DALE E. PAGE
Monrovia, Indiana
About Dale Page

 

 Recognized as one of

for his poem, "Once We Were Kings"

 

Once We Were Kings

It’s a half day’s ride to this cabin door
Where I spent my eighteenth year.
There are spur marks there on the old wood floor,
But the crew’s no longer here.

So it’s silent now, where a noisy gang
Gathered round to lie and spar
Or to ponder life while some waddy sang
To his battered old guitar.

All the bunk bed slats have been long since burned
By the hungry cast iron stove.
In the corner there lies a chair, upturned,
With the leather seat I wove.

There an old grass rope and a horsehair rein
Hang forgotten on the wall.
That old Frazier rig won't be rode again.
Whose it was, I can’t recall.

Through the flyspecked, broken out window there
Stands an empty pine pole pen.
All the broncs are gone, but I don’t know where.
And what’s worse, I don’t know when.

And the boys who rode for their meager wage,
Which was thrown away each week,
Were a part of a wild and woolly age
Which gave way to mild and meek.

I can see them there, ‘round the coosie's fire
When the herd was bedded down.
We would swear our oaths we would not retire
To a lesser life in town.

We would toast our lives with a strong black brew
While we dined on beef and beans.
We looked down on the suit and necktie crew
Who don’t know what living means.

For we ruled the world from our leather thrones,
Cinched atop a half-broke mount.
And we spent our youth as if kings, not drones.
We were rich in things that count.

When we tally dreams that can still come true
We will find our herds are short.
But we won’t regret what we didn’t do
When we stand that final sort.

For a few short years we were pleased to live
As the luckiest of men.
We enjoyed the best that this life can give
Because we were cowboys then.

© 2007, Dale E. Page
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Dale told us about his inspiration for the poem:

The location in this poem is the Sangre de Cristo Mouintains near Cimarron, New Mexico, where I spent the summer after graduating high school. The barn where our bunkroom was located is 10 miles off paved road
at an elevation of about 8,000 feet. We had 50 horses up there and that many pack burros. I had only one day off the entire summer, but I wouldn't trade that time for anything.

After 40 years, I returned to the camp and found it pretty much the same. I have to admit it showed a little less wear than I. Standing there brought back a lot of memories of good horses and good friends. In my mind, I could still see the palomino paint at the corral gate, waiting for me to go jingle up the rest of the horses. It was a great place and a great time of my life. That summer changed me from a city boy to a pretty decent rider and a lover of New Mexico.

This poem was written to illustrate the feelings of looking back to where we can't go, to times we can't forget and don't want to. Thanks to author Owen Ulph for the image of the "leather throne."
 

We asked Dale why he writes Cowboy Poetry:

I try to take my readers or audience with me to times that are gone but not forgotten. I want them to see characters that epitomize the best man is capable of being. I write things the way I think they should be rather
than the way they might be.

Poetry demands an economy of words which keeps me on track. I look at writing as "wordsmithing." The English language has more words for the same thing than most other languages. The words are out there; I just have
to find the right one. Writing poetry rather than prose makes me organize the story to fit a rhyming pattern. Rhymes make the words more interesting to listen to and easier to memorize. It is very important to me that I not
use near-rhymes or force a rhyme by using an awkward sentence structure. I take pains to insure the meter of the lines is consistent. Without this, the poem loses something. It's like a song that doesn't fit the music.

One of the best things about writing is being able to make the characters, the plot, and the action whatever I want them to be. I outline the story before I begin writing the lines. This keeps me focused and less prone to
stray from the idea. Without a good story, I believe the poem will be of questionable value to the reader or listener. The story develops as I write, but I know where it's going.

I believe I experience the same satisfaction when a poem is completed that an artist gets when he finishes an oil painting or a sculpture. It's a great feeling to give life to a story and to the characters it contains. I enjoy sharing my words with folks who will listen or read them, but I would write cowboy poetry even if no one else ever heard or saw it.

You can email Dale Page.

 

Jack's Cabin

In the gathering dark at Miranda Park
Sits an old cowboy named "Jack"
And he dreams of youth and a girl named Ruth,
But they're neither coming back.

Yet his tired old eyes, which we once called wise,
See a girl who won't grow old.
He can see her there with her raven hair
As his memories unfold.

He recalls a day, not so far away,
When they danced til after two.
But he skipped this part, where she broke his heart,
When he found she was untrue.

They shared ev'ry dance; he was in a trance
Til she asked him to decide
If he'd be like Bob, get a real job
And do something more than ride.

He replied, "Miss Ruth, I may seem uncouth,
But I ride because I can.
You can find my name in a gilded frame;
I'm an educated man.

"I am keen on books, but resent the looks
From a man who will not see
That a soda jerk or a ribbon clerk
Is just something I won't be."

Well, she turned away and she said, "Short pay
Isn't how I want to live.
So you see, I fear I am looking, Dear,
For a man with more to give."

So he weighed the cost of the love he'd lost,
How she'd never be his wife,
And he thought it strange she would want to change
What he'd been near all his life.

He reviewed his ways in the next few days,
And beneath the stars each night.
Though the stars shone down on that girl in town,
They just wouldn't look as bright.

For the ones who dwell in the town can't smell
When the sage is wet with rain.
When the coyote prowls and the chorus howls,
They don't hear the sad refrain.

Like a frightened child, they hate all things wild,
And their ways are living proof
That their fires are cold and their saddle's sold
For a necktie, shoes, and roof.

But a cowboy lives on what nature gives
By the season, moon, and sun.
He can be content with the hours he spent
When a long day's work is done.

So Jack sits tonight and he thinks he might
Should have lived in town instead.
But he whispers, "No," with his head hung low
As he hobbles off to bed.

© 2005, Dale E. Page
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Dale comments: I was inspired to write "Jack's Cabin" after seeing a small cabin high in the aspens in northern New Mexico. I was with my wife the first time I saw it, and it struck me how such a beautiful place should be shared with someone special. That made me think of the mixed blessing of having the place but having no one with whom to share it. I wrote this poem in elk camp in 2005, alone except for the sound of falling snow.

 

In Memory of Shorty O'Hare

By the river I stood 'neath an old cottonwood
Where a cowboy lay, mostly unknown.
There, where few ever came, the long grass hid his name.
But I knew it; I chiseled the stone.

At the end of his life, with no children or wife,
When the lot fell to me for the task,
I stood in as a son and I got the job done.
No one helped me and I didn't ask.

Back in nineteen and ten, when this waddy rode in
On a ribby and spavined old mare,
He was shy with his name, but stood straight with no shame
As he said, "Call me 'Shorty O'Hare'."

But what he didn't tell in the end served him well.
He was mute about how life had been,
How he'd suffered abuse when the hate was turned loose
From the many low men he had seen.

So Boss gave him a try, though the rest wondered why,
And this Shorty laid waste to their fears.
He soon proved he would last and he earned a place fast
Like a man who had been there for years.

And no matter the task, anything Boss would ask
He would do. There was nothing he'd shirk.
Folks, no matter the test, he would give it his best.
And I know, because I watched him work.

Yet with each passing day, ridicule came his way
As the hands made a joke of his size.
Though with each cruel name Shorty smiled just the same,
I could see the deep hurt in his eyes.

When the bull elk would call to their cows in the fall,
We'd stop work, pack our camp, and go hunt.
Sitting tall on his hoss, the firstborn of the boss
Rode out proud by that tough little runt.

It was said that the boy took particular joy
In the friendship of Shorty O'Hare.
When the small man rode out, there was never a doubt
Where his friend went, the lad would be there.

It was just after noon and we looked for rain soon,
So the boss gave the horses reprieve.
With his slicker untied, the young boy stayed astride
As he put his right arm in the sleeve.

That old gelding uncorked and his fat body torqued
As the slicker popped under his flanks.
In the youngster's wide eyes you could read the surprise
That you get when a gentle horse cranks.

Then, with every bound, the boy lost some more ground,
Mouth agape at his imminent fall.
When the wreck whirled by, Shorty let an arm fly
And he grabbed the boy, slicker and all.

When the danger was past, it had happened so fast
That not one of the others had moved.
The boss stood on the sod and gave Shorty a nod,
Understating how much he approved.

So from that very day, every man changed his way.
They showed Shorty he's one of their clan.
In collective surprise, he looked tall in their eyes.
And so Shorty became a new man.

'Round the wagon each fall, when the tales grow tall,
They recount how that short man behaved.
Folks who saw it were few, but the story is true.
And I know; I'm the one that he saved.

© 2007, Dale E. Page
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Dale comments: I was inspired to write the poem after witnessing a rescue like this. On a trail ride in New Mexico, a man picked a child off a bucking horse as it passed him. For the character of Shorty, I used a boy in my high school class who was picked on for his small size. In later life, he actually saved a life. You never know who will become a hero.

 

 

 

Cylcone in the Pines

We rode to gather horses from the herd
Which wintered in a canyon east of Lusk
And trotted out at noon without a word
Til velvet shadows lengthened in the dusk.

Our jinglebobs rang vespers as we prayed
We wouldn't come up short of Boss's mark,
But carry out the plans that he had laid
And get those ponies started back by dark.

We combed that canyon almost to the top
On narrow trails that hugged the rocky side.
There we beheld a steep and deadly drop
Where no sane man would ever dare to ride.

But "sanity" did not apply to Doug,
Whose glass-eyed cayuse, Cyclone, should be shot.
We urged him more than once to sell that plug
And be content no matter what he got.

With Doug and Cyclone bringing up the rear,
The Boss allowed our mounts could use a rest.
But Cyclone reckoned, since the top was near,
He'd take his ease when he decided best.

The next thing that we knew, there came a crash!
We turned around in terror and surprise
To see a stunt so crazy and so brash
We couldn't quite believe our bugging eyes.

That knothead plunged downhill between the trees
While Douglas struggled hard to stay aboard.
His imminent demise caused him to freeze,
Save for his mouth, which called upon the Lord.

Then Cyclone cut a swath through dead-fall pines,
Left limbs and splinters back there in his path.
The canyon looked destroyed by bombs and mines
Or some enormous force of nature's wrath.

The last thing Doug remembers, he's between
Two ponderosas, thick as any steer.
And there he found a sturdy limb, unseen,
Which hung so low his brain pan wouldn't clear.

Then Doug and Cyclone went their sep'rate ways;
The horse ran off and left the man behind.
When we arrived, poor Doug sat in a daze
And spurred the horse he still rode in his mind.

He finally recovered from his spill;
Those injuries were myriad and deep.
He thought he'd trade that horse-he'd had his fill.
This Cyclone was too dangerous to keep.

But Douglas didn't want to bear the blame
Should any puncher dare to take a chance.
He thought, "This rounder needs a brand new name!"
And then he shipped ole "T-Bone" off to France.

© 2006, Dale E. Page
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Dale comments: The idea for this poem came about during a trail ride at Fort Robinson, Nebraska. When we stopped for a rest, one horse resented stopping and threw himself off the trail and into a ravine. The rider was thrown into a ponderosa and was knocked out. I'm not sure if that horse ended up in a French café, but he should have.

 

Jenny's Colt

I roll out of my bed before daylight
And the sun never finds me asleep.
But this morning's a tough one to rise to
Because I have a promise to keep.

I put match to the kindling that's waiting,
Slice some bacon and then fry it up.
Out of habit, I brew some Arbuckle's
And I rinse out last night's dirty cup.

But my breakfast this morning is tasteless
And my mind is already outside.
Though I've not had my fill of the coffee,
I just reckon it's time that I ride.

So I belt on my chaps and a pistol,
Then I pull on an old canvas coat
And I choke down one last swig of coffee,
But it can't clear the lump in my throat.

I go out to the pen with a bucket
With some sweet feed to catch up a horse.
A fine morning is lost on this old man,
'Cause my heart is weighed down with remorse.

Like most days, Doc puffs up when I cinch him
And he'd rather stay here with the hay.
But I'm bound and determined to do this;
I've decided today is the day.

We ride out to the glowing horizon
As a meadowlark sings in the dawn
And I yearn for the days that have fled me,
Before youth and my best friend were gone.

It's not long 'til I spot the remuda.
Like good troops, they line up and they go
To the headquarters, bucking and kicking.
And then Jenny's colt nickers, "Hello."

He seems glad to see one of his kinfolk
Since the others have galloped away.
He must choose between grass and the water
And he's losing more weight every day.

His once bright sorrel coat is now faded
And he won't last the winter for sure,
'Cause he's failing. I know he'll be wolf bait,
But I'm here to deliver the cure.

I dismount and I walk up to meet him
And my mind wanders back to the time
When she plaited his flax mane with asters
In the late summer days of his prime.

Then he bends his neck low for the halter,
His old eyes like the dull silver there.
And his nose seems to find the sweet fragrance
From a lock of our sweet Jenny's hair.

"You were mine til she combed out your forelock,
And she changed you from cowhorse to pet
When you bore her along in the saddle
On that first day when she and I met.

"On the Sundays we rode out for picnics,
You forsook ev'ry chance to act wild.
You were there when I asked her to marry
And the day she announced she's with child.

"Well, she's gone now, but she left a message.
She said I'm to take care of you.
And so out of my love for our Jenny,
Though I hate it, I've got it to do.

"Now come on, and we'll go talk to Jenny.
Yeah, you're hurtin', but I'll take it slow.
See, it's mostly downhill where she's waiting,
In that meadow where paintbrushes grow.

"I have made you a bed in that meadow
Near the headstone where Jenny's asleep.
There are knee-high, green pastures awaiting
And I have a promise to keep.

"Look away, as I take out my pistol,
To the bluffs where the pine trees are strewn.
Adios, Pard, I'll never forget you...
And tell Jenny I'm coming home soon."

© 2006, Dale E. Page
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Dale comments: I once heard a man relate how he had to put down a horse and I was touched
by his emotion in losing a longtime friend. Although some might say the horse was only a "dumb animal," those of us who have had to put down a horse or a dog know better. A really good horse is a blessing, and losing one like that is tough.

I decided to take it one step further in making Jenny's colt the last link to the man's wife and purposely held off acknowledging her death until the last.

"Jenny's Colt" is a tough one for me to get through, whether I'm I reciting it to a group or just to myself. Loss is a part of life, but sometimes it's tough to accept. I'm thankful to have had a horse like
Jenny's.
 

 

 

 

About Dale E. Page:

Dale E. Page was born and raised in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. While attending Oklahoma State University, he worked as a horseshoer, dude
wrangler, bull rider, and on the movie set of "The Cheyenne Social Club." Page majored in English, but after graduation in 1970, worked as the farm
and ranch reporter for the Amarillo Globe News.

He joined the United States Air Force that fall, and retired after 20 years of flying fighter-type and trainer aircraft. While in the USAF, his
feature articles on western artists and saddlemakers appeared in The Quarter Horse Journal, The Western Livestock Journal, The Western
Horseman, and Persimmon Hill, the quarterly magazine of the National Cowboy Hall of Fame.

Page combined his learned appreciation of poetry with his horseback experiences and began writing cowboy poetry in the mid 1970's. He writes
mostly narrative poems and inserts both known and fictional characters into plots taken from actual experiences. In 2005, he self-published a
book of his poems, A Fork in the Trail. He has performed for trail rides, charity events, private parties, church classes, cowboy church services,
Friends of the Library, and the Indiana State Museum.

He and his wife, Paula, live in the Indianapolis, Indiana, area near their two daughters and four grandchildren. They look forward to a retirement filled
with family, trail riding the Rockies, and performing cowboy poetry.

 

 

A Fork in the Trail
 and Other Western Verses

Includes:

Parables

The Prodigal Son
The Good Shepherd
The Good Samaritan
The Virgin and the Lamp
The Widow's Mite
His Seat at the Table

Crossing the Divide

Revelation
Accounting
Three Rivers
Fireside Memories
Runaway
Crossing the Divide

Charlie Russell Paintings

Bronc to Breakfast
Meat's Not Meat 'Til it's in the Pan
The Price of His Hide
Christmas at the Line Shack

Born to the Saddle

Big John Goes to School
Charley Sands
Jenny's Colt
Keep Your Powder Dry
What Might Have Been
Tom James
Fork in the Trail

Glossary

 

A Fork in the Trail  and Other Western Verses
is available for $15 postpaid from:

Dale Page
P.O. Box 268
Monrovia, IN 46157
 

 

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