Named
Academy of Western Artists' (AWA)
Best Female Poet
2002
About Debra
Coppinger Hill
Poems
Contacting Debra Coppinger Hill
This is Page 2 of Debra Coppinger Hill's poetry.
Page 1, with her bio, poems, and other information is here.
Page 3,
with the title track and track list with links to other poems from her CD,
with poems from her CD, Common Sense, Men and Horses
is here.
About Debra Coppinger Hill
Debra Coppinger Hill describes herself as "Cowboy Poet, Humorist, Columnist and Puppeteer." She's such a pard to us here, some say the "D" in "BAR-D" stands for "Debra." You can read About Debra Coppinger Hill on the first page devoted to her work (this is page 2) and read about her Awards and Publications.
See a full list of Debra Coppinger Hill's poems here at the BAR-D on her page 1, right here. This is page 2. On this page you'll find:
A Mother's Broken Heart
The American Cowboy
Through the Dust
Echoes of the Canyon
Udoda (Father)
A Place in the Heart
Spirits of Truth
Debra shared her inspiration for this poem, and we're pleased to share it with you:
We weaned and I have a pen full of cry-babies on my hands right now. But they will get over it...I just hope I do. I called home from town one day and was several minutes into the conversation before I realized I was talking to my son instead of my husband. I could hear the cows and calves crying in the background and suddenly felt total empathy with them. This first poem is dedicated to my son...Dalan turned fifteen this year and is a fine hand with horses and cattle. While I have been ill and his Dad off-shore working, Dalan has done his own chores, his Dad's and split mine with sister Dara. He does a man's share of work around here and we are very proud of him.
A Mother's Broken Heart
She broke right down and cried,
as they led her boy away,
He looked at her with sadness,
but had not a word to say.
And the men who came to get him,
showed no remorse for their part,
No pity or concern,
for a Mother's broken heart.
She bawled all night with such passion,
I thought she would lose her mind,
Her grief was inconsolable,
all but deaf to words soft and kind.
I don't mean to sound unfeeling,
I understand love this deep,
But she always knew this would happen,
so why does she mourn and weep?
The bond between Mother and Son,
goes beyond all earthly meaning,
Woman or cow, we all feel the same,
when it comes the time for weaning.© 2001, Debra Coppinger Hill
Dalan
The American CowboyRide the sagebrush trail,
Saddle-up and ride along,
The great American Cowboy,
Will hold the legends strong.
Feel the wagons rumble,
Hear the cattle bawl,
The sounds of spurs and horses,
At a roundup in the fall.
So join us at the campfire,
For the tales of yesteryear,
Of the present and the future,
Of America's frontier.
Ride the mountain trails, scout the prairie wide,
Saddle up and join us, as we ride, ride, ride!There are voices in the wind,
That beg to tell their tales,
Of Cowboys and Mountaineers,
And those who worked the rails.
From Texas to Montana,
Across the Great Divide,
History lives on,
In all the rivers wide.
Hear the Native drum beats,
Echo from the Sacred Hills,
The Spirits of the West,
Hold their secrets still.
Saddle-up for glory, saddle-up for pride,
Saddle-up and join us, as we ride, ride, ride!© 2001, Debra Coppinger Hill
Debra writes: This poem had been in the works for awhile. Inspired by the Cowboy Colorguard we present each year at the Chisholm Trail Heritage Center, in Duncan, OK, I was able to finish it. Sometimes you just have to wait for the right words. This year's Cowboy Colorguard Members are: Carrying the American Flag - D.L.Frazier, Oklahoma Flag - Jay Snider, Honorguards - Luke Paul and David Salge
I am very fortunate to be allowed to work with some of the best Cowboy and Western Musicians of today. Jean Prescott, of Abilene, Texas, is the most awarded Contemporary Female Cowboy Singer, with several Academy of Western Artists Awards, as well as WMA and holds the title of the Official Songbird of the State of Texas, as designated by the legislature. The following piece was a story Jean sent to me that I put into poetry form and then she put into song. It is on her new album, Tapestry of the West along with the song version of Yellow Slicker" (music by Kevin Davis).
Through the Dust
Waking to the sound of voices in the kitchen,
the wind was sifting grit underneath my window sill,
Choking from the dust, I was driven from my covers,
to the safety and the warmth, of my Mamma's arms.
Daddy reached across the table and rubbed my little hand,
Drinking down his coffee to that little bit of sand,
He said, "This storm's a bad one, it's gonna' howl all day."
Then he asked my Mamma, "Reckon God can hear us pray?"
She told him, "Prayer like dust, rises ever high, on wings of Hope into the sky,
Through the darkness and despair, when we think no one is there,
God hears our every prayer...through the dust."
The dust boiled thick and heavy, and covered up our dreams,
Invading nooks and crannies, filling all the seams,
As it whistled 'round the windows, and sang a sad refrain,
To hold her fear at bay, Mamma sighed a prayer for rain.
She wiped her brow and wet a sheet, and hung it at the door,
I cleaned off the table, and then she swept the floor.
In a never-ending battle, she fought the cruel drought,
And her spirit never wavered, and I never heard her doubt;
That a prayer like dust, rises ever high, on wings of Hope, into the sky,
Through the darkness and despair, when we think no one is there,
God hears our every prayer...through the dust.
Lost in the raging darkness, Daddy struggled down the rope,
As the wind cut right through him, crushing all his hope,
He said, "Lord, I'm your servant, but I just don't understand,
Why you would let your endless wind, blow away our land.
There's a land of milk and honey, further to the west,
Do we surrender now, or stay and stand the test,
I try to comprehend, I don't mean to complain,
Lord, I'm looking for a sign, do we go or yet remain?"
And his prayer, like dust, rose ever high,
On wings of hope into the sky, through the darkness and despair,
When we think no one is there,
God hears our every prayer...through the dust.
And when the dust quit blowing, our lives were not the same,
We clasped our hands together, and thanked the Lord for rain,
Because dreams only die when they're buried for too long,
And hopes and dreams are what sustain, our love and make it strong.
Beneath the dusty layers, we found a brighter day,
We'd survived the tribulation, hard times and dismay.
Renewed by God's own Mercy, as He washed away the dust,
We leaned on each other, in Faith, Belief and Trust;
That a prayer said in faith only knows how to fly,
Up above the dust into a clear blue sky,
It cuts through the darkness and despair,
To the One who's always there,
God hears our every prayer...through the dust...
© 2001, Debra Coppinger Hill and Jean Prescott
Jean and Debra with "Baxter Black" at the Chisholm Trail Heritage Center in
Duncan, Ok.
You can read more about Jean Prescott, and order her music at her web site
or contact her at Prescott Music, PO Box 194,
Ovalo, Texas 79541 or call 915-583-2553
When TR Stephenson first sent me his Crimson Creek, I was so taken back by the strength and emotion of it, that I immediately began to write Echoes of the Canyon in response. It all came except the last verse. Thanks to my good friends John Old Horse and Eddie Three Eagles, I was able to finish it at WestFest in Steamboat Springs, Co. I mailed it to TR and he approved. It is an honor for me, his biggest fan, to have won his blessing. I can only hope that this piece can live up to his praise. All of these men are incredible and inspiring. They all make me think and grow, and I am deeply indebted to them always.
Echoes of the Canyon
They say that she is crazy,
talking to the canyon,
Listening to the voices,
that echo from the rocks.
She knows that they are out there,
the spirits of the Ancients,
And the moon, it makes her restless,
as it lights the path she walks.
The Storykeeper told her
the water there flows crimson,
That the grass for the ponies,
is lush and green and tall.
Among the stalks of sky-blue corn,
medicine drums are calling,
The Old Ones shadow-dancing,
as the twilight starts to fall.
So she burns a little sage,
on a fire made of cedar,
Sending prayers out to them,
in a shower of sparks and smoke.
The flames bid her welcome,
into the Sacred Circle,
Her flute repeating softly,
the promises that he spoke.
For her sacrifice and faith,
the Old Ones send a message,
A hawk dips down and beckons,
to follow ever high.
The path is steep and rocky,
but she just keeps on climbing,
Waiting for the moment,
when she'll be allowed to fly.One day, she simply disappeared,
I like to think she found it,
That emerald endless valley,
where the Spirit Dancers dwell.
The only question left...
do we deserve to go there?
I guess that's just a story,
that only time can tell.So, will they think I'm crazy,
talking to the canyon?
Listening for her voice,
to echo from the stones...
Their thoughts do not concern me,
in my quest for the Great Forever,
Wandering the Crimson Canyon trails,
searching for my home.
© 2001, Debra Coppinger Hill and Jean PrescottWith love to TR...who set my feet back upon the good road.
And to Eddie Three Eagles and John Old Horse, who help me remember who I am. Wa-do...Tawodi.
John Old Horse, Debra Coppinger Hill and Eddie Three Eagles at WestFest in
Steamboat Springs, Colorado
Texas Outlaw Poet TR Stephenson and Debra Coppinger Hill during a radio show in Oklahoma.
Udoda (Father)My Father wears a coat of many colors
for all the world to see,
that deep inside his soul
beats the heart of a Cherokee.
What have I learned from his spirit,
and his laughing, loving ways?
I learned the past belongs to the present.
Not to waste my younger days.
The stories of my ancestors
are his legacy to me.
That honoring them and who they were
determines who I will be.
I am my Father's daughter
and I can only hope,
that one day I will be worthy
to wear my Father's coat.
© 2002 Debra Coppinger Hill
Debra Coppinger Hill and her father Sham Coppinger
Photo by Dara Hill
Debra writes about her father: "He is a great man. A real Dad who has taught us pride in our Cherokee ancestry and family ties. He has many talents. If I were to sum him up for you I would write; Sham Coppinger: Husband, Father, Grandfather, Surveyor, Poet, Artist and Cherokee. The title to the poem is the Cherokee word for Father."This poem is included in our collection of
poems about Cowboy Dads and Granddads
A Place in the Heart
"Where is this place they call The West?,"
a stranger asked of me;
"Where does it begin, where does it end,
where are the boundaries?"
I gave this question lots of thought,
I considered it quite carefully;
For everything from the Atlantic coast is West,
all the way to the Pacific sea.
Cowboy is a often an mis-used term,
open to interpretation,
And so it is, with The West,
it becomes a generalization.
The answer seemed too simple,
though it gave me cause to ponder;
The ways and life of the Cowboy
and how he is bound to wander.
I smiled as I gave my answer,
and please don't think it odd,
But the words I spoke, I truly believe,
were given to me by God.
"Everyone has a different definition,
and no single one is right;
It's like trying to define the Universe,
or freedom or faith or sunlight.
The West is like the sky above,
endless and wrapped around us all;
It's anywhere there's the soul of man,
or the sound of this Earth's call.
It's the place where we're going,
all the places we have been,
The past, the present and the future;
where-ever you find a friend.
Where is The West?
You're standing there;
It's no one location,
it's everywhere.
It's no place in particular,
it's anywhere living is an art;
It's any place a Cowboy is,
it's A Place in the Heart."
© May 2, 2003, Debra Coppinger Hill ARRDedicated in love and laughter to Jen Hilts, a Cowgirl to the bone. Thanks for giving Cowboy and Cowgirl Poets a voice on Cowboys-n-Cowgirls.com
Spirits of TruthOthers often inspire us to write in a direction different than we have
before. Jen informed me she wrote "Mustangs-Spirits of Truth" after reading
my piece "Mustangs". Jen is a poet of (dare I say it?) free verse. I love
her writing; the open raw emotion in many of her pieces is incredible. But
traditional Cowboy Poetry, as a rule is rhymed. While talking she asked me
if I could make any of her poems rhyme. This is a collaboration between us...we took her best lines, added a few here and there and worked up the
rhyme-scheme. I think it is a good piece and I hope everyone will read the
originals, my Mustangs, her Mustangs-Spirits of Truth and this and enjoy the
progression. Thanks Jen, for letting me play with your words!
Spirits of TruthI could not see them, but I knew they were there,
the ground filled with thunder, shaking my soul.
From my safe place in hiding, up on the ridge,
strange, whispered callings told me to go.
At the edge, the whole valley, stretched out below me;
I watched, enchanted...my blood raced with the wind.
My breath became theirs as they dashed into sight;
Wild Hearts and hoof-beats charged around the bend.
I could smell the sweat as it ran off their bodies,
sun glistening on muscle as they ran towards the sun;
Knew without words their message and meaning,
they were Freedom, Truth and Love on the run.
The earth rose to meet me as they ran at full power,
their hooves sent dirt sailing, in clouds towards the sky;
My heart pounded wildly in time with their thunder;
it filled me with joy...for with them, I could fly!
I still feel all around me, the wondrous splendor,
that took my breath as they came into sight.
The vision I witnessed, that day in the valley,
is the dream that I dream as I drift off each night.
Forever engraved on my heart and my memory;
Spirits so pure they were one with the earth;
They set me free in those magical moments,
their strength became mine in a glorious rebirth.
They say to touch Heaven, your soul must go higher,
to streets that are paved with gold and with pearls;
But for me, it's a ridge, high above an endless valley,
being one with the horses, at the top of the world.
© 2003, Jen Hilts / Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved.
Adapted from Jen Hilts' free verse "Mustangs - Spirits of Truth.
Eagles in the Trees
I have stood in the Holy Place
looking down on what God sees;
The mountains, grass and water
and the Eagles in the trees.
I've listened to the sacred songs
of Earth and Wind and Sky;
Opened my heart to it all
and never questioned why.
Some call it Blessings
Some call it Grace
Some call it Destiny
to look upon God's face
To earn the heart we're given
we must freely give it away
In the name of one much greater,
we receive the gifts for which we pray.
To stand with His creations
to know we are His creations too;
Is a humbling revelation,
through which our souls are renewed.
Come stand with me in the Holy Place
look down on what God sees;
The mountains, grass and water
and the Eagles in the trees.
© 2003, Debra Coppinger Hill, All Rights Reserved.
Contacting Debra Coppinger Hill
Debra and her partners are happy to tailor a show to fit your budget. She, the Outriders, Yellow Slicker Productions & their Associate groups can provide you with a two person show or a group of performers.
For tapes, bookings or information:
Debra Coppinger Hill
Old Yellow Slicker Productions
25552 E. 320 Rd., Chelsea, Ok. 74016-9802
Ph/Fax 918-789-5288
E-mail: dhillcowboypoet@yahoo.com
Debra Hill's ranch site features the horses they have for sale and has other links of interest: http://www.4dhranch.com/
Read Debra Hill's tribute to T. R. Stephenson, Gone to the Mountains
and her prose tribute to Larry McWhorter, A Blessing in the Heat
You can read more of Debra's poetry at The Wyoming Companion:
and here at www.cowboys-n-cowgirls.com
This is page 2 of Debra Coppinger Hill's poetry
Page 1 is here and
Page 3, with the title track and
track list with links to other poems from her CD,
from her CD, Common Sense, Men and Horses is here.
The BAR-D Roundup | Cowboy Poetry Week
Authors retain copyright to their work; obtain an author's
permission before using a poem in any form.
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