Named
Academy of Western Artists' (AWA)
Top Female Poet
2004

photo by M. Knowler

About Doris Daley
Poems and Lyrics
Books and Recordings
Contact Information

 

About Doris Daley:

Doris Daley grew up leaning into the Chinook winds of Southern Alberta. Her great grandfather came west with the North West Mounted Police in the 1870s; her family has been ranching in the Alberta foothills for five generations.  She can bake a pie, recite the alphabet backwards, catch fish, get the gate, hobble your horse, build a fire, write a poem, be the tenth caller in, and hum the theme songs to Gunsmoke and Have Gun Will Travel. A featured entertainer and emcee throughout the west, she and her husband Bob, an Orvis-endorsed fishing guide, live on the Bow River near Calgary.

Doris has been an emcee and featured performer at every cowboy festival in Canada and several in the U.S., including gatherings in Nevada, Texas, California, Montana, Wyoming, Utah and Oregon.  In 2001 she was invited to perform at a command performance for Canada's Governor General, amazing her friends and astonishing her relatives. In 2004, she received the Will Rogers Award for the Top Female Poet by the Academy of Western Artists.

What others say

"Doris is the pre-eminent female poet in this genre and the equal of any male writing today. In my opinion, she is the female Robert Service. Doris' verbal paintbrush is as captivating and as visual as the paintings of
Russell and Remington. If you want to know the West, listen to Doris Daley. Her gift is unique and her appeal is irresistible."
                       Jack Hannah, Sons of the San Joaquin


"Lots of poets can write, many can recite, but Doris writes, recites and really communicates.  Spontaneity, wit, meaningful words and a winning smile make this lady a performer you'll always remember."
                      Hugh McLennan, Kamloops, BC, host of Spirit of the West


"Her poems are very funny with no swears.  They're all pretty short and sweet.  She has some of the best poems I've ever listened to."
                      Cody O'Donnell, Coalhurst, Alberta, cowboy, age 11

photo by D. Boyes

Poems and Lyrics

Bones
Hands
Answering Machine
Pierre
A Letter to Mr. Russell
100 Years from Now
Average Girl

One Good Horse (separate page)

Bones

I wrote this one after sitting around the kitchen table listening to three cowboys moan about how dangerous and unhealthy it was to visit the city.

Three cowboys sit on a split rail fence,
Long on bruises, short on sense.
Put 'em together and what do you get—
Besides three pairs of jeans and a pile of debt.

Add 'em all up and the sum of their parts
Is 27 fingers and three broken hearts.
30 pretty toes, only 2 of them broke,
Hide more scarred than the bark of an oak.

Five good eyes, one made of glass,
Three bum knees and a bad case of gas.
Three strong backs—but all of them achin,
And three mustached smiles filled with Copenhagen.

A bottle of pills for a bad tick-tocker
And a half-full prescription from Dr. Johnny Walker.
A surgeon's nightmare sits on that rail,
But they're married to the range and bonded to the trail.

They'll never be famous, they'll never be wealthy
But they love the life-cause it's so darn healthy!

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Hands

The west needs all kinds of people, each with a special gift, to make it work. Jean Prescott from Texas set this to music and recorded it on her Tapestry of the West album.

There’s a special pair of hands assigned to do each task,
And to do a job the best we know is as good as we can ask.
You can try to stand alone but your world will start to drift
So the good Lord struck a plan and gave each one a special gift.

So God, bless the hands that are brown and scarred and rough,
But hands that reach to help you when the trail is looking tough.
Bless the old and gnarled hands, no longer strong or stout,
But hands that still can teach you what a handshake’s all about.

Bless the hands of buckaroos, young and full of pride
That teach us when we get bucked off to get back on and ride.
Bless hands that make the saddles and hands that stack the hay,
Hands that speak to horses in a mystic, magic way.

Hands that till the land, fix the fence, and catch the bids.
And Cookie’s hands that punch the dough and slam the bean pot lids.
Bless hands that tell the story of a lifetime chasing steers,
But hands that aren’t too big to gently wipe a child’s tears.

Hands that reach across for yours to say the table grace,
Calloused hands that tenderly caress a sweetheart’s face.
Bless her soft and gentle hands that wear your ring with pride
And show their share of scars and scrapes from standing by your side.

Bless artists’ hands and sculptors’ hands and guitar pickers’ too,
They’re only trying to tell the story in a way that honours you.
And if you’re feeling generous Lord, and if you’ve got the time
Even bless the hands of those who write and try to make it rhyme.

God gives each hand a gift, with his grace we’ll stand the test.
Bless each one—we need each one—to build this place we call The West.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Answering Machine

Press 1 for this; Press 2 for that. You can't call a business anymore and
get a human being to answer. Here's what happens when the phone menu comes
to the ranch.

Thank you for calling Hayseed Ranch. We'll be with you sooner or later.
So please stay on the line for the next available operator.

Your call is very important to us. We have a digital recording contraption
Simply listen to the following menu and select the appropriate option:

For brown eggs, stock dog pups, a Farm King mower, Angora goats or Suffolk sheep,
Just tell us what you've got to trade and make an offer after the beep.

If those frisky Charolais heifers have jumped the barbed wire boundary
Enter their ear tag numbers now followed by the pound key.

Press 1 if you're selling insurance, Press 2 if you're from the bank
Press 3 if you want to tune our piano or clean the septic tank.

Press 4 to deliver your yearlings. Press 5 if you'll be here at dawn.
If you want us to adopt a tiger, hug a tree, sponsor a wolf, save a whale,
save Air Canada or save the Liberal Party.... Dial 1-800- DREAM ON.

Press 6 if you want to go hunting. Press 7 if you want to buy hay.
Press 8 for help with high school rodeo or 4-H Achievement Day.

Press 9 if you'd like to keep holding, it shouldn't be much longer now.
The grassfire is almost under control and so is the prolapsed cow.

Your call is very important to us and here's what we urge you to do:
Just stay on the line until your call is no longer important to you.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Pierre

A French Canadian cowboy came out west to work on a big ranch in BC. He was
gregarious, likeable and a good worker, but he didn't last through the spring. This poem tells why.

I remember the year we hired Pierre,
A dashing French cowboy from Old Trois Rivieres.
A ten-gallon chapeau and a dashing mustache,
He rode with élan and he roped with panache.
A stouthearted fellow with je ne sais quoi,
A hybrid of cowboy and coureur du bois.
He'd laugh and he'd sing, he'd joke and he'd babble,
Never mind the emphasis was on the wrong syllable.
He was well loved by all and we wished he would stay,
So the mystery remains why he left us that day.

It was early in spring, the lambs had done great.
Time to bob off their tails and alter the fate
Of little Fleecy and Snowflake, so with surgery done
The nuggets were broiled, served up on a ;bun.
"Ooh la la!" sang Pierre, "This lunch is delish!
What do you call such a marvelous dish?"
"Lamb fries," said Cookie, "Here, help yourself,
They don't last too long on the old cookhouse shelf."
Later in May the scene was repeated,
Branding was done, the cowboys were treated
To oysters, a culinary first for Pierre,
"Magnifique!" he called out, "Why they taste like tourtiere."
Cookie explained how he breaded and fried 'em,
"Calf fries," he said, "You haven't lived till you tried 'em."

It was new to Pierre, this cuisine de la range:
Lamb fries, then calf fries-it was all a bit strange.
But he had to admit, the taste was first-rate.
What wonderful morsels would next grace his plate?
Well, he didn't wait long, the very next day
A wonderful fragrance was wafting his way.
Would it be a ragout or an airy soufflé?
The smell from the stove foretold something gourmet.
"What's for lunch?" Pierre called out, and what he heard made him wince.
"French fries!" said Cookie. Pierre hasn't been seen or heard of since.

© Doris Daley, from Rhyme & Reason and Poetry in Motion
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

A Letter to Mr. Russell
Here's a poem that contrasts our "new and improved" times to when the west
was new in the 1880s and 90s. The first italicized line in every verse is
the title of a Charlie Russell painting.



Dear Charlie,
Well I guess they call it progress and progress ain't all bad.
For sure I have advantages that Grandma never had.
But lately I can scarce keep up
With all the lingo in my cup.
It's a chowder I don't want to sup.
It's sad.

I know it weren't all roses back before they strung the wire.
But each new "improvement" sends us from the fat into the fire.
We soldier on, regroup, take stock,
We've still escaped the chopping block
But Charlie, you should hear us talk.
It's dire.

When the land belonged to God
No SUVs where bison trod
No ATMs or ATVs
No Enron run by SOBs
No CIA, RCMP
No NAFTA and no GST.

When you waited for a Chinook,
No HBO or Selfhelp book.
No PCBs or toxic spill
No BLM or Dr. Phil.
No IRS or IRA
No I-15 or Y2K

When the Judith was plumb hog wild
No Eminem or Destiny's Child
No VCR or DVD
No Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.
No GPS when cows got loose
No HP Sauce or V8 Juice.

Before the whiteman came,
Big Brother didn't run the game.
No CNN on 24/7
No 7-up or 7-11
No IBM or CD.ROM
No dub dub dub dot west.com

Please send a bronc to breakfast soon
And kick this nonsense to the moon.
Charlie, here's my fervent plea:
When my time is up may I R.I.P.
Till then, a prayer for this world and me:
May we get a grip ASAP
                     Signed, DD


© 2004, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

100 Years From Now  

100 years from now, if the world’s still in the game,
May the earth recall our footprints, may the wind sing out our names.
May someone turn a page and hearken back upon this time,
May someone sing a cowboy tune and someone spin a rhyme.

History buffs will study us and time will tell its tales
Our lives will be a brittle pile of cold and quaint details.
A scrap of faded photograph, a news headline or two...
But life was so much more, my friend, when the century was new.  

100 years from now, don’t look back and think me quaint,
Don’t judge and call me sinner, don’t judge and call me saint.
We lived beneath the arch with a mix of grit and grace,
Just ordinary folk in an extraordinary place.

So 100 years from now hear our ancient voices call,
Know that life was good and the cowboy still rode tall.
Wild flowers filled our valleys and the coyotes were our choir
We knew some wild places that had never known the wire.  

We raised stouthearted horses; we’d ride and let ‘er rip
We burned beneath the summer sun and railed at winter’s grip.
We took a little courage when the crocus bloomed each spring
We loved beneath the stars and we heard the night wind sing.

We buried and we married, we danced and laughed and cried
And there were times we failed, but let the records show we tried.
And sure, I have regrets; I made more than one mistake
If I had it to do over there are trails I wouldn’t take.

But the sun rose up each day, we’d make it through another year
We’d watch the skies and count our calves and hoist a cup of cheer.
We knew drought and fire and heartache, we knew fat and we knew bone
But we were silver lining people and we never rode alone.  

So, Friend, if you are reading this 100 years from now
Understand that we were pilgrims who just made it through somehow.
We’ve crossed the river home and we left but one request:
100 years from now, think back kindly on the west.

And ordinary folk, no special fate, no special claims
But 100 years from now, may the wind sing out our names.
Know the times were good and we rode the best we know.
We loved the west; we kept the faith, 100 years ago.

© 2004, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission

 

Average Girl

I’d boast about my calf crop but I had to sell my cows
If you saw me on a gather you’d be right to raise your brows.
I never ran the barrels even when I was a pup.
It takes me 18 seconds just to swing my right leg up.

I never won a buckle and I never roped a bear.
I can’t set a decent post, I don’t wear Carhartt underwear
My cow dog is a Labrador; my chore truck is a Rav.
Rocket Busters are a luxury I know I’ll never have.

I don’t own Garcia spurs, I’m Joe Average, I admit
I can’t throw the hoolihan; heck, I can barely throw a fit.
I’m not so hot reversing if a trailer’s on behind.
If you pick me last for roping, I assure you I won’t mind.

When they’re calling for the buckaroos, I‘ll never make the cut
Goodness knows I’d strut my stuff but I have no stuff to strut.
I’m Average Girl! The one whose cowboy skills are pretty thin,
Still, when you’re rounding up the westerners, I hope you’ll count me in.

Songs are rightly sung about the exploits of the great.
Me—I’m just thrilled to tag along, content to get the gate.
Who sings a cowboy anthem for the average Jack and Jill?
What page is spilled with ink from the cowboy poet’s quill?

Here’s a toast to all us plodders who will never lead the race.
We’re barely worth our porridge but our heart’s in the right place.
We’re the first to stand and cheer when the experts do their best
We don’t sparkle, flash or dazzle, we’re just glad to live out west.

For each mediocre rider, for each average girl and guy
I say: Thank you, God, for placing us beneath a western sky.
In my case, being average has turned out to be a perk
I just get to wear the clothes cause no one wants me for my work!

© 2008, Doris Daley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission


 

 

Read Doris Daley's

Goodnight to the Trail in the BAR-D poetry column

and

Mr. No Regrets in our Art Spur Project

and her essay:

"'And Now for our Next Poet, Who I’ve Never Met Before…'; Suggestions for Hosting a Show."
 

Read Doris Daley's All My Trails in a feature about Jean Prescott's Sweethearts in Carhartts recording.

Read Doris Daley's Thank Heavens for Dale Evans, posted with other tributes to the Queen of the West.

 

Read Doris Daley's A Christmas Prayer, posted with other Holiday 2003 poems.

 

 

Books and Recordings

 

Beneath a Western Sky

...with two guest appearances from my songwriting partner Eli Barsi.

Includes:

Welcome
Rancho Tarbucks
Average Girl
Dancing with the Stars
Firefighters
Will James (and other Canadian content)
A Baxter of Blacks
How I Learned to Count
Don't Drive the Tractor
Mary's Window
Riding Home to You
Meet Jake
Meet Sue
Gossip
What is a Westerner
100 Years from Now
Shades of the West
Goodnight to the Trail

 

Available $15 (USD), $20 (Candian), plus postage
from:

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 103
Turner Valley, AB  TOL 2AO
(403) 933-4434 phone
(403) 933-4454 fax
 

email

www.DorisDaley.com

 

---

 

Good for What Ails You

  

Good for What Ails You, by Doris Daley was recorded live in concert in September, 2005. It contains "Answering Machine," "Bones," "Bless these Hands," "My Perfume," "End Times," "Letter to Charlie," "Skunk in the Bunkhouse," and many more poems and a few musical surprises

Available postpaid $18 (USD), $20 (Candian)
from:

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 103
Turner Valley, AB  TOL 2AO
(403) 933-4434 phone
(403) 933-4454 fax
 

email

www.DorisDaley.com

 

---

 

 Rhyme & Reason
 

Doris Daley's 2003 book, Rhyme & Reason, includes:

Chinooks
Answering Machine
Horse from Alberta
The Tractor in the Bog
Great Canadian Cowboy
Great American Cowboy
Potato People
Thank Heavens for Dale Evans (separate page)
Old Age
Riding a Dead Horse
Things You'll Never Hear a Cowboy Say
Chips
Saturday Night Bath
Dear Sweetheart
Wedding Vows
Wild and Wooly (Osteoporosis)
Wild and Wooly (Governor General)
Bones
Pierre
Norma's Bread
Norma's Pies
Love is Blind
Paul's Letter to the Bovinians
Noah's Ark
This Journey
Bless These Hands (Hands)
100 Years from Now
From Mary's Window
Table Grace

Postpaid $ 14 (USD), $17 (Candian)
from:

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 103
Turner Valley, AB  TOL 2AO
(403) 933-4434 phone
(403) 933-4454 fax
 

email

www.DorisDaley.com

Doris Daley has two other books:
Doris Daley: No Bum Steer, 1999
The Daley Grind, 1995

---

 Poetry in Motion 

  

Doris Daley's 2003 CD, Poetry in Motion, includes:

Old Age
Answering Machine
Dear Sweetheart
Love is Blind
French Fries (Pierre)
Gossip
Great American Cowboy
100 Years from Now
Rainbows
Bless These Hands (Hands)
Songs that I Keep
Name That Tune

with musicians David Wilkie (Cowboy Celtic), Jake Peters, Randy Zwally, and Eli Barsi

Postpaid $ 17 (USD), $20 (Candian)
from:

Doris Daley
Fiddle DD Enterprises
Box 103
Turner Valley, AB  TOL 2AO
(403) 933-4434 phone
(403) 933-4454 fax
 

email

www.DorisDaley.com

An earlier cassette recording, Three Babes on a Bale, was recorded in 1996

Contact Information

Contact Doris Daley at:

Box 103
Turner Valley, AB  TOL 2AO
(403) 933-4434 phone
(403) 933-4454 fax
 

email

www.DorisDaley.com