"Scoping the
Bosque" by Jennifer M. Ward
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Where Time Has Stood Still by Diane Tribitt
Scopin’ the Bosque by Al Mehl Scopin’ the Bosque by Victoria BoydOn the Other Side by Clark Crouch
If This Old Trail Could Speak by Slim Farnsworth
Thanks to all who submitted poems.
Where Time Has Stood Still
Commercial cow ranches have changed a lot…
In some ways, quite a little bit.
We see outside cash buy small ranches up
for some big outfit's benefit.We see more hunters, hikers and campers
in cowpuncher country, today;
and lots more pressure from government laws
as we watch our lifestyle decay.But we know some things ain’t changed all too much,
like handlin' cows day-‘t-day
in this old country, where time has stood still,
as we cowboy, horseback, for pay.There's four full-time men that hold down this camp,
each tendin' ‘t six hundred cows
on sixty or more square miles of desert,
sustained, as the good Lord allows.We each take a piece ‘a country ‘t ride
twice a year, when we make a drive,
Ridin’ our circles and watchin’ for tracks
where the hidin' cow seems ‘t survive.Lot a’ these cows are masters at hidin'—
some never get over that trait;
so if we hap ‘t let one get away,
we likely just sealed our own fate.‘Cause next time she’ll take her calf and her pals
out into the desert bosque,
‘til we've got us ten or fifteen head that
are hidin', or gettin' away.There’s a gray cow here, that's sixteen years old.
She don't need no thicket ‘t hide.
All that she needs is just one little bush,
and she’ll hole up, right there beside.You would swear‘ t Christ it weren't big enough
‘t conceal a full-grow’n cow;
You could ride up close…as from you ‘t me…
and you'd never see her, somehow.Oh, she used ’t come out like a freight-train
…when she'd come out…that ain't no lie:
She’s old enough, now, that I'm curious just
how long it'll take her ‘t dieWe ride each camp 'til the whole outfit's worked,
on horseback, two months, ev’r day,
Makin’ a livin’ is all that we ask,
with no one ‘t get in our way.Yes sir, time has stood still for us cowboys
survivin’ by nature's design;
still sleepin’ beneath a red desert moon,
cowpunchin’, come rain or come shine.© 2008, Diane Tribitt
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Scopin’ the Bosque
Dad’s an outgoing fellow, he’s friendly, he’s mellow,
He’s loyal with all of his friends;
He is cheerful and bright, and in place of a fight
He’s the first to be makin’ amends.
He’s the first with a greeting, he’ll chair a town meeting,
He’s quick with a lim’rick or rhyme,
A magnanimous style, a gregarious smile,
’Least it's true ’bout one third of the time.
But the other two thirds, he’s a man of few words,
Even fewer when hurtin’, or troubled,
Or just angry, or mourning, and seems that this morning
The sound of his silence has doubled.
No, he never gets mean, never lets out a scream,
And although he is never unkind,
For the horses and me, it's darn’d easy to see
That he's got somethin’ big on his mind.
Mornin’ chill’s in the air, a low fog’s hangin’ there
’Long the banks of the Big Sandy River.
But it isn’t the breeze that’s been rattlin’ my knees,
It’s his mood that’s been makin’ me shiver.
He’s dismounted his horse, and he’s plottin’ a course
Through this thorny ol’ bosque of mesquite.
Me, I've seen this a lot, seems to gather his thoughts
When his weight’s firmly down on both feet.
With his horse on a lead, walks ahead of the steed,
Claims he’s scopin’ the bosque for stray cattle.
But his search, seems to me, is to find clarity,
’Cause the viewin’ is best from a saddle.
Me, I’m wonderin’ why he won’t someday just try
To be honest with me ’bout his pain,
To combine with his walkin’ a little more talkin’;
There’d be less to lose than to gain.
Even though it’d be hard, why not drop down his guard,
And just maybe try tellin’ me ’bout it?
I keep dreamin’ that he'd be confidin’ in me;
It might happen someday... but I doubt it.
© 2008, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Scopin’ the Bosque
We tracked them cows all thru the morn’
A hopin’ they weren’t at the bosque
Meandering up and down desert trails
Thru sand n’ sagebrush n’ rock
My son is young, but he’s a hand
He ropes n’ rides like a man
Shakin’ out loops, as sweet as you please
He’ll head ‘em, if anyone can
Well, the sun was high n’ our hopes were low
As we headed down the track
A leadin’ t’wards that shady bosque
The mesquite a scrapin’ our kak
We could hear the Big Sandy River
Where two creeks converged below
As we picked our way thru the thorny brush
Where the goin’s mighty slow
The brush got thicker n’ thorns got long
Our Wranglers n’ chinks got poked
The deep, shady bosque with its welcomin’ cool
Prevented a cow’s getting’ roped
But that’s a grown man’s thinkin’
A boy’s mind is more clear
My boy heard the bell, shook out a high loop
Snaked it n’ roped him a steer
He turned on his pony, n’ led him out
Of the thorny mesquite brush bosque
The steer all stiff legged, tight, n’ mad
As he got drug thru trees n’ rocks
I followed behind, then got ‘side of the trail
As the whole herd came out of the trees
N’ followed the boy n’ the fightin’ steer
N’ I watched, as proud as you please!© 2008, Victoria Boyd
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
On the Other Side
A ridge of hills against the sky,
a won'drous sight to see,
an invitation to explore
this grassy inland sea.
The distant hills all stand in line,
leading a rider on
through a journey of discov'ry,
light of a new days dawn.
It makes us wonder at such times
"what's on the other side?"
Seems like there's always one more hill,
another mile to ride.
When the long journey's done at last,
the ending of the ride...
topping the crest of that last hill,
we see the other side.
