About Mike Puhallo
Poems
Books and CDs
Contacting Mike Puhallo
Exploring
Our Western Heritage Youth Education Program
(separate page)
About Mike Puhallo
Mike Puhallo is the president of the BC Cowboy Heritage Society (BCCHS).
Mike Puhallo is one of the most widely published cowboy poets in Canada. He has co-authored three books of cowboy poetry and cartoons with Wendy Liddle and Brian Brannon, and recently completed his fourth book with Wendy Liddle. Mike's poems have been published in numerous magazines and also found their way into his weekly newspaper column Mike's Meadow Muffins. This poet, humourist and rancher also writes for Canadian Cowboy Country magazine as their cowboy poetry editor.
Mike has been a working cowboy, a saddle bronc rider, a packer and horse trainer. He currently ranches in partnership with his younger brother, as well as writing and painting western oils. Mike's poetry will reach out and touch western people where they live, through the experiences and feelings that are shared by those who live close to the land. The reason his poetry is so "real" is simple; this cowboy has "bin there an' done that."Read about Mike's Exploring Our Western Heritage Youth Education Program, which includes some additional poetry here.
You can read Mike's weekly Meadow Muffins on the BCCHS Cowboy Poets' page and at Cowboylife.com.
In Fall 2002 Mike received the Kamloops' Queen's Golden Jubilee Medal, awarded in recognition of outstanding community service. (He's the cowboy!) Betty Hinton, Member of Parliament who presented the awards on behalf of the Queen, is at Mike's left. Photo courtesy of Photography by Sharon.
Home From Winter Range
Ode to Robbie Burns
Louis Lebourdais, Smartest Man in the Cariboo
A Scene That's Best Unseen
Bawlin' Calves and Burnin' Hair
Valentine's Day on the Ranch
Jump Start Your Day
Spring Wake Up Call!
Little White Lies
IF He Could Read My Mind?
Economy of Summer 2003
Drifters
Daybreak at Twilight Ranch
Doc Mason
Ode To Chee Witt
Scour Pills and Roses
Tales of the Cariboo Trail
Where Did All Them People Come From?
The Guy on the Radio Says It's Spring!
Life's Little Mysteries
Does This Mean the Drought is Over?
Hangin' On
Patience, Trust and A Little Luck
"If you got the money, Honey...I got the time"
A New Day
Kinda Chilly Huh?
Home on the Range
Hi Finance
Face to Face
Steep Slopes and Green Horses
Heck It Could Have Been Worse!
Springtime in the Rockies
The Daily Chicken Run
Back in the Saddle
Last Week of Summer
Some Cows Want to Come Home, Some Don't
An Uptown Affair
Never Look Back (separate page)
Balancing the Books
Whinny, (From The Valley of the Wild Horses)
A First Taste of Spring!
Branding Time 2006
Off to the Rodeo!
Bad Days Make Good Stories
It Ain't Easy Being Green
A Tale of Two Roans
The Upside of Fall
Lest We Forget (separate page)
A New Year a New Day! (separate page)
Priorities
Old Trails
Signposts Along the River
Sold!
The Turkey Roundup
My Ponies
Rumors...
Young Horses, Cool Mornings
First Snow
White Bulls in the Snow
Cowpoke Déjà Vous
Living Green Without Even Trying!
Deadman Creek, Blizzard.
Everywhere But Here?
Full Moon
Natural Selection
Understanding the March Hare!
The Math Don’t Work!On Page 2:
Small Boys, Trains, and Outlaws
Home From Winter Range
We gathered the winter range today,
and brought the cattle in.
The old cows still were fat as hogs,
but the two year olds were thin.
It’s sixteen miles of downhill road,
and the cows all know the way.
They’re tired of eating slough-grass,
and looking forward to some hay.
A cattle drive in January,
aint generally so nice.
But today the sun shone brightly,
on our world of snow and ice.
An easy day for horse and man,
because, as all cowboys know,
it aint too hard to chase a cow,
some place she wants to go!© Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Ode to Robbie Burns
Och Robbie, how your verse and rhyme,
Try a wit and tongue like mine.
Aye, even friends of Scottish blood,
Wallow in thy lyric mud.
While some poems flow,
with rhythm plain,
Your phrases writhe in bitter pain,
of a language hacked by a bard insane.
I must struggle to read,
This tangled tome,
Of how one wee beastie,
lost his home!
Yet, due the eloquence of simple truth,
Your words can never die.
For the best laid plans,
O’ mice and men,
do yet,
“Gang aft, agley”© Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Campfire tale from the Cariboo trail.
Told to me long ago by one of Louis' many descendants.
Louis Lebourdais, smartest man in the Cariboo.
Louis Lebourdais, that frenchman,
Was born in Gay Paris,
And he’s the smartest guy,
In the whole Cariboo
As you will plainly see!
Louis is a right dapper coachman,
He can’t think of a thing he may lack,
He drives the Cariboo Road,
Every week from Ashcroft,
To Quesnel Mouth and back.
The BX provides him good horses,
Thoroughbred crosses with good leg and bone,
and his coach is a shiny red concord,
Best rig any outfit could own!
Oh, he laughs and he sings to his horses,
As they trot down that dusty dirt track.
His six-up, keeeps those big wheels a hummin’,
and his traces never show slack!
A little rest at each turn-around
for family comfort, and awee bit of fun.
Old Louis he don’t ever get lonely,
With a wife at each end of the run!© Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Scene that's best Unseen
The story of,
Big Creeks "Peerless lady wing-shot"
Is sure to draw a smile.
As she relaxes in her bubble bath,
in fine Chilcotin style.
She demurely draws her daily bath,
then calmly loads her gun.
Then settles in the tub, out on the lawn,
to soak up suds and sun!
For sport she picks off swallows,
and she don't miss, Ol' Pard,
So, God help any stranger,
who should wander in the Yard.
This story is the blessed truth,
no word of lie I speak,
But her heart is pure, and her aim sure,
an' it would cost your life, to peek!© Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A true tale. One thing about folks out in the Chilcotin: they are about as
western as you can get with out fallin' in the ocean!
Bawlin' Calves and Burnin' Hair
Seems like winter finally fizzled out,
the hills are turning green.
But in shady spots on northern slopes,
some snow can still be seen.It's branding time at twilight ranch
Cows are bawling everywhere.
Amid the bustle and confusion,
woodsmoke,
blends with burning hair.Swift ropes and stout horses,
draw each young calf from the throng,
Sure hands take over, the job is done,
And it sure don't take too long.Inoculated marked and neutered,
then turned loose to rejoin mom,
His ordeal forgotten in a bovine blink,
'though it might of smarted some.© Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Valentine's Day on the Ranch
You might buy your darlin' chocolates,
wrapped in a bow or two.
Or a dozen pretty roses,
The choice is up to you.
You could take her out to dinner,
or go dancing for a change.
do what ever it takes to brighten her life,
in your home out on the range.
It's a matter of survival,
Because once calving's in full swing.
you'll have very little time for romance,
until the first green grass of Spring.
Don't take your Valentine for granted,
be sure to show her that you care.
So when you need her help at 2 A.M.
With luck she'll still be there!
© 2002, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Ridin' Rhymes
I suppose most folks think I'm crazy,
and I... suppose, they ain't far wrong.
My father still hopes
I'll come to my senses
and get real job before too long.
But I just keep on writing,
these cowboy rhymes and tales,
tho' the poverty line looks like easy street,
compared to my book sales!
But I have lived on cowboy wages,
So I'm good at making do.
and I'm a lucky man 'cause I make a living,
doing the stuff I love to do!
So on the trails where past and present meet
come ride a while with me,
where cattle graze as in by-gone days,
In a West still wild and free!
© 2002, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Jump Start Your Day
You know for a middle aged X-Bullrider, my little brother still runs pretty good.
We jumped the horses in the trailer,
and as I tied my mare in place,
my little Brother stood at the back door.
A late starter in this race.
At least it was a gentle grade...
I hollered, "Run! Gordy! Run!"
When the truck and trailer started moving,
'cause the brake had come undone.
I couldn't do a thing from where I was,
so I hung on for the ride.
The old rig had a pretty good head start
Before ol' Gordy hit his stride.
But, like I said the grade was gentle,
So he stopped that run-away.
And there's nothing like a little excitement,
to begin a cowboys day.
I suppose some day we'll get that E-brake fixed,
but now it's time to hit the road,
out looking for stray cattle and...
a flat place to unload.
© 2002, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Spring Wake Up Call!
My Mom called me just yesterday,
she said "I know you've been busy son,
But If you've got some time in the next few days,
There's some things that we need done.
"If you could plant a post or two,
and prune the fruit trees in the yard,
Your Dad keeps saying he'll get it done,
but you know it's getting hard..."
Now I haven't done any yard work here,
I aint pruned or dug a thing.
Because I've been waiting for my Mom to call,
That's the first real sign of Spring!
© 2003, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Little White Lies
He was five years old and still unbroke,
The Owner said
"He's been handled once or twice,
Been out on pasture much since he was three,
but..... his mother was real nice."Well the big colt took the bit real well...
just a little nervous and head shy,
he barely flinched when I put the saddle on,
an' I begin to smell a lie.So I let him stand in the round corral,
while I got the owner on the phone,
And after dancing 'round a little bit,
She confirmed what I should have known."Well, I had hired a kid to break him,
who lives just down the road,
But he must have mistreated my, Pretty Boy,
And that's why he got throwed!"
Now I've been starting colts since I was 12,
and I've seen my share of dirt,
Range colts and broncs are no big deal,
But them little lies, can get you hurt!
© 2003 Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
After 38 years of starting colts I suspect I don't bounce as well as I did,
but I've gotten way better at avoiding the need to.
IF He Could Read My Mind?
Will Rogers once said something about horses being the only critter on Earth
that seem to be designed with serving man in mind!
I rode the big sorrel colt again this morning,
A week into training and we ain't had a wreck.
Another three weeks he'll be gentle enough,
and I figure I will have earned my check.You know it's been a dozen years,
since I started a colt, any older than three,
so this big five year old has been a bit of a test,
and a challenge of sorts for me.One step at a time, building knowledge and trust,
He learns to respond to the bit and each cue.
Unraveling, five years of bad habits,
and figuring out, what I want him to do.Yes the horse trainer takes all the credit,
failures are blamed on the pupil of course,
Fact is, the only true key to horse training,
Is the versatile mind of the horse.
© 2003 Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Economy of Summer 2003
We haven't seen a drop of rain
in a month or more,
the pastures are getting dry,
but the hay looks good ,
and in our garden patch
the corn's over six foot high.
There's a forest fire off to the south
the valley is full of haze,
It's the price we pay in this arid clime,
for these golden summer days.
The sunshine draws the tourists
to fish, ride and play,
or just lay on the beaches.
and scorch their hide all day.
Well, our timber aint worth cutting,
and you can't give a cow away,
So me, I'm praying for a drought,
so at least the tourists stay!
© 2003 Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Drifters
A cowboy song-writer friend, from Louisiana,
Stopped to visit for a time.
We swapped some lies and points of view,
on music craft and rhyme.
He'd been on the road for several months,
playng little halls and coffee bars,
One of them modern day drifters,
cowboys with guitars.
We sip coffee in the kitchen
and watch two bears cross my back yard,
He remarks that them was the first bears that he'd seen this trip,
and he'd been looking pretty hard.
Them bears are looking for wind-fall apples,
That singing cowboy is in search of a song,
they stare at each other through a thin pane of glass,
soon each will be moving along.
© 2003 Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
(Mike's visitor was our Special Western Music Guest Kerry Grombacher)
Daybreak At Twilight Ranch
A crisp and frosty, golden morning,
I cinch my saddle and swing on,
Horse, snorting, dancing, full of beans,
cold backed in the dawn.
A lot of miles to make today,
But, let's take the first few yards... real slow.
Let that bundle of nerves unwind a bit,
I don't need no rodeo.
I can forget the drought, the BSE,
My problems one and all,
With a good horse beneath my saddle,
gathering cattle in the fall.
© 2003 Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Doc Mason
The twists and turns in a cowboy's life
can't hardly be anticipated.
Doc Mason was my travelling pard,
before he got educated.Bareback horses was his specialty,
while I preferred the saddle broncs.
'Though some claim we never rodeo'd half as hard,
as we worked the honky-tonks!
It took a while but my ol' Pard,
got his degree and become a vet.
While I went to raisin' cows and writin' rhymes,
and really still aint growed up yet.
Educated and respectable...
Doc Mason's done quite well.
And there's little sign left,
of his rowdy youth,
as far as most folks could tell.
But his sense of humour hasn't changed,
although he has toned it down a mite.
And after all those years of travelling broke,
he's still a little tight.
So when a client had a Pot-bellied Pig,
he wanted to have put down,
The wheels in my ol' pardner's head,
started spinning 'round and 'round.
He could nearly taste the sausage,
and smell that fresh cured bacon,
Then the client mentioned the funeral plans
his wife and kids was makin'.My ol' pardner isn't easily spooked,
but it made the client sort of nervous,
When ol' Doc ask with grave concern,
If they planned an,
open casket service.
© 2003 Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Mike sent along this picture of him and Marlin Mason. Mike says "He and I travelled
together off and on for 20
years or so from High School Rodeo on up."
Ode To Chee Witt
Sometime in late winter the Mountain Chickadee suddenly changes it's tune
from the familiar "chick-de de" to three long clear notes rising then
falling "deee - deee - deeee."
Well we've got January nearly whipped,
and it's almost Ground Hog Day!
With millions of folks staring into holes
just begging, to be led astray.
Ah! Them rodents are all liars,
It's easy enough to see.
That's why I get my winter weather tips,
from the Mountain Chickadee.
When Chee Witt sings her Chinook song,
Just three notes, clear and strong,
The warm days will out number the cold ones,
and winter won't last too long.
Of course that's a Chilcotin legend,
Don't help them folks back East, might be.
But today I heard the late winter song,
Of the Mountain Chickadee.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Scour Pills and Roses
Well! so it is, once again,
that romantic time of year.
Time to tally up the vet supplies,
'cause calving time is near.
Sulpha drugs and Penicillin,
Scour pills and a dozen roses.
Rubber gloves and Vaseline,
to rub on frostbit noses.
At least two dozen needles,
some iodine and suture string.
I make a list of the stuff we need
To get us through 'til spring.
So I gas up the pick-up
Off to town before everything closes.
for groceries and essential stuff,
like scour pills and a dozen roses.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This poem is included with our collection of Cowboy Love Poems
The following poems were written just preceding the 2004
Kamloops Cowboy Festival
Tales Of the Cariboo Trail
It's been nearly two hundred years,
since David Stuart rode up from the South
On a moccasin trail ten thousand years old,
from the Okanagan's mouth.
It was the trade route of the Shuswaps,
that would become the Cariboo trail.
Life line of British Columbia
before the coming of the rail.
The fur brigades and cattle drives,
the miners in search of gold,
Followed the winding valley paths,
as did the Human Beings of old.
From Kamloops to the Columbia,
Before the coming of the rails,
It was the life line of British Columbia,
and that road has many tales.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Where Did All Them People Come From?
Ten years ago, in the sawdust,
of the Kamloops Bull Sale ring,
we gathered to spout some rhymes and lies,
and hear The Cowboy's Sweet-Heart sing.
That this thing would ever get so big,
who would have ever guessed ?
This weekend there's a thousand fans,
from every corner of the West.
They have gathered in the Old Cowtown,
With Songs to sing and lies to tell,
The Spirit of The West, it seems,
is still alive and well!
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Guy on the Radio Says It's Spring!
The snow in the valley is prit near gone,
There's some green on the southern slope,
Spring, is a time of muddy boots,
new life and renewed hope.
The horses fed, I pause by the barn,
feeling much at ease,
as I drink the sounds and smells,
that ride the gentle southern breeze.
A subtle sound, seems out of place...
I soon locate the source,
of the drip and gurgle of running water,
A broken line in the stock tank of course.
My joyful bliss on this sweet spring morn,
has turned into a bummer,
I trade my cowboy hat for a baseball cap,
today I am the plumber!
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Graduate
The round pen is a classroom,
where we're taught, how to learn,
From the larger lessons life brings our way,
around every curve and turn.
The black filly danced and tossed her head,
At traffic speeding by,
Some drivers slow and shake their heads,
as if to ask me why?
I ride a green horse along the highway?
Why do I risk life and limb?
Why not choose a quiet trail,
Where the risk would be quite slim?
It's the trainer's job, to take that chance,
So the owner don't get throwed,
Because the only test, for a car-shy horse,
Is to ride her down the road.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Life's Little Mysteries
I gathered about twenty cows this morning,
And moved them through the gate,
To the back end of our summer range,
When I finished up it wasn't too late.
So I headed out cross country
Wandering through the pines
Because there's at least another forty head,
I still need to find.
I didn't find another cow today,
Though I covered a lot a ground,
I didn't come home empty handed,
a mystery I found.
On a jack pine ridge near Rocky Lake,
On a bed of needles there,
Was one old rusty horse shoe,
And the bleached skull of a bear.
These curiosities I carried home,
Found by chance or strange design,
The bear's life and death a mystery,
But the horse that threw that shoe...
was mine.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Does This Mean the Drought is Over?
I hear the Peace River country had some snow,
and we've had six weeks of rain,
If you're looking at the river level,
You'd swear it's June again.
We stopped haying back in August,
with 50 acres left to cut,
Now the trail down to that meadow,
is just one big muddy rut.
But the fall grass is looking good,
and most of the water holes are full,
and October meadow hay,
will feed a ten cent cow or bull.
Some day soon the sun will shine,
and we'll get finished haying,
And I'll not complain about the rain,
after five dry years of praying.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Hangin' On
We were going to wean our calves last week,
but the offer was too low.
We turned down the bid and turned out the herd,
for another week or so.
Selling cattle on the internet,
Can save a trip to town,
an' it sure cuts the cost of trucking,
When you turn the rascals down.
Cow business, in the cyber age,
the computer does it all,
We track bloodlines, births, weaning weights,
and market trends in Fall.
October's been warm, the grass is good.
There aint no sign of snow.
We can hold out until the weather turns.
Then them calves will have to go.
That computer thinks he's pretty smart,
He'll stay home safe and warm,
While brother and I, will end up hunting cows,
In the first early winter storm.
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Patience, Trust and A Little Luck
There's a dozen old cowboy songs and poems,
about the Zebra Dun,
And this line backed gelding I'm working now,
just might be another one.
Six years old, he's plenty stout,
short coupled and built thick.
His back is bowed, his ears are pinned,
and he kinda wants to strike and kick.
It took a week to sack him out,
and he don't like my saddle much,
He'll still bog his head at each surprise,
and flinch at every touch.
Now he can't tell me were he's been,
or what kind of wrecks he's had,
But I'm guessing, what he's learned from man,
so far, has been all bad.
I rode him around the pen today,
at a quiet walk of course.
The Zebra Dun has begun his journey,
from bronc, to lady's horse.© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
How does that old song go?
"If you got the money, Honey...I got the time"
Little Brother has a pair of colts at the ranch,
He'd like me to come up there and ride,
But I'm waltzing each day with the big Zebra Dun,
And there's more on the line than my pride.
I've got three and a half weeks in on this jug head now,
and we still aint been out of the pen.
Today's the first day he never blew up,
although he still spooks a bit, now and then.
With patience and time,
nearly any young horse,
will learn to see things my way...
Eventually,
they all seem to figure it out,
that fussing and fighting don't pay.
Patience and time,
the owner's and mine,
and I hope that girl's pockets are deep,
I'll tame this old coyote and he'll be just fine,
But boys, it aint gonna be cheap!
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A New Day
A field of bright diamonds,
sparkle and glow.
First rays of dawn,
crisp, new fallen snow.
A new day,
A new year,
A fresh page bright and clean,
Fresh snow on the meadow,
Not a track to be seen.
Happy New Year!
© 2004, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Kinda Chilly Huh?
The packed snow creaks,like pole gate hinges, beneath the cloven feet.
of cattle shrouded in a fog bank formed,
of exhaled breath and body heat.
After a half dozen mild winters,
I'm getting soft...
might be,
The thermometer's stuck
where it froze last week,
but it feels colder now to me.
Hay stacks and woodpiles dwindle fast,
When the deep Artic front digs in,
After the first ten days or so,
Your warmest coat's...
too thin.
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Home on the Range
The waters of Earth form a circle,
death and rebirth are life's theme.
"Where the graceful white swan goes gliding along ,
Like a maid in a heavenly dream. "
...
I recall when I was a boy,
That line from Home on The Range...
Seemed to me, to be out of place,
and sounded a little bit strange.Because any swans I'd seen 'til then,
was in a picture book or zoo,
so singing their praises in a cowboy song,
just somehow didn't ring true.
At the time I was far to young,
to grasp, what once had been,
Great flocks of trumpeter swans
had graced many a Western scene.
This morning as I rode by the river,
beyond white diamond sand in the stream,
A dozen white swans, were gliding along,
Each one, a maid in a Heavenly dream.
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Read the words to various versions of "Home on the Range" here.
Hi Finance
...when a Government figures farmers and ranchers need help they inevitably
respond by creating more civil service jobs...
It was three days too early,
For an April Fools Day prank,
when my cow's received a welfare check,
drawn on the local bank.
It came in a window envelope,
that probably cost a dime,
another fifty cents to mail it,
and that don't figure in the time...That some one spent to tally up,
the amount of subsidy,
required to bring much needed aid
to them old cows and me.
The whole thing's got me baffled,
I must be kind of dense ,
Because I can't decide just what to buy,
with a cheque for eighteen cents!
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.PS ... No B.S., that is exactly what I received in the mail!
Face to Face
Yesterday I went over to help the neighbours brand a bunch of Fall
Calves, some were pretty big and just a little wild. I was working in the
run pushing calves up to the chute, things went pretty well until we got
down to the last few.
She used me for a launch pad,
when she made her first escape,
hoof prints on my back and shoulder,
but I got off with out a scrape.
She scrambled over the calf chute,
and out into the pen.
So we branded all the others,
then ran her in again.
Half way down the chute run,
She turned herself around,
lined up on the end gate
and once more she left the ground.
Young Darryl went to stop her
He leaped up with style a grace,
and in the air above the end gate,
met the heifer face to face.
Now he's a sorry sight to see,
'cause kissing cattle aint no fun,
A fat lip, bloody nose and busted glasses.
But he kept that heifer in the run!
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Steep Slopes and Green Horses
Inspired in that instant when I kicked my feet out the stirrups as I cleared
the front of my saddle and noticed I was about 20 feet in the air
with nothing but rocks and
pavement below.
Ponderosa Pine, against a clear blue sky
Golden wheatgrass and rocks below,
For one heart-beat at the apex of your trajectory,
time stands still you know!
No time for reflection,
On what made your pony stumble,
In that instant of pure clarity,
before you resume your downward tumble.
This aint no rodeo pen,
with its bed of soft turned dirt.
The landing strip's all broken rock
...
this is really going to hurt!
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Heck It Could Have Been Worse!I remember checking out when my horse started to fall, I don't remember much
else until they loaded me in the ambulance.
They tell me I may have set a new altitude record for surviving a swan dive
into pavement.
They used a plate and several screws,
to put my right wrist back together.
But I'm in better shape than I might have been,
had my tail stayed in the leather.
Both my kids have cussed on me,
"Dad, you aint no super man,
you just to stick to well broke horses,
and write all the poems you can."
But It aint as if I got bucked off,
you know, I bailed out of that wreck,
and I'm pretty agile for a fat ol' man,
otherwise I would have broke my neck.
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Springtime in the Rockies
There are ripe strawberries in my garden,
My corn's nearly two foot high.
but I'm Alberta bound this weekend
I shake my head and wonder why.
It's flooding down in Pincher Creek,
there's a foot of Snow in the old Crows Nest.
And here I am heading East,
While all the geese are flying West!
I packed my slicker and my gumboots,
In the morning I'll be gone.
After I change the oil in my ol' pickup
and put my winter tires back on!
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Daily Chicken Run
I set down my cup of coffee...
I could see the high grass quiver,
Once more they began the perilous dash,
from the rough ground by the river.
They hit the ground, and come up running,
zigzag then sprint a while,
fan out across the open ground,
regroup in single file.
Then slip safely into my garden,
eight pheasant chicks and a momma hen.
My courageous morning visitors.
last week there were ten.© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Back in the Saddle
He figures city life prit near killed him,
stuck in that apartment with nothing to do,
So he packed up his gear and moved back to the ranch,
Though last fall he turned eighty-two.
Gone is the pallor and softness,
The indecision that clouded his brain,
He sits easy on his old sorrel pony,
Dad is back in the saddle again!
He knows it will not last forever,
Time is relentless of course,
But Pop has decided that he ain't giving up,
While he can still climb on a horse.
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Mike tells: Dad started cowboying for wages almost 70 years ago. He has done other stuff in his life but nothing that ever fit him quite so well as being a-horseback. When my Dad turned 80 he and Mom moved into one of them seniors apartments in town. It did not work! "Dad started cowboying for wages almost 70 years ago. He has done other stuff in his life but nothing that ever fit him quite so well as being a-horseback.
Dad is out at Twilight Ranch, riding steady and helping with the chores, He looks ten years younger than he did last winter. Mom is living in the apartment in town, they take turns visiting each other now and then. Dad has done other things in his life, working off the ranch as a fireman for 15 years, he has bought and sold and developed some properties. . But first, last, and always he has been a stockman.
This photo is my Dad, Steve, (L) and his best friend Gint Gehlrich (R). As teenagers (early 1940's) they left Kamloops together and rode over 200 miles cross country to Dog Creek Ranch where they hired on as cowboys. They cowboyed and rodeoed together for years. Gint was a top notch saddle bronc rider while Dad rode steers and bareback broncs. They each got married built up ranches of their own and remained lifelong friends. Gint passed away August 4, 2005. After numerous attempts at retirement, Dad is back in the saddle again.
Last Week of Summer
Corn on the cob, and home grown tomatoes,
the calves are big and fat,
We're on the downhill slope of Summer,
There's no denying that.
And the Summery part, was pretty brief,
after weeks and weeks of rain.
But cattle prices are on the rise,
and pro Hockey's back again!
Fires, floods and BSE,
All things in time will pass
As we slip into another Fall,
It's been a real good year for grass!
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Some Cows Want to Come Home, Some Don't
There's a touch of frost in the air,
and a little less time each day,
To say goodbye to summer,
and get the equipment put away,
Repair the washed out ditches,
fix each fence and pen,
we've only got about two weeks,
until it's round-up time again.
And we're in the saddle every morning,
'though our riding's often done by noon,
keeping the cattle off the fences,
so they don't come home too soon.
Come mid October it turns around,
and through the hills we'll roam,
searching near and far for the other cows,
That don't want to come home!
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
An Uptown Affair
I got an invite quite a while ago,
from some folks in Oregon,
To tell some poems at this shindig,
that they was putting on.
So I stuffed my war bag in the truck,
Was about all packed to go,
When the girl doing the arranging,
called up to let me know.
That the deal was in a Country club,
a real high tone affair,
"So I must warn you cowboy,
they don't allow no jeans in there."
...
Well, I don't want my attire,
to put them out of sorts,
So I threw in my old Bat Wing chaps,
and Santa Claus boxer shorts.
© 2005, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Merry Christmas from Mike, Linda and the kids
Balancing the Books
We got a welfare cheque for our cows last week,
It come out to about ten bucks a head.
CAIS Payment for Two Thousand Four,
was what the remittance slip said.
Well if you calculate the promised aid,
It don't add up some how,
The cost of writing and mailing the cheque,
ate up about ninety bucks a cow.
By the time the cash got filtered through,
All the layers of bureaucracy,
We got enough, to finally pay,
last year's accountant's fee!© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Whinny
(From The Valley of the Wild Horses)Her mother was a gentle sort,
a dude mare in a string,
Who had a brief affair with an outlaw stud,
four years ago this Spring.The filly is prit near broke to ride,
I started her last Fall you know,
Like most of them Nemiah Cayuses,
For her, trust comes real slow.She aint one bit mean or nasty,
She's just got a nervous sort of mind,
that will snap with out much warning,
like a frayed piece of balin' twine.The instincts of survival,
passed to her from her old Dad,
Might slow up the training process,
but she won't turn out too bad.© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A First Taste of Spring!
I've only got three horses in right now,
Two youngsters and the old brood mare.
The page wire around their wintering ground,
Is showing some wear and tear.
They scorn their manger full of hay,
as on the fence they lean,
reaching...stretching...neck and wire,
straining for a taste of ...
Green!
© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Branding Time 2006
Methods learned from them old vaqueros,
time has shown no need to change,
We rope and drag our calves to the branding fire.
It's spring on the northern Range.
Vaccinated castrated and branded,
The knife may sting, the iron is hot,
Good hands waste no time, He's back with mom,
almost as quick as he was caught.
Modern science and old traditions,
on a ranch they fit together,
As comfortably as a cowboy,
fits well worn saddle leather.
Them babies don't seem to notice,
that they are each a pioneer,
First generation of Chilcotin calves,
with a computer chip in their ear.
© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Off to the Rodeo!
My old bronc saddle has been retired,
for a dozen years or so,
And while I don't ride bucking stock no more,
I still judge the odd rodeo.
When my pick-up hits the highway,
In the first grey light of dawn,
That old, "off to the Rodeo" feeling returns,
Even though,
I aint gonna get on.
The lure of the open road, is still there,
The freedom and cowboy pride.
Now and then,
I throw my old bronc saddle in,
and just take 'er along for the ride!
© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Bad Days Make Good Stories
I put new shoes on the sorrel four year old ,
this morning before the sun got high.
then headed out for a half day ride.
beneath a perfect azure sky.
A sunny morning with a little breeze,
to keep the skeeters down.
A good traveling horse on a woodland trail,
a million miles from town.
Bad days make good stories,
That's what every cowboy knows,
But as I head out on a green broke mare,
I'm not craving one of those.
When everything goes like it should,
There aint that much to say,
But now and then, I kind of appreciate,
"A not-much-to-write-about day!"
© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
It Aint Easy Being Green
Through the hottest part of summer,
tryng to keep my horse pasture green.
Caught between a rock and a hard place,
The price of copper and gasoline.My little gas powered pasture pump,
just cost too much to run,
So when it broke down, I made the switch,
and bought an electric one.Now electric pumps are cheap to buy,
and the price of power is stable,
But I had to take a second mortgage,
to buy a hundred yards of electric cable.© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Tale of Two Roans
They nicknamed the big roan gelding Ug,
He's roman nosed and plain,
His half sister has a pretty face,
long flowing tail and mane.Under saddle, Ug's a pussy-cat,
though he's not been handled much,
Sister Page is a hell-cat
she'll resist at every touch.Three weeks into training,
Page would still like to come unglued,
While Ug is broke and road wise
with a quiet attitude.They share a dad, their moms are gentle,
though some might find it strange,
Pretty Page was a barnyard pet,
Ug grew up on the range.
© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Upside Of Fall
Just one more week, 'til weaning time,
Morning mist, bright autumn days.
Pine clad hills and golden aspen stands
Fall riding, gathering strays,
Spent the last half month,
Fixing busted fences, pipes and such,
Pouring cement, diggin' holes,
The kind of work I don't like much.
That's the nature of a little place,
Lot's of different stuff to do,
The kids grew up; moved to town,
So I'm; foreman, boss and crew!
With a good horse working under me,
I'm back to my carefree cowboy days,
Pine clad hills and aspen stands,
Fall riding, gathering strays.
© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Chilcotin Halloween
A dark shadow swallows up the moon,
Foggy fingers probing through the pines,
Icy claws rake your oilskin slicker,
Chills run down your spine.A drum beat? Or your own heart?
A warrior's death song, rides the breeze,
As your pony seeks, the ink black trail,
Winding through the trees.A whole village lost, long ago,
The Chilcotin people don't come here.
You ridiculed their superstition,
You laughed away their fear.They tried their best to warn you,
You've scoffed and called them fools.
Now you're alone in Graveyard Valley,
Where the Windego still rules.© 2006, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Mike told us: Gang Ranch is one of Canada's oldest and largest ranches established by Jerome and Tad Harper, two brothers from West Virginia in the early 1860's At one time the Gang Ranch laid claim to about 2 1/2 million acres. It is a bit smaller today. Graveyard Valley is part of the ranch's high summer range running up into the coast mountains. It is said that an entire band of Chilcotins perished from small pox there one winter. The valley has provided a backdrop for a lot of bunkhouse ghost stories.
We're stocking up for calving time.
'though we won't start for a week or two,
We turned the bulls out six weeks later
Than what we used to do.
No more frozen ears and tails,
When it's thirty-five below,
Or searching all night for a newborn calf,
In a whiteout of drifting snow.
Holding calving off 'till springtime,
Has sure worked out for the best.
Now while I'm in Kamloops spinning rhymes,
Little brother can get some rest!
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Mike told us, "When we first started holding the Kamloops Cowboy Festival the second weekend in March, a lot of ranchers complained that they couldn't come because they were calving. Now it seems a whole bunch of them have just started calving later!"
Old Trails
Charlie Russell once wrote:
"The West is dead my friend
But writers hold the seed,
And what they sow
will live and grow,
Again for those who read!"
The West has surely changed a bit,
Since Ol' Charlie had his say,
Cowmen have had to modernize
But they ain't been swept away.
The seeds Kid Russell talked about,
Surely fell on fertile ground.
And in music, books and poetry,
Charlie's West is still around.
The essence of the West endures,
Though it's changed some now and then.
Old trails once ploughed under,
Are being ridden once again.
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Signposts Along The River
The geese are nesting late this year,
I haven’t seen any goslings yet,
Snow is still piled in the high country,
Deep as the national debt.
Pulled the snow tires off my rig last week,
Calves are branded, so it must be May.
Stopped a minute at the corner store,
Bought a card for Mothers Day.
Nature seems a tad behind,
Or maybe the calendar is out of tune.
But unless we get a warm spell quick,
There’ll be a surplus of water come June!
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sold!
The paper is signed, the deed is done,
I’m just a cowboy once again.
No longer part of the business world,
Of ranchers and stockmen.The sun shines somewhat brighter now,
The clouds have flown away,
Because cow work aint no stress at all,
On a working cowboys pay.
I’ve got a darn fine string of horses,
Don’t owe a dime to any one,
After thirty years of pain and poverty
I’m about to have some fun.So tell that banker, Adios!
I’m just a cowboy now.
For the first time since,
I was ten years old,
I don’t own… one…
dog-gone…
COW!© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This, like most of Mike's best poems, comes from his real life. After thirty years, his brother has bought out his part of the ranch they owned together. Mike told us, "As a young cow person all I ever really wanted to do was ride broncs, and when I got too old for that, raise and train horses ...Then somewhere along the line I decided owning cows would make me more respectable...I later figured out that it generally just makes you more poor...I bought my first 4-H calf when I was ten, and since then I have always been in the cow business to some degree. Now, after all these years I am finally bovine free!" Mike is looking forward to writing, painting, cowboying for a neighbor, helping the kids pay off their student loans, and, he adds, "...delivery on the first brand-new pick-up truck I ever bought in my life!"
The Turkey Roundup
I jumped my pony out of the stock truck,
Another day on the range was done…
Until I spotted Tracy’s border collie pup,
Out having a little fun.
They have a dozen free-range turkeys
That are just about half growed
That pup had gathered up the flock,
And was trying to haze them to the road.
Now I am hired to tend their cattle,
I aint no turkey Chickaroo,
But a disaster was plumb imminent!
So what else could I do?
Must have been a half a dozen cars,
Pulled off the road to stare.
And I suppose I looked a little silly,
Herding poultry on a sorrel mare,
Good thing my horse has a sense of humour,
She handled the job just fine,
To tell the truth we penned them gobblers,
In what might be record time.
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
My Ponies
My roan colt still spooks a bit,
At each log truck passing by.
He’s long and lean and a little green,
But he’s sure got a lot of try.
His sisters are five and nine,
Good mares with lots of size,
Heart, bottom and speed to burn,
And darn sure plenty cow wise.
The reason I keep on cowboying,
As I’ve had to explain to my wife,
The ranch may be gone,
but I’m still riding on
The best string of horses
I’ve owned in my life!© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Rumors...
My wife got a letter from a friend down South,
just the other day.
Expressing his condolences,
He heard that I had passed away.
I sent my old pard a note explaining
That I did not really die,
I just sold my cows and went back to cowboying,
This was his reply!"If you owe no money to anyone, your horses are legged up and fit, you,
yourself are as fit as a fiddle, you fix no fences, bale or haul no hay, get
to cowboy for your pay on some other fellers outfit, and get to ride good
horses, make no mistake, my friend, you have DIED AND GONE TO
HEAVEN!!!!!!!!!"*
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
*Quote from Jay Snider, Oklahoma rancher and cowboy poet
In May 2007, after thirty years of joint ownership, Mike sold his part of the ranch to his brother. Back then he told us, "As a young cow person all I ever really wanted to do was ride broncs, and when I got too old for that, raise and train horses ...Then somewhere along the line I decided owning cows would make me more respectable...I later figured out that it generally just makes you more poor...I bought my first 4-H calf when I was ten, and since then I have always been in the cow business to some degree. Now, after all these years I am finally bovine free!..."
Mike manages the range for two neighboring ranches now.
Young Horses, Cool Mornings
You started with
One broke horse and a pen of colts.
That’s the old time cowboy way.
By Fall you’ve plumb forgotten,
How green they was in May.
On a cool and frosty morning,
They will snort and prance a bit,
Each gets rode ‘bout once a week,
So they’re full of beans and fit!
With a good cow horse under me,
At first light on a crisp autumn day,
I don’t mind if they dance and snort a bit,
I kind of feel the same way.© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
First Snow
Slip-sliding in the white stuff,
My horse ain't real impressed.
She plods a long, her head hung low,
Ears pointed east and west.
We are passing a lovely alpine meadow,
This from memory I know,
At the moment, I can't see a thing,
Beyond the veil of falling snow.
The leaves aren't off the alders,
The ground ain't frozen yet,
And we wouldn't mind the weather,
If we weren't so doggone wet!
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
White Bulls in the Snow
Somewhere on the summer range,
Just where, I do not know,
Seven big old Charlais bulls,
Are hiding in the snow
I found one in an alder thicket,
Alone and on the fight,
He crashed of through the underbrush,
I tracked him until twilight.
It’s winter in the mountains,
It’s raining down below,
Cowboy Hell... might be, eternity
Hunting white bulls in the snow!
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Cowpoke Déjà Vous
Writing cowboy humor,
Might seem harder than before,
‘cause there aint much about this business,
That’s funny anymore.
But all things being equal,
It’s darn near always been that way,
Between; droughts, floods and market slumps,
It didn’t hardly ever pay.
From the crack of dawn each morning,
To the rising of the moon,
My life is an endless rerun,
Of an old "Cowpokes" cartoon.
© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Dedicated to the memory of Ace Reid, the original cowboy cartoonist, no matter how bad a wreck I get in, I know ol’ Ace was there ahead of me and drew a picture about it!
Mike comments, "Yesterday, we spend all morning, wore out three horses, three dogs, and three cowboys, and wrecked one saddle, getting one Charlais bull out of a patch of brush, across a meadow and into the corral. When they went to load him up to haul him to the sale he busted out of the pen... he was back in that same brush patch before sundown."
Living Green Without Even Trying!
I put the stew pot on this morning,
As in the early morning haze,
Outside my kitchen window,
My saddle horses graze.I started with some 4-H beef,
The spuds and carrots are home grown,
Along with the peas, corn and onions,
and canned tomatoes all our own.All the veggies in my stew,
Come from that garden right outside.
And the green refuse, now helps to fuel,
The vehicles I ride.© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Mike adds, "I dug the last of the carrots yesterday, then turned the horses out to clean up. I’d like to see the average urban tree hugger top that for 'living green!'"
Deadman Creek, Blizzard.
We picked up their trail around midday,
Fresh tracks in the new fallen snow.
Two hours more, we found the cows,
Then the wind commenced to blow.
Al and Tex were breaking trail,
Cows followed single file,
But the snow had drifted in so hard,
By dark, we’d scarcely made a mile.
Big Tex started playing out,
So I took the lead on Cinnamon,
The next eight hours was an icy blur...
I figured, we were done.
The storm blew out by midnight,
They found the road by two.
Three cows, two calves, two cowboys,
Those two brave horses pulled us through!© 2007, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
We asked Mike about the inspiration for the poem, and he told us:
Thirty years ago Al Boris and I got caught in a blizzard up on the Bonaparte Plateau... We could not see the trail or the cattle or each other. It was hard work breaking trail through the drifts. Shortly after dark Al's gelding played out and would not break trail anymore. I was riding a little Arab/ Mustang cross named Cinnamon, she was only about 14 hands high but she had more try than any other horse I've ever rode.
For hours the only thing I was really conscious of was the horse under me, the cold...and the wind. My little horse just kept pushing on as best she could and when we finally broke out to the road around 2 AM there was a rescue party there, getting ready to come looking for us. Our horses were so exhausted they could hardly even step up into the trailer to go home. I always figured Cinnamon's courage and endurance saved 9 lives that night.
... I was riding in the same area recently, looking for strays I guess that's what got me thinking about that trip. The weather wasn't as extreme and the logging roads have been extended a few more miles so my ride was much shorter.
Everywhere But Here?
The whole month of December,
The snow stayed on the trees.
Untouched by any trace of a thaw,
Or wandering southern breeze.
While the debate on global warming,
And climate change goes on.
I’m hoping we can get our share,
Before the woodpile’s gone.
© 2008, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Full Moon
Dark shadows in the timber,
Gray wraiths in the bright moonlight,
On icy crusts, and packed sled trails,
Running forty miles a night.
They chased mice and hares all summer,
Caught one crippled cow last fall.
In the deep powder snow of December,
They seldom ate at all.
From the bunchgrass to the timberline,
From river breaks to muskeg flat,
When snow gets deep and crusty,
The wolves start getting fat!
© 2008, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Natural Selection
We dickered over coffee.
As cowboys often will,
But ol’ “Bones” said his price was firm,
At a hundred dollar bill.We wandered out to the barn,
To choose which puppy I would take,
Look each one over carefully,
judge what kind of dog they’ll make!There’s a hundred old wives tales,
On how to choose a dog that’s tough,
By looking in their eye or mouth,
Or grabbing them by the scruff.A good cow dog must be bold,
Smart and faithful as can be,
So I sat down and waited,
To see which puppy would choose me!© 2008, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Understanding the March Hare!
The snow is gone from the pasture,
It’s finally Spring, I guess.
Winter’s clean white sheet has rotted away,
And left an awful mess.
Now I’ve got fence to fix and pens to clean,
Manure to haul away,
The round pen is finally fee of ice,
I should start the dun today.
...
But first I’ll wander by the river,
‘Though I feel a month behind,
I’ll savor the morning sunshine,
Stare at the swans and clear my mind.© 2008, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Math Don’t Work!
Been working on my income tax.
I should have it done today.
I don’t own any cows no more,
So I’ll probably have to pay.Of course cowboy wages and poetry,
Don’t add up to a heck of a lot.
The cost of; horse shoes, feed and fuel,
Sure does shrink the pot.I subtract the truck repairs and vet bills,
And that taxable income...
is gone!
I scratch my head and wonder,
What the heck we’re living on!© 2008, Mike Puhallo
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
This is Page 1. There's more on Page 2:
Read about Mike Puhallo's Exploring Our Western Heritage Youth Education Program, which includes some additional poetry (The Dream Team of the Cariboo and Dog Creek, Where Our Traditions Began) here.Read Mike Puhallo's article, "Whence Came the Cowboy?, which was the theme of the 9th Annual Kamloops Cowboy Festival.
Read his poem about Elko posted in our feature about the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering's 20th anniversary.
And see Mike's:
Wild Horse Christmas posted with other 2007 Christmas poems
and
Merry Procrastination? posted with other 2006 Christmas poems
and
Running in the Team and What's It All About Charlie Brown posted with other 2004 Christmas poems
and
Cow Country Christmas Memory posted with other 2003 Christmas poems
and
Countdown to Christmas posted with other 2002 Christmas poems
and
Christmas
Shopping, Jingle Bells!!, and
A Cowboy Christmas
posted with other 2001 Christmas poems
and
Resolutions! posted with the Countdown to 2002 New Year's poems.
Books and CDs
Visit Mike's web site for the latest on his books and CDs. You can also order some of the books right here through Amazon.com or through his publisher, Hancock House.
Here's his current list of books and recordings:
Popular British Columbia poet and rancher Mike Puhallo's sixth book, Rhymes and Damn Lies, is now available. Mike is a sort of poetic troubadour, roaming the contemporary Western landscape and turning his observations into verse: seasons, ranching challenges, cattle, fires, wildlife, city folks, holidays, friends, and the like. Many of those pieces find their way into his weekly "Meadow Muffins," which are carried by a number of newspapers and electronic outlets, and this book includes some of the best of those pieces. The poems in this book celebrate his gift: getting a story across in a few lines, usually with a fine balance of wit and wisdom.
Mike is firmly rooted in place, and the poems in this book also include diverse tributes to individuals and to his area's history, including legendary 1930's native hockey players of the Cariboo, rodeo greats (including a moving tribute in prose and poetry to Kenny McLean), famous poets, and regional pioneers. There are also pieces that comment on current events and politics, poking at both sides of the Medicine Line (Mike likes to quote Will Rogers, "I don’t make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts."). And no doubt, there are a few "damn lies" in those and other poems.
Mike is the President of the British Columbia Cowboy Heritage Society (http://www.bcchs.com), sponsors of the Kamloops Cowboy Festival, held each March. Mike has a few rhymes about that event, as well as one about Elko. The last verses of that poem are typical of his writing:
...
Then twenty years ago some poets
gathered here to swap some lies,
And Elko started drawing crowds
like "you know what" draws flies.Now the place is booming,
'though the mines are still shut down.
It's where cowboy poets walk like kings
because their BS saved the town!This is Mike's fourth collaboration with top cartoonist Wendy Liddle.
Cowboy Gatherings
The Fine Art of Hurling Defecation
Headin' into Town!
Forty Below
The Tender Trap
Scour Pills and Roses
Ma's New Pocket-Size Cow Dog
I Owe You, Bob!
The Guy on the Radio Says It's Spring!
Easter 2003
Road Kill (Again!)
Jump Start Your Day
As Good As It Gets
Just Passin' Thru
Drifters
Fifty's Just a Number!
The Dream Team of the Cariboo
500 Years in the Saddle
Chee Witt
Bulls Don't Care
Doc Mason
Adios Ken
Elko
Lest We Forget
The Strenuous Life?
The Gathering
Winter Across the Rockies
Cow Country Christmas Memory
The Christmas Tree Hunt
Adios Aught-3!
Just Keep Dancin'!!!
To All the Volunteers
Tales of the Cariboo Trail
Royal Memories
Weaning Time
Rhymes and Damn Lies, (softcover) is available for $9.95 postpaid (US or Canada) from Mike's web site, www.twilightranch.com; by mail from Mike Puhallo, 8584 Westsyde Rd, Kamloops, BC, V2B 8S3, (250) 579-5667, mikepuhallo@direct.ca; and from the publisher, Hancock House, http://www.hancockhouse.com, 1-800-938-1114.
An outstanding compilation, Knockin' Down Fences, includes Mike Puhallo, Tammy Gislason, Matt Johnston, Kraig Jodrey, Ray Goguen, Bodie Dominquez, Aimee Pettersen, and Bud Webb.
This showcase of fine writers and musicians includes both experienced old hands and new young talent (Aimee Petterson is just 15 years old and was nominated as Female Vocalist of the Year by the BC Country Music Association).
Among the standouts are Matt Johnston's "We Are the Sons and the Daughters;" "Fifty's Just a Number," written by Mike Puhallo and put to music and performed in a masterful piece by Bodie Dominquez; Mike Puhallo's "Rock 'n Roll Cowboy" followed by Matt Johns
