Bull
Fightin'
I have a red-eyed ragin’
bull,
Penned up inside of me,
He stomps and snorts and makes a fuss
‘bout things what might could be.
His hide is made of what-ifs,
His muscle’s made of doubt,
His bones are made of worry,
His heart beats fear throughout.
Most times he slumbers peaceful,
Don’t know he’s there at all,
But when I gets to thinkin’,
He plumb breaks down the stall.
I thinks about the trail ahead,
And how the hills might kill me dead,
I thinks about the rattlesnake,
And how he hides, for goodness sake,
I thinks about the rushin’ cricks,
And how my horse might sink like bricks,
I thinks about the bobwire fence,
And how the pain could be intense,
I thinks about the little ditch,
And how my horse might jump and pitch…
Then I stops and takes a breath,
My mind now starts to ease,
My hands has quit their shakin’,
And likewise has my knees.
“Cowgirl up and face yer fear,”
A man I know once said,
“Take that bull right by the horns,
And drag him till he’s dead.”
Words of wisdom, timely found,
Have worked to save the day,
Courage served to bind the beast,
So, now I’m on my way.
That pesky bovine Beelzebub,
Still wakes to make a wail,
But when he gets to actin’ up,
Then Courage knots his tail.
© 2008, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Debra told us:
I wrote this poem for my dear friend, Robin, who is a master at
foreseeing catastrophe at every turn. While trail riding one
Sunday, she pointed out how closely I was riding to the barb wire
fence and shared her vision of my horse spooking into it. I soon
added her fear to my, already lengthy, list of trail phobias. This
poem is about pushing away fear and getting on with the job at
hand.
The Boots
John Michael Brown was
lanky and lean,
Had a horse that was fiery and fast.
John’s heart was set on learnin’ to ride,
And he’d found him a teacher at last.
Ed was a horseman, steady and sure,
Knew the horse like his mama’s own name.
Figgered if he could teach John to ride,
He was certain to garner some fame.
“Best git movin',” Ed thought to hisself,
“For ol' John is quick gettin' older.
Ain’t much time left to get this job done,
He's already busted one shoulder.”
Ed watched as John rode, toes toward the sand,
When his butt hit the saddle, he’d frown.
“Loosen the reins, sit up, try to breathe,
And remember to keep your heels down!”
“Heels down, heels down, heels down!” was the cry,
Those words he heard over and over.
“Toes must be up, and heels must be down,
Or soon you’ll be pushin’ up clover!”
Quit was a word that John didn’t know,
Many’s the hour he spent in his kak,
Settin’ his feet, along with his jaw,
For ol’ John there was no turnin’ back.
Days flew to weeks, the weeks flew to months,
No improvement was ever in sight.
Not ‘til the time his boots was forgot,
And Ed offered up his for the night.
John held the boots in tremblin’ hands,
Right humbled by this generous act.
Careful he slipped his feet to the soles,
‘Twas there he found the magic he lacked.
John smiled and stood, and wiggled his toes,
It’s been said that the heavens split wide.
The angels all watched as he mounted,
And he gave ‘em one helluva ride.
John’s form was perfection in motion,
From his heels to the top of his head.
The ladies all cheered from the sidelines,
As he winked and more rapidly sped.
Hosannas rang out as he galloped,
It was somethin’ astoundin’ to see.
His horse was all framed up and rounded,
We all gasped and asked, “How could this be?”
John claimed that the boots held the power,
Some mystical funk from Ed’s feet.
Ed tried very hard to dissuade him,
But his head was as hard as concrete.
“No magical foot funk!” Ed told him.
“The boots made ya believe in yourself.
That’s the only thing you was lackin’;
When ya leave put my boots on the shelf.”
John wanted the boots every lesson,
To get them he’d beg, borrow, or steal.
He rode like the wind, and he liked it,
He was sure that their powers was real.
Each lesson John tried somethin’ harder,
He got to doin’ rollbacks and spins.
If ridin’ for points on some circuit,
He’d be rackin’ ‘em up by the tens.
But it’s pride what goes before a fall,
And I guess that’s what happened to John.
He was showin’ off for the ladies,
His horse stumbled, and then he weren’t on.
The loan of Ed’s boots had done wonders,
With the set of John’s feet that's fer sure.
But his seat's what parted the saddle,
So he started to hatch a fresh cure.
John came to a new understandin’,
As he lay piled and all out of sorts.
The boots that he loved had no power,
The real secret must be in Ed’s shorts.
© 2009, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Debra told us:
This poem, "The Boots," was inspired by a very colorful gentleman
with whom I take riding lessons. John is as quick to help with
whatever job needs done as he is with a joke or an anecdote. John
has a reputation for his rich imagination which often works its
way into his "true" stories. He is a very determined student who
spends many hours working with his beloved horse, Coby (John has
taught Coby to smile and to lift his feet on verbal cue, in
Spanish, no less). John really did forget his boots one day and
was loaned Ed's boots. John swore that the boots cured his "heels
down" problem. He said they were molded to the stirrups by their
countless hours on our instructor's feet. He wore those boots for
many lessons afterward. I am happy to report that John now rides
in his own boots (and I am guessing his own undershorts) and is
making good progress.
Hard Candy Cowboy
He wasn’t large in
stature,
Couldn’t tell it by his walk.
His bobwire eyes could cut you,
Had no nonsense in his talk.
Some folks, they’d shy around him,
Cause he came off sorta gruff,
Made no bones ‘bout right ‘n wrong,
And he’d tell it to you rough.
His body bore the traces,
Of the trade he’d made his own,
He took up bronco bustin’,
When he wasn’t quite full-grown.
His hands was scarred and twisted,
Not a finger there was straight.
His legs was bowed and crooked,
Had a wobble in his gait.
He built a reputation,
Over forty years or so,
For turnin’ out good horses,
Both for workin’ and for show.
I sometimes came to watch him,
But took heed in what folks said.
“Stay out the way and quiet,
Or that man’ll have your head.”
The horses that they brung him,
Was the rankest ones to ride.
Most had been treated spiteful,
Wore the proof upon their hide.
I watched him with the horses,
He was tough, but not unkind.
He made the right choice easy,
So the wrong was left behind.
“These horses took their troubles,
Not from nature, but from man.”
His words were strong and steady,
“I just do the best I can.”
“I put the trust back in ‘em,
That another took away.”
I saw him stroke the forelock,
Of a little Arab bay.
A man’s soul can’t be hidden,
From the creatures in his care.
The horses knew the secret,
That the cowboy wouldn’t share.
I watched the cowboy workin’
And I quickly struck a thought,
I was thinkin’ bout hard candies,
That my mamma sometimes bought.
Their flavor was strawberry,
A right tasty sort of treat,
On the outside hard and sour,
But the inside’s soft and sweet.
That cowboy and them candies,
Both were filled with a surprise.
The hard and sour outside,
Was used only for disguise.
I liked those ‘berry candies,
Came to like that cowboy too.
Forever in my memory,
That hard candy buckaroo.
© 2009, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Debra comments:
This poem was written for a man who is both my friend and teacher.
This poem is about the discrepancy that sometimes occurs between the
face we present to the world and the one that is hidden within us.
The Patch
This trail that I ride
runs on ahead,
Though I can’t quite see round the bend.
I once thought this trail everlastin’,
But now I’m aware there’s an end.
I pause to reflect and look backward,
At the course I've already run,
It’s littered with heartbreak and laughter,
Things ‘complished and things left undone.
That stretch yet to ride’s a might shorter,
Than the miles that I've left behind,
But I tote some dreams in my pocket,
There’s a place I’m longin’ to find.
A good patch of ground’s what I yearn for,
Though time trots on by me it seems.
Knee-deep in thick sweetgrass I’ll find it,
A place where I’ll shake out my dreams.
I’ll build me a house to come home to,
A barn for my horses and hay.
I’ll work on the patch until evenin’,
Then rest at the closin’ of day.
I’ll gather my loved ones around me,
We’ll watch for the sunlight’s last beams.
I’ll tell them the story of one man,
Whose loop was tied fast to his dreams.
“Was it hard?” they will ask, and I’ll smile,
Nod my head and give it a scratch.
“It was hard, but all worth the doin’
A man’s got to have him a patch.”
I rein in the thoughts jiggin’ round me,
Then turn to continue the ride.
I pack up my dreams in my pocket,
And button them safely inside.
There ain’t many things that I’m sure of,
I count no chicks before the hatch.
But I trust that God and good horses,
Will carry me on t'ward my patch.
© 2009, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Debra comments: I was inspired to write this poem because I have
a desire for a larger place of my own, with space for my animals.
When my husband and I talk about our retirement home, we refer to it
as "the patch." This name came about from a story my friend told me.
The story goes like this:
My friend's
grandfather told him one day, "Boy, if you don't do anything else,
you got to get yourself a patch." It turns out that Grandpa's
"patch" was the few hundred acres out there where Washington
Square sits now in Indy. I guess he farmed it for many years. The
land (the "patch") is the thing you gotta have... a place and the
space to build your dreams while you can.
This poem is about the
longing for land and the refusal to give up on a dream.
Horse Sense
“She’s strong,” the cowboy
offered,
With a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ll wager she’s got bottom,
With no quit and lots of try.”
I glanced in the direction
That his nod bid me to go.
“Purty head, a real nice neck,
She looks fine enough to show.”
“I betcha she ain’t cold-backed,
Like some others I have knowed.
She’s fit and not too fleshy.”
Words of praise pert nearly flowed.
I gaped in pure confusion,
At a hammer-headed mare.
She’d been around the range some,
You could plainly see the wear.
Her pig eyes stared out blankly,
Her old cowhocks nearly kissed,
The faults I seen was endless,
They’s too numerous to list.
The cowboy had horse savvy.
His pronouncements took as law,
But the crazy he was talkin’
Worked my brain ‘til it was raw.
A fever might a took’im
Or his eyes was gettin’ dim.
I’s scramblin’ for the answer,
When I stopped and looked at him.
No squintin’ nor a’quakin’
So I knew I had to ask.
“Pard,” I queried cautiously,
“Ya been emptyin’ yer flask?”
His gaze was straight and level,
As he looked me in the eye.
“Nope,” was all he said to me,
But his count’nance added “why?”
I spluttered and I stammered,
Tried in vain to find my voice.
I didn’t want to tell him,
But there clearly weren’t no choice.
“Well,” I started nervously,
Tryin’ hard not to affront.
“That hoss ain’t naught but crowbait!”
Hadn’t meant to be so blunt.
“A greenhorn ought not question,
The fine wisdom I bestow.”
The cowboy was a’smilin’,
Talkin’ soft and kinda slow.
His grin kept gettin’ bigger,
Till it lit the whole corral.
“Ne’er said it were the mare, son.
I was talkin’ ’bout the gal.”
A purty senorita,
Led that nag on out the gate.
He watched as she departed,
“Looky there, she’s trackin’ straight.”
© 2010, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Debra comments:
I wrote this poem for a friend who attended the Cowboy Poetry
Gathering in Elko, Nevada, with my family and me. This gentleman was
smitten with a lovely lady poet. After listening to her poems, he
complimented her poetry and delivery. He then commented on her
beauty. He said, "She's strong." Along with, "She's got good bone
structure and a good jaw line." We teased him about using the same
descriptive language for fine horses. In Horse Sense, I had some fun
and took it a little bit further.
Wooin’ the
Mule
I’s up to Ed’s one Sunday,
We was plannin’ on a ride.
I hollered at his barn door,
Then I moseyed on inside.
My eyes just took a smidgeon
To adjust to dimmer light.
I found that I was peerin’
At a most engagin’ sight.
Dappled gray with great long ears,
Pickin’ hay there in a stall.
One quick glance he cast my way,
Then the mule turned t’ward the wall.
“Must be shy,” I says to Ed,
As I offer up a rub.
He turned again, deliberate,
And I took it as a snub.
“One fine judge of character!”
Ed was chucklin’ as he spoke.
“They’s some he just don’t take to,
Guess you ain’t his kind of folk.”
“What’s that to mean?” I queried.
“Not his kind of folk, indeed!”
And then as if to comment,
The mule stretched hisself and peed.
“He just needs time to know me,”
I spoke up on my behalf.
“I’ll get a chair,” Ed spluttered,
No attempt to hide his laugh.
I sat and watched the south end
Of a northern-facin’ john.
I’d prove that I was worthy;
I was one to count upon.
“Just consider this, my friend,”
We debated as I sat.
“I’m good and kind,” I told him,
As he dodged another pat.
I then began some sweet talk,
Even tried to share my chuck.
His negative reaction,
Made me cuss and damn my luck.
The words I strung together,
Would have served a sailor well.
“Told you so,” Mule seemed to snort.
“You’ll be goin’ straight to hell!”
That fiery accusation,
Made me pause and look within.
It seemed my knack fer cussin’,
Wasn’t near my greatest sin.
I am a might impatient.
I’ve been knowed to take a drink.
‘N’ I’m quick to get a mad on.
Mule agreed, with gaseous stink.
“You’re right,” I then conceded.
“I’m unworthy and a fool.”
I was judged a sinner and,
Out-debated by a mule.
© 2010, Debra G. Meyer
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Debra comments:
I wrote this poem after a very humbling experience with J.W., the
mule. I tried for several weeks to make friends with him, but to no
avail. I took it rather personally when I watched others who could
pet and feed him. Ed, my horse trainer friend, advised that I was
trying too hard, but the experience made me examine my character for
mule-repelling flaws.
About
Debra G. Meyer:
I was born in 1955 in
Brooklyn, New York, to Harold and Evelyn Gragg. I spent the first ten
years of my life chasing whatever wildlife I could discover on Greene
Avenue and the adjacent streets that I was allowed to cross. I was five
the summer I met the watermelon man. The cry of “Wa-ter-mel-on!!” would
halt any activity and have me seeking out this man’s presence. It wasn’t
that I liked watermelon that much, but it was the method of watermelon
conveyance that had me enthralled. The watermelon man had a horse-drawn
wagon! That old brown horse was the most fascinating and majestic creature
I had ever seen, and he liked to be patted! The summer of 1960 was the
beginning of my dream of horse ownership. Fast forward forty-five years,
and I am finally living the dream in Indiana. My husband, Harv, and I, and
our son, Adam, have five horses that we cherish.
