PDF Trying to Catch the Horses: Poems

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The Competition. It's a competition where we ride To put our ropes on cattle that hide When out from a palmatter patch they run Quarter is given to nary a one While through the hammocks dashin' And through flagponds, splashin' It's nip and tuck Dodge and duck Through palmatter flats like a steeplechase Lighter'd snags all o'er the place, It's rope or wreck!

What the heck You'll feel good, once it quits hurtin', If you live, of that I'm certain! It's like the Derby, when we give chase 'Cuz after a cow, it's a horserace! You'd better have a pony that can run If you expect to catch you one That's because there's two of the crew After the same critter as you! And 'bout the time you throw your snare, Well, he ducks off, and you catch air!

From behind you, they will swoop While you build a second loop With a laugh, they'll race by While you build on the fly D'rectly, someone'll snare the beast You missed, but what a rush, at least He'll sunfish and lunge, try to catch a horse Gotta mind your slack, of course To help, someone'll throw their snare And then you take 'im to a tree somewhere We're unconcerned with losin' our prey For we don't dally, the Western way To the saddle horn we tie For this is the motto we live by: Go for broke!

Rope and choke! When we catch 'im, we mean to keep 'im, And whatever comes with 'im! Doyle told us about the inspiration for his poem : I just got to thinking about how competitive we are about roping, even those of us who can't rope to save our lives, and the thrill that comes from a wild chase through the woods I do realize there are some who tie off to the saddle horn out West, but dallying seems to be the norm and like my Uncle Dewaine says, "If you ain't tied off, you don't want him bad enough!

They really couldn't believe it, although he seemed sincere This New York Yankee, come to work one year He grew up with westerns, watchin' Gene and Roy Told 'em all his life, he wanted to cowboy He knew of Del Vecchio, the bullrider from the Bronx He listened to country music, and gone to honky tonks From an online auction, he'd bought a used saddle And two or three books on the diff'rent breeds of cattle Why he come to Florida, no one could rightly say They figgered he'd have headed West to learn the cowboy way He told 'em all he wanted work, of his lifelong dream To ride the range as part of a cow getherin' team The Foreman was dubious, it was calvin' season Norm'ly to hire a new man, he wouldn't see a reason But the Yankee was in luck, cuz Bill had just quit And the Foreman had no choice but to see if he would fit He couldn't use a whip, and didn't know how to rope After hours of teachin', the cowcrew gave up hope They asked if he could ride, and the Yankee said, "Of course!

As he rode along further, there was blowin' a cool breeze And he contemplated thoroughly what kind of cabbage grew in trees Though he didn't know it, he come through where the Foreman said And searched the area expectantly to see a giant head An ancient sight, a totem pole, he expected to behold Like somethin' off of Easter Island, a Seminole relic of old He rode into a stand of pine, but never saw the head He come upon a cattle trail and followed where it led 'Ditch lizard' puzzled the man, he thought to ask them later While ruminatin' upon this term, he never saw the gator!

His horse's nose caught the stench and launched him in the air! He impacted swiftly with the earth, his arm in prickly pear! A string of cusswords left his mouth, poetically it seemed The art of such vulgarity has every sailor dreamed!

Rescuing horses from perilous situations

Concludin' his obscenities, he retrieved the final spine As Gopher come upon the scene, returnin' Yank's equine The Yankee mounted sheepishly, and continued on his way Muddled still by the terms, his thoughts in disarray Bewildered though he was, he was sure he'd recognize A hammock hangin' in the air, between the earth and skies But he saw no hammock, just some trees, and cattle all a-stir And round the cows he plainly seed where the cowmen where When Yank joined them round the herd, Jim saw a pregnant cow She'd tried to calve, hooves were out, she needed helpin' now!

Gopher roped and choked her, Jim went to tail 'er down And it was here that what occurred gave the Yank renown A simple word assailed his ears, he didn't have to fake He understood implicitly, it's meaning no mistake Jim had hollered "Mug the cow! Doyle comments, "[The poem's] inspiration came from an incident that occurred at another part of Lykes Brothers Ranch.

A new man had hired onto Boar Hammock one of the five 'camps' Lykes has who had been raised on a cattle ranch in Venezuela, but educated in America. He was unfamiliar with certain terms commonly used, and on his first time gathering with the crew, was instructed to go to the deadman in the fence, and wait there until he saw the other men sweep across the pasture and then he was to fall into line.

He did not know that a 'deadman' is a pull post with an anchor, in lieu of an H brace. He was hunting all over for a tombstone! I then got to thinking of all the other terms we use, some which are peculiar to Florida ranching vernacular, and thought it'd be a fun way to showcase one more difference between us and cowboys from other regions. Doyle expounds on Florida cowmen and contrasts their work with Western "cowboys" in his poem, "The West," presented by Florida Wildlife Corridor in a video here.

He doesn't shy away from multiple meanings and always makes an effort to make connections or set the reader up to make connections. Every word, every line had a purpose, and there was no unnecessary rambling. Each poem deserved to be written and published and read.

This is a significant writer who deserves more attention. I highly recommend this book and look forward to his next effort. May 29, - Published on Amazon. I had not read Gary Short's work before seeing his poem "Teaching Poetry to 3rd Graders" in The Writer's Almanac some time back, but I bought his book and pieced through it, not reading whole poems, but only lines that might take me into my own thoughts: "The spaces between the falling leaves" The poet invites me to help in the process like the one that I'd been doing already.

All these found images grouped on the page encourage me to find more in my own life. He instead follows a Zen of those who inhabit his own heart. And his voice is true Western--not regional, not celluloid--in his open sense of the people, the dust, the "critters" and the trees. Maybe he's like Snyder, and like Wallace Stegner, after all. The welcome sign we planted there,. The road crew cut it down. A small reflective exit sign. Now stands there in its place. Directing would - be visitors.


Four Corners Equine Rescue

To enter, just in case. Just need a change of pace. And see its smiling face. The more they stay the same. But hard times are still hard times. No matter what the game. A quitting business sale.

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Is near about to fail. Old man Rollins closed his steakhouse down. But less traffic means less patrons. So his ship has run aground. The motel changed its name. Try as we might, I ask you friend. Where do we lay the blame. Some folks call it progress.

Tam o' Shanter (poem)

But it may have sunk the boat. Next time they build a bypass. You may spy an exit sign.

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Could be yours or could be mine. We always go through Seymore, Texas on our way down.

It's about half way down so we usually stop for coffee and such. I nearly got lost because they had just finished a new bypass around town.

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I told Sandi that the bypass would probably make a ghost town out of Seymore in a few years. To make a really long story short, I wrote this little piece. Ode to the Line Shack. Dad had hired on to cowboy and mother was expecting my older brother Monte.

Dalton Wilcox Is The Poet Laureate Of The West - CONAN on TBS

To make matters worse a family of skunks had moved in under the floor of the shack and the smell was horrific. She remembers those days as being some of the most lonely times of her life. The rest of the poem is plain and simple, premeditated, nonsense. A bit of truth to it but mostly nonsense. The Cowboy's a Legend. Granddad told stories that his granddad told Of raging stampedes, the rain and the cold Of herds pointed north and the rivers they crossed The deep, muddy water.

Comments from the archive

The good cowboys they lost Chorus The cowboy's a legend, conceived by the trail Cut short was his life by the wire and the rail His laws, plain and simple, passed down to the rest No title, no chapter. That's the code of the west He knows what he stands for. Won't veer from that trail Distinct in his vision as a coyote's wail Can't stand rude behavior toward horses or men Has no place in the world that he's living in Chorus The cowboy's a legend, conceived by the trail Cut short was his life by the wire and the rail His laws, plain and simple, passed down to the rest No title, no chapter.

That's the code of the west Some are cowboys by choice, others born to the breed They'll ride, when they die towards the nearest stampede The cowboy lives on yet today and beyond Though the ruts have blown in and the trail herds are gone Chorus The cowboy's a legend, conceived by the trail Cut short was his life by the wire and the rail His laws, plain and simple, passed down to the rest No title, no chapter.