, we will read that week, thanks!
editor@reddashboard.com
Read our submission guidelines, no poetry in the body of emails, please~
cowboypoetrypress 