ALF BILTON
Whitehorse, Yukon
About Alf Bilton
Alf Bilton's web site
Recognized as one of
for his poem, "When Walls Forgot"
When Walls Forgot
Her voice banished walls, and "coyotee" calls
Would wash newer noises away;
I'd hear eagles scream, and mountains would gleam
On distant horizons each day.
Revived by her words, the buffalo herds
Again roamed the prairie she knew;
Were slaughtered again, plain seeded to grain,
When "sodbustin' farmers" came through.
She often retold how "Charlie" was bold
Enough to set blooded studs free,
To join a wild bunch, 'cause he had a hunch
Their "get" would remount cavalry.
They could have sold more, "come the Civil War,"
But left a seed herd running free;
And "Young Charlie" wed my grandma instead,
And started his own "fambily."
A found "massacree" became real to me,
As things that she kept on her shelves.
Her stories went on, but wilderness gone,
The plains were like ghosts of themselves.
When pierced by the rails paralleling old trails
That horses bestowed on the West,
And worse yet fenced, the prairie commenced
"Tuh shrivel, 'n' shrink," like the rest.
Then she'd story North, where they had gone forth
On a quest for more untamed land,
Of Saskatchewan, and how they'd gone on
To the Yukon's promising sand.
The mustangers died, but seed scattered wide
Carried on in a world they spurned;
Where wild things are lost, and few heed the cost
Of values we see overturned.
What I am today, I owe in some way,
To stories she pulled from the gloom;
To cowboys and kin who lived once "ag'in"
When walls forgot Grandmother's room.
© 2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Alf told us about his inspiration for the poem:
Like many others who write cowboy poetry, I grew with movie heroes like Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. There was nothing unusual about this in our neighborhood, but unlike my playmates, I had a supplemental supply of cowboy stories available. My grandmother on my mother's side of the family had lived through much of the "classical" cowboy era in the western United States before moving to Canada, and she frequently lived with us. Between her own stories and those of people she had known personally, her background provided ample fodder for a seemingly endless supply of tales about family members and those they had known. Better, she loved to tell stories as much as I liked to listen, and had the patience to relate favorites over and over again. The result was that I, as a preschooler, was introduced to American history through stories about my own ancestors. It was only much later that I began to realize she had been passing along information about more than just two generations of the Palmer family (my mother's maiden name). Part of that confusion no doubt resulted from the family's habit of naming someone in each generation Charles. It became my own middle name.
My mother and an aunt or two got interested in genealogy at one point, and claimed to have traced the family back to within about thirty years of the Mayflower's landing. I seem to have come by my own fiddle-foot honestly though. It seems every time somebody started talking about new land farther west, one or more Palmers was driven to go see for themselves. When they ran out of dry land at the Pacific, the family doubled back, then turned north and was soon wandering all over Canada. The stories came with them.
We asked Alf why he thinks Cowboy Poetry is important, and he commented:
I write cowboy poetry because I cannot seem to stop writing it.
Writing poetry has for most of my life been one of the ways I processed experiences and internalized memories or thoughts. It is a creative activity that has long since become something of an addiction for me. That being the case, I suppose it is only natural that when I write, some of the things I write about belong to the cowboy world. My mother's side of the family had a long history of involvement with the lifestyle, and I was lucky enough to enjoy a few years of personal experience with it.
The community of cowboy poets is sharing something akin to my grandmother's tales of the West as she had known it. Her memories, her values, and perhaps something of her quirky sense of humor, were passed along to my generation even before we realized they were something to be treasured. Cowboy poets are a group of like-minded people pooling individual memories and talents in an attempt to preserve and transmit to even more generations something that began, for me,
in my grandmother's room.
I believe that as our society moves ever deeper into an era typified by urbanization, values of convenience, and licensed lifestyle; as the wilderness succumbs to technology and activist ignorance; and as rural areas sink deeper into a quagmire of bureaucratic incursion; preservation and transmission of such stories to new generations is becoming even more important. Those stories are the key to understanding a different way, the way of the pioneer, the individualist. It is the way of those who paradoxically strive for self-reliance while remaining ready to help others.It is the way symbolized by the cowboy.
You can email Alf Bilton.
Visit Alf Bilton's web site
The Pixie Horse
.........................................
It's the cowboy way to admire fair play and abide by the spoken word,
So it's hard on some guys ain't yet realized that there's horns in a verbal herd.
Many verbal stampedes have left a man treed by the words that he loosed as a joke;
'Cause it's mighty durn few of the boys in the crew that'll stand fer the code bein' broke..........................................
There's always at least one Shorty in any ridin' bunch,
An' I'll bet ours coulda beat all yours at bein' the first to lunch;
Or when it come to talkin'. He sure could stretch a tale.
He'd make a chipmunk's tiny track sound like a grizzly trail.
Still, when his mind was on it, the man could surely ride;
An' a smoother loop no other threw, nor a tighter diamond tied.
He overbid fer one wee horse both Sam and I had eyed,
That understood our human talk as well as you or I.
Pixie cost him 'way too much, but he wanted braggin' rights,
Though she never seemed to like him, an' she sometimes tried to bite.
She'd wait to catch him nappin', then dump him with disdain;
He got real good at summersaults still holdin' both the reins.
Now, Shorty had one nasty quirk fer which I'd little use,
When tempered up where none could see, he'd 'teach' with real abuse.
I was in the barn with drill in hand, when I heard him gettin' mean,
Behind a big high stack o' bales where he thought he'd not be seen.
He was kinda small to swing at me, though I kinda hoped he would;
But instead, he reckoned to justify takin' up that chunk of wood.
Some other hands had heard the row and arrived to listen in
As, pinched fer gut an' long on wind, he tallied up her sins.
"Fer one plugged nickel now," he swore, "I'd sell thet waste u' skin!"
... An' that doggoned little Pixie horse, looked straight at me ... an' grinned.
So I drilled an' I plugged up a five-cent piece, while his lips got white an' thin;
An' I paid the price asked fer the Pixie horse with her silly stuck-on grin.
Back at home, that horse was good as gold, trusted with kids an' kin.
An' Shorty they say, no matter how mad, never beat on a horse again.© 2004, Alf Bilton
This poem and commentary may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf Bilton adds:"The Pixie Horse" is a combination of several factual elements woven into a fiction.
Shorty was a real man, and had many of the qualities attributed to him here, though also many better ones not used in my fictional invention. He was a valued friend of mine until his death a few years ago, though we did have our differences. Our dispute regarding the use of a club, let alone one heavy enough and jagged enough to actually damage the animal didn't happen quite as portrayed here, but did apparently result in his abandoning the practice.
Pixie was a real horse he owned, though not the horse that took such great delight in catching him napping. That summersault trick I saw twice when we were jogging along talking and his mount suddenly stopped dead. Both times, he wound up breathless and flat on his back in front of the stationary horse with the reins still in his hand. Neither of us ever betrayed any secret interest in owning or even using that particular animal; though it was never known to even try that trick on anyone else.
The plugged nickel business is from a story I heard in a mining camp on the shores of Great Bear Lake. It was apparently manufactured by a millwright tired of listening to a friend brag about his headache after paying an enormous fee for two contraband bottles of whiskey smuggled into a dry camp. I cannot personally vouch for its veracity, but believed it myself as, when I arrived, the whole camp was still laughing about the price asked and paid for the second of the two bottles.
And as for the grin ... well, anyone who's been around horses very much knows that sometimes they will launch a grin or even a horse-laugh at you under circumstances that really make you wonder.
The preamble, you say? Well, that was a commentary to explain to those who've never had the privilege of knowing men like these, why anyone might be expected to live up to his word under such circumstances, much less take pride in the fact he had. Shorty was such a man. Beyond that, the preamble was something of a failed experiment. It was meant, among other things, to duplicate the shift in rhythm one hears when a running horse does flying lead changes, but has never been spotted as such.
The Freight Musher's Tale
The old Dawson run wasn't very much fun, when winter bit down hard;
When an icy death begrudged each breath of man or canine pard.
And if she blew, the trail-wise knew they'd best just camp and wait;
So they'd not be lost in the swirling frost, and mush past Heaven's gate.
I recall one storm, even worse than norm, that blew out Christmas Eve.
It died so late I thought I'd wait... for dawn, before I'd leave.
By a nice warm fire, I'd soon retire to rest like my sleeping team...
Then my eye was caught, by a bright red dot... No, it wasn't a dream!
Out there all alone so far from home, thinking no one else around;
I'd no inkling yet just... who I'd met; though by now I heard the sound.
How he cussed and swore hauling back and forth, untangling harnessed deer;
One with a nose that, simply glowed, up front where he could steer.
I rebuilt the fire, piled wood on higher... called out; "Fetch your cup!"
When he'd tied his deer and... did come near; we were ready to coffee up.
He'd a long white beard looked... kind of weird, tangled and, full of sticks;
A torn red suit with scuffed-up boots, and... the look of a man near licked.
He flipped a lip and, took a sip, from his blue enameled mug;
Brushed a log to sit and, paused a bit... then gave that beard a tug.
"Been trying for years to mush beyond here, without using noisy dogs.
Tried moose and some hares... a caribou pair... all left me sitting on logs.
When we get to the trees they... tangle you see. The tree line's the thing has me humped.
Now I know even deer can't get me past here. Tonight, the whole sleigh has been dumped.
They'll not pull as one and... it's really no fun going nine different ways all at once.
And that lead reindeer, I now greatly fear is naught but a... gilded dunce!
So I guess that's that; goll-durn and drat!...Now I'll have to hoof it again."
Then his breath caught, "Well, I'd better trot but; thanks for the coffee, friend."
"But wait!" said I, inspired to try and... help him if I could.
"Why don't you fly? Once in the sky you'd... sail right over the woods.
I've a sled full of beans and... to me it would seem, hot gas being lighter than air;
A flatulent deer might. fly out of here; if stuffed with a big enough share."
I'll keep the tale short, no details report... suffice to say, launch was a go;
Though... hitched nose to tail, those deer got so pale they couldn't be seen in the snow.
Now on a cold night, folk not knowing right, think freezing pops trees apart;
But that cracking sound that we hear around, is really just... reindeer fart.© 2004, Alf Bilton
This poem and illustration may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
(This poem is included in our Christmas 2004 celebration of poetry)
Waiting For Nightmare
A young midnight sun was, having great fun, playing peek-a-boo down in the peaks;
And the last of the rain had, moved on again, having swollen the rivers and creeks.
Though now she must wait, by an old corral gate, my daughter's eyes shone with delight.
She thought of the mare we'd come to see there. If she liked it, she'd own it tonight.
Just the name of, Nightmare, had already scared older riders and buyers, away;
But I could surmise in her ten-year-old eyes, not a trace of such worry today.
The black Morgan mare just, hadn't been there, on the evening we had arrived;
They'd some riders out late, again she must wait. Hardly breathing, she somehow survived.
From when she could talk or, for that matter, walk; she had longed for a horse of her own.
She'd put reins on her trike, wanted spurs for her bike, kept longing through all the years flown.
Always horses she talked; faked a bow-legged walk; and sent her first letter away
To a famous relation lived 'cross the nation; Olympian rider, Jim Day.
Then Dad had agreed that, it seemed a real need, not a whimsical game just for fun;
But the contract she had with her, soft-headed dad, said first there were things to be done.
She should first realize why, a pony's no prize, for riders outgrow such a mount.
She'd get a real horse; when she'd, grown some of course; and they'd haggled the inches to count.
Most important of all, she must keep up a stall, learn to groom, to pitch, to work;
For such four-legged friends need help at both ends, and it's help that no owner should shirk.
She must learn to ride, so the horse could be tried, and her skill would be part of that test.
Dad knew from the grin, that his closest of kin figured, this was the part she'd like best.
For a four- legged pard she had pledged to work hard'n' wait 'til the inches were grown.
And she had learned to ride, and done chores on the side. So now Doubting Dad had been shown.
From the lake past the trees, a loon warbled pleas, to the powers, in this lonely land;
And the thought crossed my mind that, I hadn't been kind. How much could this little girl stand?
When dreams are fulfilled, something else may be killed, something hid, helping shape who we are;
Achievement can cause other dreams to be lost if an, unforeseen change, goes too far.
Fulfillment's a door can be closed evermore, if we step out to take the great test;
But if we never try, we'll never know why; nor if wanting or having is best.
Now my daughter's first door, I could see there before that, rustic old log corral gate,
But seen only by Dad in the, thoughts that he had, encountered, while sharing her wait.
Then the drumming of hooves, and the glimpses of moves, through the limbs of a nearby pine!
... Running horses swept in with a thundering din ... a black at the front of the line!
Now, it's many a year since, last I was here and, stood leaning against the old gate;
While a kid and a mare took a spin, right out there, ending their long lonely wait.
The door seen as closed, the one that had posed such a, problem, for me, near the end;
Here today I can see as, what it has been: something opened, to let in a friend.
© 2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Wrangler's Hat
"Beneath this broad-brimmed hat of mine, I've always felt at home;
Wuz only while it, hung somewhere, I ever seemed alone.It weathered life's indignities, bore all the ups an' downs;
An' though it sometimes, drooped a bit; it never let me down.
Without complaint, or mean advice, it shared my hopes an' fears.
No other's ever proved that true, throughout the many years.
So keep yur shiny halo, Pete! If my hat can't go through,
I'll side a pard already tried an', you can ... toss me too."© 2001, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf says: So what else is there to say about a breed of men seldom seen without their hats?
A cowboy's hat really is usually the first clothing on and the last off, perhaps because he is outdoors so much. They have even been known to step into the shower before remembering to remove it.
I was told one time that the hat though, is not a real good tip-off between drugstore and working cowboy unless you can get close enough to sniff for woodsmoke without getting your nose wiped, that the real test is the presence of string in a pocket. According to the grand old lady that told me this, unless you catch a cowboy in town in his Sunday-go-to meetin' clothes, he'll almost always have a piece of sting on him somewhere. I was on my way to town myself when I heard this, and decided to test it.
At the coffee shop, I dropped a piece of baler twine on the table in front of two friends and asked them to match it. Both looked quizzical, but one produced a matching piece within moments. The other headed for the door saying, "I'll be right back, just realized I left my jacket an' wallet in the truck."
Trails North Advisory
Some folks are brought up on hot dogs while others are raised on paté.
(Looks kinda like gunk from raw wiener, squished an' the skin thrown away).
Things got ugly when they intermingled, right here on the infamous day,
When a new kitchen crew, acting haughty, looked like huffing our coffee away.
That new Canuck cook an' his pearl-diving buddy, a Yank, both aspiring grace,
In the kitchen conspired to risk being fired, just to upgrade the "class" of the place.
........................................................................................................................................
We're a red-necked bunch that show up for lunch at the old Trails North cafe;
We like whiskey served neat, an' our waitresses sweet, an' coffee just made the old way.
Those you don't mess aroun', when the boys are in town, or else there'll be Hell to pay.
But that new kitchen crew seemed to miss every clue, an' decided to serve us Latté.
Though the waitress did try, to warn the new guys, she just couldn't and finally flew;
So, she wasn't there when that devious pair tried to launch their new milk-sotted brew.
Well, the pearl-diver served ... an' every head swerved, as a hush fell across the whole room.
The concentrate glare curdled milk everywhere. Too late then, he recognized doom.
We'd two outriggers slung, an' the hangin' rope strung, an' was fetchin' that miscreant pair;
When old Sergeant McPhee, of the R.C.M.P. bellowed, "Boys, you'd better take care!"
"Though I fully agree, such a dastardly deed rates a hangin', right now an' right here;
If we hang 'em high, don't be thinking just I will do paperwork all of next year."
"There are dudes 'way out East, pants neatly creased, pulpin' forests for forms that we'll fill,
I'll just bet what you wish, we'll have no time to fish, or to hunt, or to ski-do the hills.
Though no judge in this land wouldn't quite understand, what we're doin' needs doin'; there's still
All those forms to fill out, hangin' even one lout. But, you boys just do what you will."
Well, that did give us pause, for though not fearing laws, we all had a common worst dread.
There was not a man there wouldn't pick grizzly bear, over paperwork, to loom o'er his head.
The discussion commenced; for though everyone sensed that justice must somehow be done,
We'd be victims again if this durned hangin' led, to our loss of a whole year of fun.
Then the Sergeant proposed, "Do you boys suppose, that a warnin' might better suffice;
Somethin' else hung on high, warnin' those who might try, such crimes have a pretty stiff price?"
In the end, what we hung was neither durned one; that pair was turned loose on the nation.
We hung two flags you see. It's called "effigy". One's Canuck, an' one's of Yankee persuasion.
Now, some other stops too hang that warnin' for you, up an' down the Alaska Highway.
Where the two flags you see, you can even get tea, but ... it's best you don't mention Latté.© 2001, Alf Bilton
This poem and illustration may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us: I'm afraid Trails North Advisory owes more to whimsy than to inspiration.
It was likely the result of too many quiet hours looking at the unusual apparatus used to fly two flags over at the truck stop where I work sometimes (photo below). That and thinking about the excitable collection of cowboys, truckers, miners, and the like who hang out there to swap stories and suggest solutions to all the world's problems. A few are such dedicated regulars that they beat the waitress to work most mornings. In return for the cook's kindness in granting them predawn access and already having the coffee pot on, they usually even set the tables for her.There's an audio version of the poem on Alf Bilton's site, right here.
Sylvia
To the hills above Whitehorse, that cradle Fish Lake,
Came a short gritty woman for the home she would make.
With two outridin' daughters, one 'fore an' one aft
Of her team an' ol' wagon, though some thought her daft,
She trekked up the Alcan with rubber-shod stock;
Cuttin' horseshoes from tires so the horses could walk
All those miles on the highway without splittin' hooves;
Set a record in passin' for bold Northern moves.
On a sorrel called Red Fox she prowled the whole land,
What was lackin' in stature, they made up in sand;
Blazin' trails we still follow right through to Primrose
When we're takin' horses where better grass grows.
She dragged up a fam'ly, can't really say raised,
Her methods were different an' not often praised;
They turned out a good bunch, with grit an' stout hearts;
Some took to her lifestyle an' some, other arts.
Her living room forest, her carpet fresh snow,
For a ceiling she'd bright lights that Northerners know;
For a pantry, the wildlife, or ridin' to town
For a shower an' shop some, then turn right aroun'
An' back to the mountain, the lake, an' the chores;
To trail ridin' tourists, an' dude saddle sores.
In the hills above Whitehorse, that cradle Fish Lake,
There's a grave an' a marker you might think is fake;
They are real as the blue tint in clear northern air,
Just as real as the cowgirl that came to rest there.© 2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us: In 1959, Sylvia trekked up the Alaska Highway from Anaheim Lake, in British Columbia, with a covered wagon and three kids, all under the age of ten. She told me once that the authorities gave her a pair of 'Slow Load Ahead' signs for her daughters to carry, one ahead and one behind the wagon on saddle horses.
She founded the Sky High Wilderness Ranches operation at Fish Lake in the hills above Whitehorse. There, she and her partner, Ian McDougall, created one of the most worthwhile tourist experiences the North has to offer.
One of the outridin' daughters, Wendy, started a similar operation at Sunshine Valley Ranch farther down the valley and is now a partner in the Sky High venture with Ian and others. The other outrider, Penny, grew up to become the Yukon's first official Poet Laureate, P. J. Johnson, author of Rhymes of the Raven Lady.
The Sad Saga of Parsimonious Murray
Parsimonious Murray could never be hurried when thinking of spending a cent,
And if it cost two before he was through, that penny would never be spent.
When he heard of the gold to be won from the cold in a faraway Klondike place,
He was off like shot for the wealth that he sought, one of the first in the race.
He did lose some time while saving the dime on train fare down to the coast;
But assured of his prize, he figured it wise, having taken a lead at the post.
Though it took a few days to walk such a ways, he finally got to the dock;
But when he inquired of boats to be hired, the price was an awful shock.
Next seen on a log going North in the fog, bold Murray evaded the fare;
Pursuing the dream launched so many schemes in a way that no other would dare.
It was getting near dark Parsimonious parked his log on Skagway's beach;
And scuttled through town never looking around with the Yukon now within reach.
At the top of the pass he knew he'd be asked to produce a whole pile of things,
With no ton or two, he'd not be let through, in pursuit of the metal of kings.
"I am here to get gold and not to be told how to spend any money of mine.
When I get to the top, I'll circle the cop, and continue along doing fine."
So he gave them the slip, though it lengthened his trip a bigger bit more than he'd planned,
Beyond the street lights, out where the bug bites, lost Murray just wandered the land.
Where a life is the cost for most who get lost unequipped for the Yukon's way,
Bold Murray came through, to himself staying true, too thrifty or stingy to pay.
It was Dawson he sought and to Dawson he got, some eighteen summers too late;
Then just hung around on the edge of the town, as if he'd a reason to wait.
When the very next year, they called volunteers to go fight the Kaiser in France,
Parsimonious Murray was finally hurried, as if he'd awaited the chance.
The boys took their leave from a crowd looking grieved and I, in the shade of a tree,
Just had to smile, for after a while thought, "One ... wants a ticket home free."© 2004, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us: The Klondike gold rush launched a tidal wave of humanity into the Yukon wilderness in 1898, few of whom had any real idea what they were getting themselves into, and very few of whom were properly equipped to survive. To stave off disaster, the Canadian government had the North West Mounted Police establish check-points at the border crossings to enforce an impromptu regulation limiting entry to those considered adequately equipped. There were still many individual tragedies, but the move prevented what would otherwise have been a catastrophe of naive self-destruction on the scale of some mythical lemming migration.
Of those who did reach the gold fields, few knew anything about mining and fewer actually found anything but disappointment and hardship. There were, of course, no social services available to care for those who went broke, so one claim was set aside and operated by the authorities for that purpose. Those in desperate need were permitted to work what became known as "Poverty Bar" for a predetermined number of days. Whatever gold they found formed the nucleus of a new "grubstake" for them until they could find work or arrange to leave.
The pace and rhythm of this fictional piece was heavily influenced by the flickering, fast-paced images of the Klondike recorded on early motion picture equipment. Some authentic film of the early Yukon has been archived and, of course, there is also a Charlie Chaplin classic at work here.
Beyond This River
If other hours and other days await,
Beyond this river beckon hills unseen,
Unwalked, untraveled yet; but here's my fate
On water writ between these banks of green:
It's here I'll fail, or best the current and
Hone my skills to best effect. I will sound
This crossing's bitter temper, learn to stand
Alone in Fury's path and hold my ground
('t may serve me well another time and place
Beyond this ford, beyond this test and text).
I'll not be ruled by Boredom's golden mace,
Forever foreseeking what's coming next.
I'll chance what joys and pain this world can give;
I'll win a shore unknown, and knowing, Live.© 1967, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us: At the mouth of the Yellowknife River on Great Slave Lake, there is a rocky hill on the western bank that was very special to me. That was my thinking rock when I was young. From it I could look out to the big lake or up the river explorers had traveled in bygone years. Below was the bridge built to carry a road that as yet went nowhere much beyond Prelude Lake, a popular fishing location. The bridge had been built only shortly before our family moved to the area, and something about a bridge for a road going nowhere, particularly in such a historically significant place, drew me back there many times.
It was there I went one afternoon after a medical for the Vancouver School of Art had revealed the fact that I was red-green color blind. That pretty much eradicated my top three choices for a career. I had to decide what to do next and had just lost the goal that had guided such decisions until that point.
My attention kept drifting to that river and my thoughts gravitating to the men who had first crossed and traveled it. They hadn't known where they were going either, but had won for themselves experiences and precious memories they must have treasured for the rest of their lives.Somewhere up on that rock, I lost my sense of urgency about career planning. Without that, it was a simple matter to resolve whatever else I might do, I would try to shape my life in such a fashion as to collect worthwhile memories along the way.
I penned the first draft of this sonnet before running out of cigarettes and heading for home. A few months later, I left Canada to begin my own yondering years.
That Ride!
A time when the blood's up in horses and man,
When hoof beat and heart beat thud hard as they can,
When sanity, caution, and couth fly away;
Berserker-like joy's turning sober eyes fey.
The herd's into timber and not slowed a lick,
We're racing full tilt where I know it's too thick,
We're taunting the Fates who will flip the next card;
But there's joy in the madness and riding this hard.
Frustration's behind and the fear never rose,
Elation's the spur now that's shredding my clothes;
We plunge through a gauntlet of flailing green limbs,
The forest so dense here the dawning light dims.
The wind's singing by me and hat hits the string;
I'm being slapped silly, but don't feel the sting;
I'm high on the saddle and drunk with the speed,
At one in a union of tree, man, and steed.
It's dancing, this weaving that seeks to avoid
The lances and lashes of trees we've annoyed;
It's graceful and rhythmic as any Strauss Waltz;
And so far, we've danced it without any faults.
They're slowing, we've turned them, we all settle down.
The madness is passing, I feel myself frown
At chances we took with what's left of my hide.
But Heart, Lord, insists we thank You for that ride!
© 2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us: I've always figured that every life should include occasional moments of pure idiocy. The trick is to survive them.
This incident occurred just after daybreak one morning when I was trying to dig a herd of playful horses out of a really bad place. Frustrated, I finally just gave Red Lady her head to see if she had any better ideas. Her solution put all of us at risk, but gave me the ride of a lifetime. For a few minutes, she and I became caught up in the exhilaration that gripped the spirited herd. Later reflection on what happened, and the fact that I actually enjoyed that ride too much to think of pulling her in, reminded me of the Viking term berserk. It must have been a close cousin to what I felt. That was the last time I ever went for the horses without taking the dog along.
Though all ended well on this occasion, I worried about what Old Sylvia, my employer, would say when she realized I'd lost it and chased her horses through such a place. There could be no hiding the tattered condition of my clothing when I drove the herd into the yard that morning, and she was too experienced not to grasp it all at a glance.
That grand old lady was ahead of me again. I was still trying to think of something to say when she walked over and started to look me up and down with great deliberation. Called away just then, she grinned and said only, "Don't get addicted!"
On Reflection
Each river forded, I recall, seemed first
A torrent fraught with dread. But all
Those struggles, soakings, scares, taught me to thirst.
I thirst for Living, hearing rivers call.
While Age is sleeping, I escape my bonds,
Flee beyond rivers there's no way around.
Rejecting the stillness of beaver ponds,
I plunge through currents warding safer ground,
Follow strayed horses up the pass. Seeking
New view points, better grass, I tease old friends
Weren't really dead; feed foxes come peeking
And trust my camp. Then wake! Such dreams have ends.
I slip Time's hobbles, dream again I'm free,
To flee the years with the cowboy in me.
© 2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This image may not be printed or reposted without the artist's written permission.
"On Reflection" by Aili Kurtis
Alf writes: The blame for this one goes to a pastel painting by Aili Kurtis, an artist who is fast becoming one of Canada's national treasures. She has the rare gift of the true master. She can so deftly inject mood into a realistic rendering that the result beggars even photography at its best. Most of her work is from nature, and her web gallery makes a great place for browsing a
virtual wilderness when weather forces me indoors.
One of her pieces, "On Reflection," features shaded old logs, some dappled with unmelted snow, brooding across a pond from younger forest out in the sunlight. There's even a something in that pond makes me itch to dig the binoculars out of my saddle bags. A lesser artist might have abandoned realism to dispel that little mystery. No doubt she knows what it was, but I hope she never tells me. "On Reflection" haunted me for some time before I realized that it seemed to capture the light of that moment between day and dusk, or between mist and clarity. Now, I've experienced such moments many times, but they usually occur only once a day, and not every day at that. I'd have thought it would take an artist years to capture one.
"On Reflection" seems to have caught my muse's attention too. The sticky-fingered little critter seized on the weathered logs as a symbol of reluctant aging, stole her title, and started clamoring something about a companion piece for Beyond This River. The result reflects on some of the same issues from the perspective of an older man almost forty years later.
Is A Cowboy Still A Cowboy?
"Hey look, Ma! There's a cowboy," said a kid the other day;
And i wondered, "What's a cowboy?" as i went on my way.
Ever wondered, "What's a cowboy?" and how to spot the fakes?
If you're a big-hat dandy or, have what it really takes?
What i see in this mirror, is a man and not a hat.
(Good thing too or i betcha, i'd hurt where the razor's at!)
That guy that's lookin' back at me, knows what i really am;
i sometimes wish he'd tell me more, but he don't give a damn.
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, beneath a baseball hat?
Or fannin' gears 'stead of pony rears, movin' cows like that?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, head bared in Sunday suit?
Or afoot down at the stock yard, sortin' with gate and chute?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, that never owned a cow;
That maybe worked with horses, and too old to do that now?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, if he now lives in town,
And bellies up to store-bought beef, so wants the prices down?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, while seedin' hay and grain;
Or comin' back to get it, on a tractor once again?
Or keepin' a grip on the food chain herdin' woolly sheep?
While diggin' Her a cellar, where apples and such will keep?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, decked out in uniform;
Huggin' a gun they tell him, might hold off a comin' storm?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, wrecked somewhere overseas;
His bones at rest in foreign soil, without a prairie breeze?
Is a cowboy still a cowboy, when only three feet tall?
And are cowboys sometimes women, not even male at all?
"I think," says guy in the mirror, raisin' his coffee cup,
"He's somethin' seen in anyone I'd trust to, cowboy up."© 2006, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf Bilton comments on the poem: It's kind of from nowhere and everywhere at once, the product of decades of musing about the image and issues, a reflection on both personal experiences and encounters with other folks' stories, opinions, and comments. Many moments of suddenly "relating" to things found in conversations, literature, and occasionally even movies, contributed to this piece.
Examples would include my own trudge through drizzle in northern Italy many years ago to visit and photograph the grave of an uncle reputed to be the best bronc rider from my mother's side of the family, and recognition of real kids I've known on encountering the precocious little ranch hand who lets a crippled girl try to mount his horse in Robert Redford's movie "The Horse Whisperer." The timeless moment of another youngster encountering a calf in Victoria Boyd's poem "Lil Buckaroo" is in there somewhere, along with contemplation of Sam Jackson's "Prestige," a product of his "One Shepherd Crusade."
Some women live far beyond the ranch wife role, itself a thing deserving considerable merit, and prove themselves quite capable every chore a cowboy encounters. I would go so far as to suggest the term "cowboy" applies to such women if only to forestall the possibility of someone reading devaluation of their credentials into the term "cowgirl." Two such women would be Edna
Zigenbine, described in Jack Sammon's poem of the same name; and Sylvia McDougall, who I knew myself. This whole issue rose in my own mind because one of Sylvia's daughters, on having completed a partsman's course a number of years back, shook the Yukon Territory's educational system to it's smug roots when she challenged anyone's right to issue her a diploma as a "partsperson" or "partswoman" instead of "partsman." The upshot was that she was issued the same diploma as everyone else who graduated that course; but I strongly suspect that if I were to check today, those with less respect and understanding of either merit or language will have arranged to have only partsperson diplomas issued to anyone.
As for the young lad quoted from our encounter in a grocery store, I never did get his name.
Wall Thoughts
Ain't really so awful splayed here on the wall,
'Cept fer the knowin' that I'll hafta fall.
What with my head bein' closest ta dirt,
An' both boots above me; that is gonna hurt.
Like Wile E. Coyotee, I hang here a bit
With time to foresee it, an' judge where I'll hit.
I've time to regret now, with all of my heart,
Not waitin' ta saddle, back there at the start.
Them calves that got out woulda made some good veal,
But likely too old by the time that I heal;
That nag is still pitchin' all over the place ...
They's some kinda grin there on her evil face!!!
Shore glad they was no one around here ta see
That thump in the flank she got from my knee;
Or me on my belly across her bare back
While she done her buckin' 'tween here an' the shack.
Too bad that such ridin' won't let ya draw breath,
Else I coulda rode the durned cayuse ta death!
I'd planned me a dismount real well but then, darn,
What with the spinnin'; lost track o' this barn.
I reckon this wall don' like cowboys at all,
Now it's yanked back its grip, I'm startin' ta fall;
But slowly, so slowly, nose inches from dirt....
Somehow I just know it; this one's gonna hurt!© 2006, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf Bilton comments on the poem: This was one of those fool moments a guy doesn't really like to remember, let alone talk about much; but too funny to be kept to oneself. Suffice to say, about the only thing not true about this one is the dialect, borrowed from an ex-Texan who now lives and works here in the Yukon.
I never cease to be amazed at how time slows in a situation like that. If my mind hadn't been elsewhere just then, I swear I'd have had enough time to do the first two or three drafts of the poem before that wall and I parted company.
Red Lady
Likely missin' Alberta an' sweet prairie hay,
That bunch of new horses was determined to stray;
So the boss said, "You watch 'em, an' fetch 'em each dawn!
But you'd best use my red mare an' not what you're on."
Well, she looked kinda puny fer riders my size,
But her gait was as gentle as fluff in blue skies.
Then we left outta there at the speed of a thought,
An' I started to wonder if she could be bought.
She was nimble an' quicker than even spooked deer,
Just as pretty to look at as icy cold beer,
Sure-footed an' trail-wise, an' surprisingly strong ...
Right from the beginning, we got right along.
She could tote me 'way higher than any tree line:
With the sheep gettin' nose-bleeds, Red Lady was fine,
Up where eagles got dizzy while just wheezin' by,
An' I'd scroonch in the saddle to stop brushin' sky.
She was likely the best horse that I'll ever ride;
Though I know there's a lot yet that I haven't tried.
A friend an' advisor, an' a good watcher too,
I just never found anythin' she couldn't do.
We followed those horses an' a couple new foals
Even into the deepest of God-forgot holes.
Once she kicked a red devil right offa the trail,
Gettin' through to a colt with a arrow-shaped tail.
Boys, I know you've seen nothin' like what I described,
An' now Bucky is wond'rin' just what I imbibed;
But I'll swear on the Bible that any man's brought:
I will always regret Lady couldn't be bought.© 2006, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us the poem is "...based on a real experience though a few details may have been stretched a tad...The trouble with using a ranch horse instead of sticking to your own string, is very similar to using a new loaner or rental car while your own vehicle is in the shop. Once you've tried something obviously better, what you were perfectly happy with before is likely to suffer by comparison."
He added, "The lady was having a bad hair day and likely didn't anticipate her picture being made public."
The One That Was Waitin' At Home
The pad of the pup follows me an' the mare
Is nearly as soft as the snow in the air;
My friends an' companions, this brave hairy pair;
Another one's waitin' at home.
Durn cat's in my face now, to lodge a complaint;
The weather's all wet an' his water dish ain't,
An' though he's bin patient as any ol' saint,
We're long overdue gettin' home!
He mutters an' grumbles an' carries on some,
Of pendin' disaster or worse that'll come,
If I ain't more careful 'bout leavin' my chum,
Stuck mindin' the place here at home!
That fire's bin out now, so long I am told,
That him an' the mice have a truce for the cold;
An' all of em's sure that the shack should be sold,
For somethin' stays warm like a home!
No mention of times that I took 'im with me;
How he hated the tent, but loved runnin' free;
Or eagle convinced 'im he'd much rather be
The one that was waitin' at home!
© 2006, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
If You're Gonna Be a Cowboy
Sure as cats is senior kittens, learned dignity an' such;
If you're gonna be a cowboy, son, you'd oughtta know this much:
It ain't all fun an' freedom, big hats an' ridin' high;
Or even just in tippin' hats as you pass the ladies by.
It's lotsa work with little rest, an' lotsa lonely too;
'Cause mostly when you'd like to play, there's too much work to do.
Sure there's days out on the ranges, big part of what you'll do;
The bond between a man an' horse, an' skies of denim blue.
But it ain't all done in sunshine, there's rains an' blizzards too;
An' though you're wet, an' sore, an' cold, there's still the work to do.
It ain't all done from horseback, an' it likely never was;
There's wounds to tend an' fence to mend. It's what a cowboy does.
You'll find that you have little time for fun an' sleepin' too.
That ride to town is just too long. There's too much work to do.
There are calves to pull an' nursemaid, bad bulls to be dehorned;
There's hay an' feed to pitch an' pile; so best that you're forewarned.
It ain't quite like in movies, with the dull bits skippin' through;
Real cowboys know forever means, there's still more work to do.
There's some who feel more peace of mind out here than when in town,
An' find that lackin' luxuries don't ever get 'em down.
They see a time when sun comes up to find that now they too
Can smile as they get saddled up, 'cause they have work to do.
But:
Sure as snakes all pluck their eyebrows, an' hiss thei Howdy-doos;
If you're gonna be a cowboy, son, you're gonna pay some dues.
© 2007, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf told us, "Most of what we write seems to overlook or make light of the downside to the
cowboy business, the part of it that keeps a lot of young folks from going that route. One friend of mine who grew up on a ranch, but chose to become a truck driver instead, claims this piece pretty much sums up what prompted him to jump the fence at an early age."
Be It Elko Or Eldorado
Don hardly knew heifer from hondo,
But somehow his fevered mind
Saw Elko as Eldorado,
And knights in the cowboy kind.
Still seeking that something much better,
All dreamers are sure they'll find,
He shook off Reason's harsh fetter,
Sure that his critics were blind.
Don traded his hard hat for Stetson,
Retrained his puzzled old mare,
Just ignored his neighbors' bets on
How long he would last out there.
His tin pants were swapped for blue denim,
Silk shirt for more underwear;
Then Quixote, Lordy bless 'im,
Tackled windmills wearing hair.
The odds looked a little uneven:
Windmills, all longhorns and quick;
Vaquero, a greenhorn, unseasoned;
Some said, a little bit thick.
Don's heeler compadre, called Sancho,
Turned out to know cattle tricks;
That dog bought his Don time to know
'Bout hooking and vicious kicks.
Don stuck it all out and got better,
Though too old to make top hand;
Then took to rhyming each letter,
Written 'bout life on the land.
Seems right about then, the word "Elko,"
Came to the old rhymer's mind;
(Mystical place old cowboys go,
Welcome to hang with their kind).
Don never came back from that gather,
Hired on with Service and Clark;
Some say they're still rhymin' blather;
Still heard, when dusk turns to dark.
Be it Elko or Eldorado,
Some folks will follow a dream
Far past places the cautious go:
MAKING things be as they seem.© 2007, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
With apologies to Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, the community of Elko, longhorn cattle, windmills, and anyone else who may have been unintentionally annoyed, slandered, or otherwise discomfited
by this little fiction.
The Home Place
In the lines on his face there's a map of the creeks;
It's carved in deep contour to record all the weeks
He spends freezing or frying, midwife to the earth;
While he's catching, in sluices, the gold she gives birth.
Most at home with the wild things when he's not alone,
He is awkward with herd-folk in populous zones.
He's inclined to be stubborn and set in his ways,
Like he's been on his lonesome for too many days.
There are lots who don't know him, who don't understand,
That the old placer miner is part of this land.
It has held him, and fed him, and sculpted his face
'Til he speaks of what shaped him as just, "the home place."
© 2007, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf comments:
I worked on one of the smaller placer operations for a few years, and noticed that the boss always thought of his home being the claim, not the place in town where he wintered. His home was in an interesting neighborhood. Though we frequently saw no other humans for weeks at a time, his other neighbors often dropped by ... fox, caribou, grizzlies, ptarmigan, and occasionally even sheep or buffalo.
Like ranching, placer mining tends to be more a matter of lifestyle than vocation. Most of the still-active operations tend to be very small, consisting of an owner with one or two hired hands. Others are family
businesses staffed primarily by two and sometimes three generations of the same family. A relative few are larger concerns with more equipment and a greater number of employees, but even with these the "home" and "family" aspects play an important role wherein the same people tend to hire on year after year.
The Morning That Pedro Blew
'bout a hell an' a half full of spiteful rage launches the squeal of hate
That declares me dead as he drops his head an' tries to kick down the sun!!!
My leather deck tips, my horizon slips into line with the trees nearby,
But with boots in his ears an' my head on his rear I somehow survive that one!!!
Now he tries ag'in, adds curlyque spin! I'm up on a headless horse!!!
Leanin' back so far ... that my shoulders are ... near slammin' his ... risin' rump,
Ag'in I stay stuck!! But this horse can buck!! ... An' I ain't no rodeo man!!!
On the ground ag'in, four hooves dug in, ... ducks aside as he ...dodges a stump!!!
That dang near worked, ... that sudden jerk to the side came ...unexpected!!!
Must stay on reflex, 'cause whatever ... comes next, ... I mustn't take time to ... ponder.
No time to think, ... just trust instinct! ... an' don't give 'im any more slack!
Buckin' straight ag'in ... no room to spin ... 'tween bank an' ... pond that's ... yonder.
Pullin' up his head ... seems he wants me dead!! ... He's gonna come up an' back!!!
Stingin' hat between ears so now he'll fear just luck avoided more hurtin'.
... but we're stood upright!! That hat-bestowed fright stole his balance... blunder, ,,, stumble!!
Back feet gettin' ... wet! ... he'll topple us yet!! ...we're gonna get dunked for ... certain!!!
Deep breath, feet free, death grip with the knees ... he staggers, but doesn't fall!!!
Four hooves on the ground, ... surprised that it's sound! ... just stands! ... startin' to shake.
I fake a calm tone, say ... “Horse, we're alone, so why don't you quit showin' off?"
... I allow him to drink ... quits just as I think I must rescue that little lake.
He too pretends calm as we move along, now that man an' mount are tested.
But we'll both take care with the other there, knowin' neither was really bested.© 2008, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf comments:Pedro was one of eighteen head of new stock brought to a tourist operation I was working at, and the my first experience with a horse who really knew how to buck. From the very beginning, it was obvious that I wasn't dealing with just another one that liked to work out the morning kinks with a few crow hops.
For his first trip out of the yard, I was using him to ride drag on a group of tourists someone else was leading up the mountain (our usual routine for testing new stock and teaching them the trails and routines). As he started acting up, I dropped back farther and farther to avoid exciting the other horses. It was when I started him forward again that he decided he'd rather go back to the yard, and our clash of wills really kicked into high gear.
Though I didn't know it at the time, we were still in sight of the trail riders. They watched the altercation from atop a nearby ridge. Consequently, our little rodeo wound up in folks' home movies all the way from Japan to Germany.
Sunset Gold
“There's gold in the sunset,” the cowboy had said, “You can see it as clear as the pines.”
We sat by the fire with coffee in hand, talkin' old days, an' cowboys, an' mines.
The horses were settled, the camp was set up, old-timer and I were at ease.
We had been talkin' of when he was young, an' green as the mountains an' trees.
I was wary of windies, an' reckoned a few had been fannin' the fire at my feet.
He said he'd known Dalton, an' Soapy, an' Reid; seen Dawson with only one street.
He said he'd rode drag on the first Dalton herd, at least up as far as the Post;
Been left there to work on the buildings, it seems, with others came up from the coast.
“There's gold in the sunset,” the cowboy opined, “It augers a change for the best.
But now if you'll 'scuse me, I'm gonna turn in. This cowboy's in need of his rest.”
He rose to his feet then, drew back from the fire, an' disappeared under the trees.
I sat there an' pondered the ways of the world, an' how he could lie with such ease.
First time that I saw him, already old, a tamarack twisted but true;
Fence-rail skinny an' crusty as bark, his jeans were a used-to-be blue.
But believe he knew Service, a banker back then? Or rafted with Sam McGee?
As likely as workin' for sunset gold, with sunrise a bonus for free!
“There's gold in the sunset,” the cowboy had said, that claim was staked out in my mind.
An' now that I noticed, it seemed he was right. It was pretty as any you'll find.
The sunrise that followed was brighter somehow, an' for once I was first to the fire.
I grinned as I waited to tease him a bit, I'd hint he should maybe retire.
The pot rattles failed an' the coffee smell too, I finally knelt at his side.
That cowboy would rest forever it seemed. Sometime in the night he had died.
I wrapped 'im an' packed 'im an' gathered his things; not many as maybe you've guessed.
I checked out some letters was almighty old, an' they put my doubts to the test.
“There's gold in the sunset,” the cowboy had said, “You can see it as clear as the pines.”
Seems now that I'm older, I see what he saw, the values behind the two lines.
I think he knew Service, a banker back then, and rafted with Sam McGee;
And here I am workin' for sunset gold, with sunrise a bonus for free.© 2008, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Alf comments: Before mankind gets too excited about nearing a successful conclusion to the long search for a Theory of Everything, I reckon Steven Hawking and the boys will have to set aside investigation of black holes and the like to ponder some other universal mysteries. No Theory of Everything will be deserving of the name until it accounts for why many women seem driven to accompany each other to the powder room, and why anyone with a choice takes up the cowboy life."
Read Alf Bilton's poem, The Arts, in tribute to Rod Nichols
and
in our Art Spur Project
andread Alf Bilton's essay, "Rules; An' When to Break 'Em" here.
About Alf Bilton:
Still in his sixties, Alf is already determined to sit down one of these days and decide what he wants to be when he grows up. He claims to have been too long prone to wandering, wondering, and worrying about things that don't seem to bother anyone else. Among those things are the changes he sees as the North undergoes settlement and the same "civilizing" influences that have long since overtaken the rest of the West in both Canada and the United States.
Alf finished high school in Yellowknife, then promptly took off to see for himself whether the world was really flat or not. He managed to turn twenty-one on the other side of the globe during a long stint in Australia. His folks moved while he was yondering overseas. "My father though, a woodsman from 'way back, had made the mistake of teaching me the rudiments of tracking. I caught up to the family again in the Yukon." He has been returning to the Territory whenever there was work to be had pretty much ever since.
There were a few years in Alberta attending university and then teaching school. Eventually, he remembered he greatly preferred jobs that got him outdoors and stayed at work when he went home. He also spent some time in Saskatchewan when a friend and he tried crossbreeding a yak bull and some Highland heifers. Alf's was to be mostly sweat equity and he spent the next couple of years alone with the livestock most of the time. Those years cemented his respect for working cowboys and ranchers.
"Horse, heeler, and I were all out of our depth with that Yakland venture. I wasn't long concluding that what made a pretty good bush horse in the Yukon wasn't the best for working cattle. It took a little longer to admit I was as out of place there as my horse was. The dog caught on quickly and turned out to be the only competent one in the outfit. Of course, we started out with her mad at me for a long time because it was obviously my fault that cows could kick sideways."
Alf claims the best description of the result came from an old cowboy who had tried the same thing. "He opined that the highland-yak cross results in a longhorned flying shag rug with a bad attitude. Anyway, the cattle seemed to be having more fun than we were, so when I heard of a mine reopening in the Yukon, I was a lot longer packing the truck than deciding what to do."
Among many other things, like picking fruit, cutting sugar cane, and selling computers, Alf has worked mine mill and placer mining, wrangled both horses and tourists, drove truck, operated heavy equipment, even pumped gas to stay on the food chain. And, he says, "Once in a while I write.""When I write poetry, a few words or phrases seem to infect my mind first and the rest just somehow grows from that. It's like some tune I can't be rid of until it's done, and done a certain way; some tune like the one Tom T. Hall sang about in That Song Is Drivin' Me Crazy."
"Sometimes it all comes quickly. Other times, months or years go by with occasional additions or modifications presenting themselves out of the blue until the day something 'clicks' and my scatter-brained muse is finally satisfied. At that point, it feels more like I've released something than created it. "
You can email Alf Bilton
Visit Alf Bilton's web site for more of his poetry and some good links to others'.
What's New | Poems | Search
The BAR-D Roundup | Cowboy Poetry Week
Subscribe | Newsletter | Contact Us
Authors retain copyright to their work; obtain an author's
permission before using a poem in any form.
CowboyPoetry.com is a project of the Center for Western and Cowboy Poetry, Inc., a Federal and California tax-exempt non-profit 501 (c) (3) organization.
