Folks' Poems Janice Gilbertson www.cowboypoetry.com

Windshield wipers slap-slapping the sleet away
Radio cowboy croonin' the cowboy blues
Big tires whinin' on the frozen asphalt
Warm air blowin' strong on toe-tappin' shoes

County road pickets and five strands of barbs
Run neck and neck at seventy miles per hour
Thoughts as clear as a foggy side window
As soulful as a fat meal and hot shower

Take no notice of the little grey draw
Just there, on the wild side of the fence
One strong-armed stone's throw from comfort
A band of five huddled in defense

Coarse winter coats lay in wet cold designs
Muscles quiver from flanks down to hocks
Bony spines humped, heavy heads held low
Tangled manes hang in long ropey locks

A masterpiece of misery in the sage
Spirits suspended in thin icy air
Instinctual longing for better days
Not a frost-laden breath left to spare.

I have lived here in the eastern foothills of the Santa Lucia Mountains of western California for over fifty years. The range is a little over one hundred miles long, rising from near Monterey and ending in San Luis Obispo County to the south. The west side juts up from the Pacific coast and its floral and fauna is influenced by the ocean mists and fog. The east side where I live tumbles and then rolls down to the beautiful, fertile Salinas Valley. It is much drier here on this side, but there are rivers, creeks and springs that bring relief to the land and animals.

There were at least three Indian tribes in the range and surrounding areas, but it was mostly the Salinan-Jolon Indians who lived in this area. The San Antonio Mission is not far from here, maybe fifteen miles as the crow flies, but twice that far to drive. The Padres and settlers are the history of Jolon and surrounding area.

I was seven years old when my family moved into this canyon and I began riding my old horse around the roads and trails. With two brothers quite a few years older than I, I was very much a loner and our horses and dogs were my best friends. It was only natural that I would fall in love with the land.

Now, my front porch looks west to hills and high ridges and the back yard shows off the Gabilan range across the Salinas valley. I never ever tire of it. "Sometimes, in the Lucias" came directly from the center of me. As I worked on writing it, I could hear the sounds and smell the scents just like I did when I rode alone as a child.

The Watchers

He lays in the dust of the well traveled trail and watches through know-it-all eyes.
Hidden in shadow and gray shaggy hide he's a stalker in wild disguise.

He's a gangster by night when he trots with his pack and howls to the spirits in the dark.
But...by day he's a loner, a sly one who spies and lives up life on a lark.

It has long been believed he's a bearer of spirit...or a taker, a trickster, a thief,
So righteously taking what he deems as his, no matter his victim's belief.

*********************

I scold myself for the tremble of my hand and the unease that squirms inside
Premonition prickles the back of my neck as I pull the window curtain aside.

And of course he is there and returns my stare through amber kaleidoscope eyes
"He's just a coyote," I say, and I'm not his prey. The calves and the lambs are his prize.

But the words of Native folklore haunt me, or perhaps it's common sense I lack.
I only know that he can vanish in an instant and leave no trail or track.

He watches me...and I watch him, until I turn to see he's no longer there.
I'll hear him tonight as I toss in my bed, his howling too daunting to bear.

© 2007, Janice Gilbertson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Janice told us, "I know that there are many poems written about coyotes. There is something mystical and elusive about the way they live. I hear them often in the night and sometimes after daylight. Their soulful howls and frenzied yipping always leaves me feeling a bit anxious and 'spooky.' Perhaps I have read too many Native American folk tales about them, or maybe it is just their very real slyness. Whatever the reason, they have a way of unsettling my spirit. So, here is one more coyote poem with some truth to it. I do see one sitting on the side hill behind the house or over on the ridge to the west, from time to time and I feel he knows a lot more about me than I do about him."

The Pasture of Frogs

In the magic dust of summertime
When crawly things are in their prime
Lizards, snakes and horny-toads
Leave silly tracks 'cross country roads

Where the ground is baked by hot, hot sun
Bugs and spiders do dare run
To hide in dried-up cowpie shade
Or webby places they have made

You'll not find a drop of moisture, NO
You'll not hear a single sound, although
Mystery lies beneath that ground
For which an answers ne'er been found

When the winter rains first softly fall
It seems to take no time at all
To notice on a moonlit night
They have returned with all their might!

It seems to be their summer fate
They do not croak. They de-hydrate
They shrink like tiny sponges, then
When rain comes...they're back again!

I love to hear their croaky sounds
Their cacophony song abounds
It drifts to me from pasture bogs
And those reconstituted frogs

© 2008, Janice Gilbertson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Janice told us, "When I was a kid I would play in the creek for hours on end. I loved watching the little tadpoles, or pollywogs as we called them, turn into teeny tiny frogs. As the seasonal creek receded and left behind spring pools, I would scoop them up in my palms and relocate them to deeper water so they could finish changing to frogdom. When I walked out through the wet pasture grasses, there would be hundreds of little frogs hopping wildly about. Frogs were a big part of my life apparently.
"As summer came on and it grew warmer, the grasses would dry up or be grazed off and the ground would bake hard under a blazing sun. The frogs would disappear slowly and I wouldn't hear them at night anymore. Night songs changed from frogs to crickets. So, where did they all go? Did they die? And if they did, then where did they instantly come from when it rained again in winter? The creek would swell and run in torrents in the winter, so where did those little frog-bound tadpoles come from when the water slowed and ran clear?
I believe I finally solved the mystery."