Magenta
Sky
Now, the coosie's a might grumpy
and the top hand
ain't wearing no grin.
Guess you could say the whole
outfit's
sense of humor is
growing thin.
High up here in the Hualapais,
the roundups are
usually tough.
But, with the weather that we've
had,
reckon this
spring is more than rough.
Two days of rain that drenched us
through
and now the wind
is gusting strong.
But, 'round here, for a weather
change,
just wait around,
it won't take long.
I've rode herd for many outfits,
but, Kingman is
the only place,
I've stood in mud up to my knees
and had dust
blowing in my face.
The cows are wild and scattered
thin,
because there's
water everywhere.
Fresh grass is sprouting in the
flats
and a small group
is mighty rare.
The corral pens are filling slow,
although we've
worked for fourteen days.
Of course, you always have
mavericks,
but this year,
the whole herd is strays.
Seems that's the nature of this
life,
either too much
water or drought.
Sometimes I ask, is it worth it?
Maybe, I should
have stayed down South,
Where the winters ain't quite so
cold
and the work
would be close to town.
I reckon it's only natural
to let the hardships
get you down.
Then, I recall the evening sky,
with the purplish
and red background.
It's the one place short of Heaven,
where this wonder
can be found.
Where pinks and yellows paint the
clouds,
behind the
mountain's silhouette.
There's a magic, hard to describe,
in an Arizona
sunset.
Then, I look up to the heavens,
aglow with
shining star's bouquet
And soon forgotten are the toils,
that seemed
immense during the day.
Why I do this tough lonely job?
I no longer need
to ask why.
For here, I'm living a free life
in the land of
magenta sky.
© 2005, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Saguaros
in the Snow
In the foothills of the
Bradshaw's,
it's not that uncommon a sight,
To see the snow 'bout every year,
drop down and paint the desert white.
But, no matter when I see it,
the high desert in winter gown,
It's an awesome, eerie beauty;
saguaros with a snowy crown.
Up high in the ponderosas,
even down in the pinyon draws,
The snow makes things look natural,
while hiding some of nature's flaws.
When it drifts 'round the junipers,
I think of little Christmas trees
And imagine it's nature's quilt,
to calm and set the world at ease.
Yet, something seems most out of place,
seeing cacti that seem so proud,
To usually thirst in blazing sun,
all hushed 'neath winter's chilly shroud.
Still, though it may be hard to grasp,
a greater thrill, you'll never know,
Than to ride out in the morning
and see saguaros in the snow.
© 2007, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Jack told us, "This poem was inspired by a late storm this past winter that
dropped the snow line down to under three thousand feet elevation.
This covered a lot of dessert that is usually thought of as being
hot and dry. The giant saguaro covered with snow is an unusual and
beautiful sight."
The Blacksmith's
Shed
It's just an old add-on
lean-to,
by the barn on the old home place,
With a hog wire fence around it,
to keep the cows out of his space.
A couple window panes are broke
and the old tin roof is rusted.
The forge's stack is listing bad,
because one guy wire is busted.
The small corral is empty now,
where shoeless ponies used to wait.
Some rimless wheels lean 'gainst the fence
and tumbleweeds have clogged the gate.
The door creaks when I open it
and cobwebs need be brushed aside.
The feeling's like a trip in time,
as I reverently step inside.
Dust dances in the rays of light,
that filter through the clapboard cracks
And illuminate horse collars,
that rest atop some old feed sacks.
There's bits and bridles and horseshoes,
hanging from handmade nails above
And there on the tool strewn workbench,
a pair of long wrist leather gloves.
Now, time has forever silenced,
resounding music that was mine,
The quick rhythm of the hammer,
above the bellows' wheeze and whine.
The striking blows began as thuds,
as hammer shaped the hot horseshoe,
Then rose to sharper clank, clink, clinks,
when black replaced the glowing hue.
The hissing when the tongs
would plunge,
hot steel into the quenching tank
And the ever piercing squeaking,
when he would turn the jib hoist crank.
But, silently stands the anvil,
atop its weathered oak log base,
A monument to craftsman's pride,
that still lingers in this work place.
I often visit the old shed,
for, oh, the memories it unlocks.
Can still smell the charcoal ashes,
beneath the forge's cold firebox.
His leather apron's on a peg,
and well worn hammer's on the shelf.
Yes, when my granddad passed away,
we buried a part of myself.
© 2007, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Dedicated to the
memory of my grandfather
Wily Andrew Burdette
1856—1935
Jack told us, "My inspiration for writing this poem comes
from memories of my grandfather who died when I was a young boy. I
remember visiting the old shed for many years after his death until urban
sprawl consumed the old place. My father keep the tools from the
blacksmith shop and we used many of the tools together until my father
also passed away."
The
Loneliest Trail
I think by now, I've rode them
all,
pushing cattle for little pay,
From Payson up through Happy Jack
and Heber, out the other way.
We drive them down for the winter
and back again, when snow is gone.
These are the roughest in the West,
the trails that climb the Mogollon.
We're winding out of Sedona,
through Bear Wallow Canyon today.
Merry-Go-Round Rock's just ahead.
Reckon tonight that's where we'll stay.
Late tomorrow, we'll hit the switchbacks,
as we climb the steep rim's south face.
With any luck, in 'bout a week,
we'll top out close to Jim Mund's place.
I think oft, as I ride along,
about that girl in Cottonwood.
She's weighing heavy on my mind,
a heap more than any girl should.
Daughter of a copper miner,
who works the claims up at Jerome.
She's the kind of gal that could make,
this cowboy want to find a home.
I met her at a town social
and asked if I might call on her.
That long black hair and cool green eyes,
gave this cowboy's heart quite a stir.
We seemed to hit it off just great
and I think she's carrying a torch.
Because, she didn't seem to mind,
when I kissed her on her side porch.
I think about the ranch up north,
with snow capped peaks and forests of pine.
The beauty there captures your soul,
yet, its far from the love of mine.
Looking back down the trail we've come,
the Verde Valley looks might good.
'Spose one could settle down there fine,
'though, I ain't saying that I would.
Now, no one made no promises
and don't know if she'll wait 'til fall.
Can't seem to shake this anxiousness,
a feeling like none I recall.
I've rode out on many a trail
and never had much cause to stall.
But, when you ride away from love,
it's the loneliest trail of all.
© 2005, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Jack told us, "There is a
Forest Service gravel road that winds down the Mogollon Rim from just
south of Munds Park, Arizona to Sedona, Arizona, that was used for
cattle drives. Bear Wallow Canyon and Merry-Go-Round Rock are actual
land marks along this trail. The poem was inspired by pure imagination
of the hardships of conducting a cattle drive in this extremely rugged
terrain and then having to do it while heartsick over leaving a
new-found love."
This poem is included in our Cowboy Love Poems
collection.
Oilcloth and Coal
Oil
I remember the old bunkhouse,
where the curtains were made of jute
And can still smell the coal oil lamp
and see the chimney black with soot.
Coal oil permeated the space
and dominated other scents.
To most it was a foul odor,
to others, a pleasing incense.
Of course, there were other odors,
associated with cowpokes,
From saddle soap to linseed oil
and tobacco from hand rolled smokes.
There was the smell of beans
and stew,
simmering on the cookie's stove,
Of leather chaps and sweaty clothes,
and brewing coffee interwove.
But, guess the smell most remembered,
that with lights out would start to creep,
Throughout the room and to the bunks,
coal oil fumes that put me to sleep.
Just before the lamp was
quieted,
as chimney rose to lowered wick,
One last fragrant swirl of gray smoke,
before the flame gave its last flick,
Standing near the cooking area,
a dining table where we ate,
All covered with pale red oilcloth,
with a surface shinny as slate.
Etched in the glossy tablecloth,
thousands of rings from coffee cups.
It was the gathering place at night,
and for breakfast chuck at sunup.
Who could count the steers that were roped,
or coyotes shot with a carbine
And who could tally the fortunes,
made in tales across its dull sheen.
Card games late on Saturday
nights
and Sunday chuck, without a doubt,
The simple rituals that we shared,
were what made that table standout.
Those days of cowboying are past,
except for riding in my dreams.
But, some details that I recall,
are fresh as yesterday, it seems.
Of all my bunkhouse memories,
of friends I made and their tall tales,
The ones most vivid in my mind,
are oilcloth's feel and coal oil's smell.
© 2008, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Jack told us,
"The inspiration for this poem came
from vivid memories of the sights and odors that are so distinct in bunk
houses, hunting camps, fishing cabins or anywhere that a group of men
gathers to eat and sleep."
Sunflowers
on the Slopes
In
drifting clouds,
The haze enshrouds,
The snow capped San Francisco Peaks.
While far below,
Wild flowers grow,
More colorful than fine batiks.
Yet higher still,
Waiting until,
Their time comes to become ornate.
As snow recedes,
Exposed are seeds,
With summer sun will germinate.
Concealed appeal,
Waiting to feel,
The crispness of September days.
Then right on cue,
A yellow hue,
Blankets the meadows with bright rays.
A crescendo,
Of world aglow,
A reassurance of our hopes.
In beauty frocked,
Nature unlocked,
Again, sunflowers on the slopes.
© 2009, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Jack comments: The San Francisco Peaks, just north of
Flagstaff, Arizona, rise to 12,633 feet above sea level which is the
highest point in Arizona. Each fall, every meadow between 7,000 and
8,000 feet elevation on the slopes of these mountains blooms with a
sea of golden flowers. My short poem, "Sunflowers on the Slopes" is an
attempt to capture in words a bit of the beauty of this awesome
display of nature.
He Didn't Aim To Be My Friend
At seventeen, I drifted in,
to that Yavapai County spread,
Green as a Palo Verde twig
and used to taking my own head.
That’s the first time that I seen him,
standing by the holding pen gate,
A short and wiry stern faced man,
the kind that could pull twice his weight.
He eyed me from my hat to boots,
trying to judge substance from fake,
Like I was some rough stock bronco,
that he was afixin to break.
He said, “My name’s Jake McCutchen
and I’m the top hand of this spread.
I need some help for the roundup,
if you be worth your chuck and bed.”
I knowed he’d of never hired me,
if he wern’t hurtin for help bad.
So, ‘though I had a lot to learn,
decided to give all I had.
I weren’t nowhere near his best hand
but, through it all, I did contend,
Wern’t easy to impress a man,
who didn’t aim to be my friend.
Throughout my clumsy learning curve,
Jake rode me hard, but he was fair.
Though, I didn’t gentle easy,
somehow, he didn’t seem to care.
He must have seen promise in me,
to overlook my gross defects.
Reckon he thought heart and spirit,
deserved patience and due respect.
That was twenty eight years ago
and Jake retired just two years back.
I know he’d still be riding me,
if his hips hadn’t gone to rack.
He lives on a little horse farm,
‘bout eighteen miles or so away.
But, that don’t keep him far enough,
to not be checking me each day.
Yep, he stuck by me through it all,
with that wild kid, until a man.
He taught me like I was his son
and I became his biggest fan.
Now, Jake didn’t miss too often
and usually hit what he’d intend,
But, guess the biggest miss was when,
he didn’t aim to be my friend.
© 2009, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Jack comments:
Although the two cowboy characters
in this poem are fictitious, they could have been dozens of true
friend couples that I have known that started out on the wrong foot or
had less than cordial beginnings that somehow grew and bonded into
lasting friendships. This poem is about two cowboys with such a
beginning that turned into an unlikely lasting friendship.
Jest Another
Morning
Although this scene may be
routine,
To the buckaroos of the West.
In beauty born,
Or with Hell’s scorn,
Morning brought an endurance test.
A rooster crowed,
The moon hung low,
Just a sliver of a crescent.
Frost crystals formed
And white adorned,
Morning’s soft gown, most eloquent.
The sun peeked through,
With purple hue,
Painted the hills in amethyst.
The sky streaked red
And crimson bled,
Like the brush strokes of an artist.
Out of warm bunk,
Without much spunk,
‘Til my hands wrapped ‘round a tin cup.
Coosie’s coffee,
I’ll guarantee,
Would wake ole Rip Van Winkle up.
Bacon and eggs
And coffee dregs,
Then it’s time to catch my cayuse.
With cutting rope
And lots of hope,
That he don’t give me no abuse.
Without a fit,
Blaze came to bit
And shook off stiffness of the night.
Purt soon my kack,
Was on his back
And the girth band was cinched up tight.
A quick review,
With all the crew,
The Bar J top hand had his say.
When he was through,
We dang well knew,
What were our duties for the day.
Crush out our smokes,
Coil up our ropes
And up into the saddle swing.
Ride to the herd,
See if they stirred,
Watch the night owl on homeward wing.
The turning leaves,
Of aspen trees,
Blaze the hills with crown adorning.
Sky of azure,
No clouds obscure,
For, it’s jest another morning.
© 2010, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Jack comments:
The inspiration for this poem came upon reflecting on how much
adventure and interaction with nature that working cowboys experience
on an every day basis to the extent that it becomes almost routine and
obscured in the work and duties of the day. Most working cowboys will
experience more adventure and be exposed to more of nature's beauty in
one morning than some "city folks" will experience in a lifetime,
except in their dreams and imaginations.
The Wrangler's
Christmas
A stand of aspen near a
stream,
just as I’ve run out of daylight.
There’s grass in the bottom below.
Reckon this will be camp tonight.
Now bare, the aspens’ final leaves,
have fluttered gently to the ground
And wrapped the world in a blanket,
as if to hush her every sound.
The winter range is dry and brown
and frost crystals have claimed the grass,
That crackle ‘neath my every step,
like walking on fine broken glass.
It’ll be a cold one tonight,
‘cause the south breeze has lost her breath,
The sky’s completely void of clouds
and the air’s quiet and still as death.
A plate of beans warmed on the coals
and hard tack fills me up just right.
Not chuck most folks would call fancy,
but, tastes gourmet by the firelight.
Straying leaders have been hobbled
and the mules are wearing cowbells.
I can settle near my warm fire
and hear the coyote’s yips and yells.
Faced with a waning crescent moon,
as days grow short and night air chills,
There’s something ‘bout December nights,
that a sense of reverence instills.
Could be the stillness and the dark,
that magnify the heaven’s quasars.
Yet, there’s something I can’t explain,
that makes me reach to touch the stars.
I mull the story of Christ’s birth,
with its simplistic beauty
And wonder if I saw the star,
would I head the call of duty.
And should a host of angels,
descend from Heaven on high,
Would I travel to Bethlehem,
as did the shepherds and Magi.
The wise men didn’t hesitate,
to follow the heavenly sign,
For, they knew the significance,
of the birth of this child divine.
And the shepherds were unafraid,
to leave flocks on hillside meadows,
To witness the birth of a king,
the Savior wrapped in swaddling clothes.
I reckon them folks had strong faith,
for to be so easily implored,
But, reckon you don’t have much doubt.
when you’re been foretold by the Lord.
And, had I lived in those times,
I wonder what I would have done.
It sure would take a leap of faith,
but, don’t think the calling I’d shun.
Then, I wonder ‘bout the present
and the mess this poor world is in.
Two thousand years after Herod,
there still seems to be right smart sin.
It seems things haven’t changed a lot
and the hatred and greed of man,
Gets only deeper as time goes by.
but, who knows what God has in his plan.
A mule’s bell clanging down below,
brings me back to present day
And reminds me to stir the fire,
before sleep carries me away.
Them hunters up in the elk camp,
will think that I’m their Santa Claus.
My showing up there with supplies,
on Christmas Day, will draw applause.
© 2010, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Read Jack Burdette's
The
Nighthawk's Christmas posted with 2007 Christmas poems
and
Angel
in the Window posted with 2006 Christmas poems
