Page Eight
of Fourteen
David Kelley Bigger
Than Ever
McCloud A Small Miracle
Ed Parrish The Christmas Ejection Saddle
Bigger Than Ever
As he come runnin’ through the door, his hat went one way, his coat the other.
I said, “Whoa pard, you best pick up, ‘fore you get in trouble with Mother!”
He said, “Aw Paw-paw, it’s alright, that’s what I do with ‘em all the time!”
“You do right Bud..”, I said, “..ol’ Santy’s makin’ note of that little crime.”
“Aw Paw-paw, I don’t believe in Santy no more, I’m too big for that!”
I said, “Pardner that’s too bad...”, as I bent over to pick up his hat,
“How ‘bout we sit on the porch and talk about this deal for a minute.
You know I reckon you got the right to believe what you see in it,
but it feels like I just lost a pard, ‘cause I still think ol’ Santa’s real.
Aw, not them department store jokers, and not even one you can feel.
Is he big and fat and jolly, and wears a red suit and drives a sleigh?
Well, that might be a stretch, but, the thing is, it’s just real hard to say,
I ain’t really laid eyes on him, but then I ain’t ever seen the wind,
but I know it’s there, ‘cause it quite often causes that sapling to bend.
It’s like the feeling you got for that colt your Dad gave you last year,
you can’t quite get your hand around it, but you know in your heart, it’s there.
That feller’ in the red suit…well, that’s just a thing to set your gaze t’ward,
something to remind us to do right, and not just for the reward.
See, I think Santa Claus lives with us all year, in our heart like a song,
and sort of works, hand in hand, with the Lord above to help us along.
Santa is a feeling, a spirit, and I’m not talking about a ghost.
He’s something within us all, waiting his turn to be our guidepost.
Sometimes he comes around, even when it ain’t Chistmas, to help us out.
Times when you do good deeds…I think you know what I’m talking about.
When a pardner needs a helping hand, and you see to it, it’s a done deal,
Whether it be at brandin’ time, or providing a good hot meal.
He’s there in those times you find yourself whistlin’ and you don’t know why,
or where you even got the tune, and you wouldn’t know the words if you tried.
Maybe it’s a mite hard for you to figure out, seeing all them fakes.
But there’ll come a day, when, for your little boy, you’ll do what it takes,
to see to it the spirit of Santa Claus lives in everything around,
from the birds in a Texas blue sky, to all these critters on the ground.
Santa’s just as real to me today, as he was when I was a splinter.
Like you, he was what I could see and feel, now he’s on the inner.
So for now cowboy, even though your saddle pals say he just ain’t so,
you just smile, and know that someday in your heart Santa will again grow.
It’s like that little whitetail fawn you lost last year down by the river,
one day soon you’ll see him again, and he’ll be bigger than ever.
© 11/00 All Rights Reserved * David Kelley(Read
David Kelley's other Christmas poem
My Cowboy's Night Before Christmas, recognized as a "Special Gift," and read his other poems here)
A Small Miracle
The snow wuz gittin' deeper now,
an' my hoss wuz comin'lame.
The drifts had started pilin' up,
but I had myse'f to blame.
I knowed I shudn'ta ventured out
into this wailing snow,
agin' my better jedgement,
but it seemed I had to go.
Thar's sumpin 'bout a Chris'mus day
that you jest gotta see some kids,
and that's the thing that got me goin,'
'cause without 'em is so wretched.
Ol' Pedro said I'd likely freeze,
an' told me not to go,
but the worst thing that he said to me
wuz, 'It's hard on the hoss, you know.'
Well, thar wuz still a mile or so
to git whar I was 'goin,'
an' it looked like I might have to walk
to complete what I wuz doin.'
But then a funny thing come on,
that I really don't believe,
but the sun it started shinin' bright,
an' the hoss looked right relieved.
It seemed a trail had opened up,
with hardly any snow,
an' we moved along so easy like
it wuz a pleasure jest to go.
An' then we come up to the house;
it wuz really jest a hut.
But it wuz all decked out an' sparklin' like,
with a tree jest freshly cut.
An' as I entered the dimness
of that darkened little place,
I wuz startled right beyond compare,
'cause I seen a lovely face!
T'wuz a babies face, down near the floor,
laying on a bed o' straw.
An' that picture brung a tear to me
from the beauty that I saw.
It seemed a ring of light wuz thar,
an' shinin' all around,
but mostly on the little child,
then I heard a singin' sound.
It came from off so far away,
yet right there jest the same,
an' then I heard the mother say
that 'Heysus' wuz his name.
McCloud
(Davey Lee George)
© December 1999
Read
McCloud's other holiday poem The Christmas Story, recognized as a "Special Gift" and read more of his poems here.
The Christmas Ejection Saddle
Old Daisy brought Curley home from Christmas on the range,
And sittin' on the shack porch was a parcel, huge and strange,
Curley hadn't ordered nothing. He read the label on the top,
The package was a'going to an Air Force maintenance shop,
The numbers caught his eyeballs, in particular the date,
The box had come to the wrong place and arrived 32 years late,
He popped his Barlow open, and inside he found packed neat,
An F-111 Martin-Baker pilot's ee-jection seat.
Curley weighed the situation, the thing was 32 years lost,
The shipping bill to send it back would be more than the seat cost,
He finally came to understand, he'd just best keep that seat,
"Besides," he answered to himself, "by now it's obsolete.
"Nobody's going to miss this thing," he murmured as he hacked,
It free of plastic wrapping tape, located and unpacked,
The mechanism's manual saying how it fired and why,
Then Curley knew he could wire it up, and then - he knew it'd fly!
"Where'll I put it?" he wondered. "I could leave it on the veranda,
"I could sit out here, put up my feet, and enjoy my hacienda,
"In the luxuriatin' comfort of a first-rate easy chair,
"If I get tired of bein' here, pull this - and I'll be over there!"
Cogitating got him tickled. Then he happened to see Daisy,
And a mem'ry surfaced of rocks and pain, through the years it had gone hazy,
Of the day that mare had throwed him high, and when he had descended,
The sudden stop on mother earth, had left him hurt and up-ended.
The parachute was there and packed, the seat hadn't any rust,
In perfect shape and looking good, it's the kind of seat you'd trust,
To save your life when a bucking plane goes clean out of whack,
Curley figured if it worked on jets, well, "Hit'll work from Daisy's back."
That night the lights burned bright and hot in the shack from dusk 'til dawn,
Inside sawin', hammerin', cussin, rantin'; but at sunrise on the lawn,
There sat a wonder of the jet age cinched tightly to a drum,
And the drum was on sawhorses. Then, here the "test pilot" come.
He climbed the ladder to the seat, and soon Curley was astraddle,
The F-111 Martin-Baker cowboy ee-jection saddle,
Daisy contemplated the sight that she did witness,
Chawin' on a wad of clover, she wondered what that witless,
Man was doing with a rusty bucket tied on top his brains,
Strapping into the saddle seat, then grabbin' holt the reins.
Curley yanked the firing handle, but he did it with a jerk,
Knocked the whole contraption over just before the seat could work.
Curley screamed, the cannon fired, the seat shot 'cross the ground,
Heading for the stable roof, from which it did rebound,
Ricocheted like it'd hit a rock, with Curley still a'wailing,
Sheets of corrugated steel and Curley went a'sailing,
Somersaulting through the atmosphere, above the western plains,
He slipped the surly bonds of earth, with that seat a'spewing flames,
Curley howled in horror, and Daisy chewed her clover,
There were some trees ahead of him, but Curley flew right over.
That's when the parachute deployed, but before it could inflate,
It got caught, and a thick tree limb made the seat dee-celerate,
The whole thing snarled, the seat bounced back and tangled in the lines,
Crashed around most violently midst trunks and limbs and vines,
When Curley woke up hanging high, the day was mostly over,
And Daisy stood beneath the tree, still munching on her clover,
Santy Claus stood there as well; he'd seen Curley from the shack,
"If you find an ee-jection seat," sezee, "the Air Force wants it back."
Ed Parrish
Read more of Ed Parrish's poems here.
Page Eight
of Fourteen
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