PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES
California
About Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Patricia Wellingham-Jones' web site

 

 

 

 

Big Day on the Ranch

This is the day the manure arrived
hardly a thing for such joy.
His gaudy red tractor, front bucket raised high,
is the bronc for our modern cowboy.

His tee shirt echoes the flush of his face
the winter sun splashes the mud
the plants in the garden rush for first place
while the cattle watch, chewing their cud.

The ranch wife appears in big boots to the knee
her crimson blouse matches the scene.
She shovels awhile, gets a thermos of tea,
deals with nature's real base for her dream.

Daffodils toss golden curls at the rose
cat scampers, shy violets hide
Bovine by-products spread, barn doors at last close.
This is the day the manure arrived.

© 2005, Patricia Wellingham-Jones 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Swinging in the Hay Barn

They all gathered to celebrate
grandpa's sixty-fifth year,
friends and family bring potlucks,
plenty wine, lots of beer.

In the hay barn they collect now,
generator cranked high,
twinkling lights garland dark rafters,
cold rain pours from the sky.

Wind whines around ankles, ladies'
skirts flutter ruffled arcs,
voices rise in fueled crescendo,
teen-aged flirting strikes sparks.

With the ice cream and cake consumed,
piñata swings above,
full of candy, colored streamers,
fancy dreams of hidden love.

Cowboy teeters, masked and high heeled,
takes a wild, mighty swipe.
Long stick misses, kids all giggle.
All that macho, pure hype.

Guitars tune up, fiddles vibrate,
dancing feet get prepared,
once the stomping gets going good,
everybody's wild-haired.

By the barn red cows chew their cud,
ranch dogs bark in the rain,
chestnut horse sticks his head inside,
wonders, What is this game?

After midnight it all winds down,
the guests stumble outside,
stand weary in the new-washed moon,
gather kids, hitch a ride.

Grandpa yawns, feels his brand new year,
says his thanks, rubs his head.
Ranch wife takes one last sip of wine,
shuts the door, goes to bed.

© 1997, Patricia Wellingham-Jones 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

The poem is also found in Patricia Wellingham-Jones' 1997 book, Big Day on the Ranch & other light verse. She told us, "This poem came about after attending such a party at a friend's cattle ranch down the road. What a swinging night that was! The ranch wife is a combination of several friends and relatives and their experiences; she has a whole series of poems in her own voice."

 

Red Boots

Rains approach, weather's drear,
the fields soon turn to mud,
the ranch hunkers under gray clouds.
Ranch wife roots through the mess
of last winter's old clothes,
thinks they look like dull boring shrouds.

Off she goes into town,
comes home looking so smug,
no silk, lace or velvet for her.
She's got boots, bright red boots,
look so good on her feet,
even family has to concur.

Winter's grim, cold and hard,
and so much of it damp
but the ranch wife feels that she's set.
Once her feet, blocks of ice,
clumped through house, field and barn,
now they're giddy-and never get wet.

So she races through chores,
thinks of old fairy tales
and the magic red shoes that dance.
The beans bubble in pots,
bread dough puffs, scents the house,
and those red boots, pure ranch elegance.

© 2006, Patricia Wellingham-Jones 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Pecking Order

She sits at the table, tea mug in her hand,
the lace curtains twitch in the breeze.
Dirty pots fill the sink,
dishes wait to be washed,
it's the ranch wife's five minutes of ease.

Through the window her garden blooms bright in the dusk,
bird songs circle the sheep in the field.
Stalking cat finds its mouse,
roses nod on the gate
and the hurts of the day are all healed.

Chickens scratch, then they cluck at their little ones,
eating everything coming their way.
Ranch wife thinks, "What if they
were six feet, not fluff balls?
In the food chain, I might be their prey."

A quick shiver, she rises, approaches her chores,
rancher's boots scrape mud at the door.
Next day's guests soon arrive,
ranch wife says with a smile,
"Chicken potpie feeds us--and ten more."

© 2006, Patricia Wellingham-Jones 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Devil's Rope

 

Devil’s rope

that’s what the old timers called it

in the late 1800s

while taming the West

Those rugged men

in their fencing wars

found a dozen ways to wind wire

To make sure sheep, cattle

and stockmen got the point

they added barbs

Pooler Jones was sold

by the pound, a straight rod

with double twist barb

Deckers Parallel’s

two single wires carried a C barb

The WF Johnson Corn Planter

featured a long trip wire

with button tied in

Uphams Snail Barb twisted

its hooks around twisted wire

Hodge’s Spur Rowel borrowed

from the horses for a double strand and inset

Kelly’s Thorny Fence sported

a double arrowhead barb, thorny indeed

The Burnell Four Point twisted two barbs

in a double twist wire, all points armed

Scut’s “H” Plate used a crimped H-shaped barb

Curtis Twisted Off Set held small barbs

set in a tight double twist

while Reynolds Necktie no man

would wish to wear next to his skin

The Brinkerhoff Factory Splice

twisted broad bands between wicked

large double barbs—pity the hide

caught on those spikes

Crandal made a zig zag double twist

with arrow-shaped barb

and even the miners in Virginia City

had their own cable

Today developers carve up the West

with chain link and plastic    

 

© 2006, Patricia Wellingham-Jones 
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Walk among Bulls

The gravel of the ranch road
sharp under our feet,
we walk among bulls.
Fill our lungs
with methane-flavored air
spiced with ozone
from the thrashing stream.
The bull by the lane
takes a stance on wide-planted legs.
White hair curls
on a broad forehead
between horns curved to kill.
He stares in our eyes,
stretches a mouth around
square yellow teeth,
emits a bellow.
I leap. You just coo,
Hello, big beautiful boy.
We march on
unmolested by bull.
They're almost pets, you explain
as my heart thumps erratic beats,
and bull noises come
from all over the field,
through budding oaks.
Friends they are, raised together, you say
as we approach six Herefords, twelve horns,
and walk straight through
their parted ranks, grass-scented
breath steamy on our skin.

© 2004, Patricia Wellingham-Jones, published in Voices on the Land
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Patricia comments: My friend and I walk on her cattle ranch often, so things like this event happen to us along the way. I didn't know bulls were quite so big—till I walked through a group of them!

 

Read Patricia Wellingham-Jones' Cowboy Choir posted with 2005 Christmas Poems

 

About Patricia Wellingham-Jones:

Former psychology researcher, writer, editor, lecturer Patricia Wellingham-Jones has recently been published in Edgz, Ibbetson Street Press, and Crazy Woman Creek: Women Rewrite the American West (co-edited by Linda Hasselstrom). She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her newest books are Belt of Transit (PWJ Publishing) and Hormone Stew (forthcoming from Snark Publishing).  

Read more about Patricia Wellingham-Jones and her books, and read more of her poetry at her website: www.wellinghamjones.com.

 

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