Just
Another Day II
Old paint settled on a gait, that was easy on the spine
He’d come to terms with his fate, ambling along the fence line
The man and the spotted horse, facing into the east wind
Both were as hardened and coarse as this land that had no end
Rhythm of hoofbeats on cracked soil, mixed with creak of leather
Cries of saddle needing oil, sighs of earth for wet weather
A strange music without words, they doggedly plod along
Not even chirps from the birds, lend joy to this prairie song
Grass was sparse on the dry ground, the cattle had stript it bare
Cacti was all that could be found, ‘cause rain had been so rare
Drought had chased off the deer, leaving sidewinders and lizards
Snakes the only life here, that survive these dusty blizzards
Thoughts of selling the cattle, to a ranch farther upstate
He might just lose this battle, for the rain might come too late
At last they reached the wash, that was dried to just a trickle
The water in that rocky gash, not worth a plugged nickel
He gave the old paint his head, and letting the reins go slack
Trusting him barely a shred, to follow the narrow track
The deep crevice across this land, was carved by a spring flood
Like a lifeline in a giant hand, now only filled with mud
They found the cows among the rocks, switching flies in the sun
Standing in mud to their hocks, waiting for reasons to run
Reason was that spotted hoss, coming at them in a lope
A whoop from the hoss’s boss, sent them scrambling up the slope
As they trotted along the fence, low clouds were blowing in
Thunder off in the distance, sounded like a long lost friend
They knew their way to the ranch, and headed across the plain
And then by the oddest chance, the sky had begun to rain
© 2008, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
III
The ranch was coming in
sight, with dry shelter from the rain.
Those old cows were still in flight, tearing hard across the plain.
Warm rain was coming down sidewise, tiny eye-stinging drops,
no use for any hopes to rise, too late to save the crops.
Funny how critters will hurry, to get out of the rain,
everything gets in a flurry, as if it caused pain.
Reaching the barn together, steaming hides plumb soaking wet,
thankful that the weather, had washed off their dust and sweat.
“Well Ol’ Paint, a job well done!” as he took off the wet gear,
“Didja enjoy thet little run, I tolja, hev no fear,
hev some oats my ornery fren”, brushing the spotted hide.
“Ol’ boy we must do this again, I did enjoy our ride.”
Mutual respect was born, sarcasm lost in humor,
The trouble of the morn, was now just considered rumor.
The pinto nudged his hand, with odd gentleness in his eyes,
an action so unplanned by the pied devil in disguise.
“That shore is a welcome sign,” with his whiskered face smiling.
The old horse was now benign, with manner so beguiling.
“We both know yore not a saint, but I’m gonna find a name,
Somethin’ besides Ol’ Paint, maybe somethin that is more tame.”
After the stock was all fed, the pied pony in the stall,
the cowboy closed the shed, life wasn’t so bad after all,
One thankful for the gentle rain, blessedly coming down,
one thankful for a cup of grain, life might just turnaround.
Life here on the range is rough, not made for the meek at heart.
A cowboy has to be tough, hard times can tear him apart.
He lit the oil lamp at sunset and closed his eyes to pray,
“Lord don’t let me soon forget that I was blest on this day”
© 2008, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
IV
Night passes all too
quickly, away out here on the plain.
He was feeling sorta sickly, head filled with throbbing pain.
Pulling on his muddy boots, afore his butt quit the bed,
sore plumb down to his roots, downright dizzy in the head.
Coffee stale from yesterday, with a biscuit hard and dry,
"there must be a better way, this hardtack is a bit wry"
When his pa passed away, with him being the only son,
he felt that he had to stay, tho the ranch life wasn’t fun.
Ma died almost two years ago, from some sort of bad flu,
her folks may not even know, with no reply coming through.
Sitting there is pa’s old chair, ma’s black kettle on the stove,
he'd found a way not to care, allowing his mind to rove.
"I aim to name that old hoss, as everthang needs a name,
he don't like havin a boss, and I kinda feel the same"
To himself he was talking, words echoing in the room,
except for ghosts walking, the house was empty as a tomb,
Brushing crumbs from the table, he rose and set down his cup,
If that paint hoss is able, guess I need to saddle up.
Might make a trip to town, I kinda miss a human voice,
been months since I been around, didn’t have no other choice.
The screen door slammed behind him, he slogged through the stinking mud
The sun peeked over the rim, the new day was starting good
Old paint was peaceable, nothing like just a day ago,
former act unthinkable, but he still had far to go.
"Mornin’ my frien’ how are you, we aint proper innerduced,
My Christian name is Andrew, I’m so happy that we’ve truced.
I think I’ll call you Dandy, welcome to a bran’ new life,
we’re goin’ to buy some candy, ‘cause I need bait fer a wife.
© 2008, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
V
Andrew's Wife
Her name was Julianne, hardly a pretty girl,
a figure that wasn’t grand, manners like a squirrel.
She’d never had a suitor, old maid at twenty-one,
might just as well shoot her, her life was all but done.
The proposal came by mail, envelope in tatters,
gritty from the trail, brown with mud stained spatters.
A poorly written note, sent more than two months back,
setting spirits afloat, thoughts on another track.
The note began “Dear Julie” its only words endearing,
It ended with “yours truly” leaving her eyes tearing.
Andrew was her cousin, but not that close in kin,
the years had been a dozen, they were kids back then.
He wanted her to marry, said he has need of a wife.
She wouldn’t have to carry much stuff to her new life.
The house was full supplied, with all his parents’ things,
as they both had died, he even had their rings.
The note was signed “Andy” with a blurred childish script,
he also sent some candy, but the wrapping was ripped.
Her answer was easy, she’d do best to get away,
but she felt a bit queasy, what would her folks say.
She'd tell them at supper, she was a woman grown,
they could hardly whup her, time to get out on her own.
Her mama started crying, her pa just fell quiet,
“It aint like she’s dying, we should let her try it.”
Julie packed her clothes, and put them in a satchel.
In the morning she rose, as if all was natural.
She took the noonday stage, left in a cloud of dust,
skimming across the sage, leaving that town to rust.
© 2009, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
VI
Julianne’s Journey
Horseback is smoother than
coaches, the rhythm of terrain
has unexpected lurches, with the roads rutted by rain.
After that first rapid leaving, the pace became slower,
length of time so deceiving, emotions sinking lower.
She was leaving her place of birth, heading toward the west,
traveling across the earth’s girth, her departure not blessed.
The tether to her childhood, like a giant elastic band,
snapped with a resounding thud, and echoed across the land.
What sort of man awaits her, to what future and what fate.
The doubt inside berates her, as misgivings come too late.
A small bible in her pocket, helped to assuage her fears,
with one hand upon her locket, the other wiped her tears.
They stopped at each waystation, with few meager bites to eat,
foregoing her small ration, appetite matching clay feet.
The land all looked the same, the only changes were the teams,
fresh horses that weren’t lame, to take her toward her dreams.
Big rivers were often ferried, smaller ones just forded.
The pace was much less hurried, some of the nights were boarded.
When the smoother roads allowed, she found some peace by sleeping,
her heart was now avowed, she was at last past the weeping.
With the stagecoach atilt, awaking to a colder air,
tugging at the lap quilt, eyes blinking in bewildered stare.
A sight so beautiful and strange, within her plain’s born eyes,
The mighty Rocky Mountain range, snow-capped against the skies.
They lurched through a snowy pass, with the horses blowing steam,
where fir and aspen amass, along sparkling icy streams.
Stopping in a little town, kept alive by the goldmine,
the stage driver came around, “ma’am, this is end of the line.”
© 2009, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
VII
She had never felt scared,
until stepping down off that stage.
Her squirrelly strength soon flared, with a fiery inner rage.
The journey had been hard, the worst possibly yet to be,
"Folks wont see me as a retard, not one single soul knows me."
She set about to find a room, tomorrow she’d buy a horse;
a room with bed above the saloon, was her only recourse.
The rabble went on half the night, sleeping was off and on,
drunken miners high on fight, silenced only by the dawn.
Breakfast was served in a lean-to, by a girl with almond eyes,
who saw that she was seen to, with eggs and chicken stir-fries.
She traded her locket for a horse, and bought some men’s pants;
they helped her plot a course, thinking she had little chance.
"Follow the creek down the valley, then south at the small river"
Not knowing she was an O’Malley, true grit in her liver.
When she had ridden away, they said, "she must be crazed,
She'll never find her way, 'cause her eyes seemed sort of glazed."
Julie had a way with horses, but hadn’t ridden a lot,
she had no remorses, with this little bay mare she’d got.
She hardly had to steer her, almost like she knew the way,
hope began to cheer her, wondering what Andy would say.
Riding for most of the day, she came to that flooded creek,
practicing along the way, the words that she would speak.
The fence led her there, seeing his smoke for the last five mile,
she clucked to her bay mare, and her face broke into a smile.
She saw him by the fence, mending a broken-down gate,
now with a anxious sense, she saw the man who was her fate,
dirty, but handsome truly, reflecting a rancher's life.
She said, "My name is Julie, I’ve come to be your wife."
© 2009, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
VIII
Andrew took off his hat,
wiping sweat that beaded his brow,
then he said, “pardon me, what wuz that you said jes’ now?
Julie swung down off her horse, Andrew squinted at her face,
He took a step back of course, defending his personal space.
“I’m your cousin Julie,” as she offered him her hand.
These words finally got through, “Lordy, I thought you’uz a man”
Her laughter broke the ice, “I guess it’s the way I’m dressed,”
while I may not look too nice, do I at least pass the test?
He spat out his terbacky; gave her a quizzical look,
“I hope this don’t sound tacky, do you know how ta cook?”
They walked to the barn together, to take care of her mare,
truly birds of a feather, with years of stories to share.
“The history of the old men, how does th’ story go,
jest how is it we are kin, that is, if you even know?”
She told it the best she knew, their grandpas had been brothers.
Cousins, yes, it was true, they did resemble each other.
Julie plundered in the kitchen, placing canned goods in rows.
“Some of these’ll need a stitchin,” as she dressed in his ma’s clothes.
Folks might think it distasteful, shameful and common at best.
To toss them would be wasteful, way out here in the west.
No church to carry gossips, she had no neighbors to know,
not worried about loose lips, she had her own rows to hoe.
The nearest town was forty mile, hard to make in a day,
seclusion that made her smile, no one would get in her way.
The house no longer echoed, with the footfalls of old ghosts,
words between them flowed, they talked until dawn almost.
They spoke of days to come, excited about their new life.
Julie had found a new home, Andrew had found himself a wife.
© 2009, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
IX
Daylight soon came
creeping, the start of another day.
Julianne was still sleeping, snoring loudly as she lay.
Andrew noting her features, she sure looks a lot like me.
Both were homely creatures, mutual flaws they failed to see.
Neither was blessed with beauty, they were flip sides of the coin,
with faces dark and ruddy, a bit of devil in their groin.
Centuries past ancient trials, when famine came to Aberdeen,
the O’Malley clan left their isle, when hunger made them mean,
Freckled skin and piggish eyes, pointy heads with flaming hair,
dark leprechauns in disguise, with the Irish blood they share.
Their eyes burned with Gaelic fire, too bright and intensely blue,
with power to spot a liar, what you speak had best be true.
Julianne’s voice was sharp, with tones that’d make ears tingle,
not suited for flute nor harp, no wonder she was single.
Andrew was serenely cool, from years of living alone,
best not judge him for a fool, he was bad down to the bone.
His temper was slow to flare, he stewed in silent wrath,
folks froze in his stony stare, no one dared to cross his path.
King and queen of this wide valley, strangers best stay away,
Andrew and Julie O’Malley— fireworks would rule the day!
© 2010, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Just Another Day
X
The ranch house sat on a
rise, with its porch facing the west;
a place for viewing the skies, when sunsets are at their best.
Julie managed to do her chores, she'd rather be mending fence.
She claimed woman’s work just bores, with words that didn’t mince.
He was glad to have her help, she could work just like a man,
When she got hurt she didn’t yelp, giving up not her plan.
She grew strong and wiry, Andrew’s match in every way,
with a passion that was fiery, when rolling in the hay.
Summer soon turned to fall, and changes were coming soon.
Their worries had all been small, nothing much out of tune.
Julie started looking paler, breakfast wouldn’t stay down,
She cussed just like a sailor, calling Andrew a bloody clown.
Not knowing female trouble, he didn’t know what to do;
her belly had became a bubble, “Julie what’s wrong with you?”
Tears brimming from her eyes, with a look that was half-wild,
she haltingly surmised, she was pregnant with a child.
Near stunned with confusion, how did she manage that,
he was under the illusion that she was just getting fat.
They'd never spoken of love, romance never entered their heads,
but now push had come to shove, it was time to go get wed.
"Guess we need to ride to town, we can find a preacher there."
circuit riders seldom came 'round, missionaries were rare.
Julie dried her eyes and sighed, relief flooding her heart,
"I’ve grown too big to ride, can you hitch my mare to the cart?"
She pinned up her auburn hair, put on his mama’s dress,
he hitched the gentle bay mare, hugged Julie to ease her stress.
He said, "Don't look so sad and grim, as she was strangely quiet.
She climbed on the seat beside him. "Everything will be all right."
© 2010, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Portrait of a Balladeer
Tumbleweeds keep drifting
across Sonora sand
A golden sun still sinks beyond the Rio Grand
Lending a harmony with notes of desert sage
Blending ancient voices from the westward age
Lonesome dusty trails and cool clear water pools
The blues of bygone days, and broken-hearted fools
Times that made him glad, dark days that made him sad
Horses that were good, women that were bad
Across the grassy plains and canyons of his mind
Trace the timeworn tracks that others left behind
Where shadows of the Rockies touch the ground
Memories of old sweethearts lost and found
Sketch the lines of living on his weathered face
For the canvas of his soul has a special place
Where another way of life has its roots
He walks those same old trails in his boots
He’s a balladeer with the heart of a poet
Name a old song, you can bet he will know it
His fingers strum the melody from the strings
His voice surrounds the lyrics as he sings
Tributes to western life that his voice graces
Along those “happy trails” that he retraces
The gleam in his eye—proof he found some joy
This is my portrait of a singing cowboy
© 2008, Pat
Stephenson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
© 2008, Pat Stephenson; reproduction
prohibited without the artist's permission
Pat told us about how her poem—and
her impressive painting—came
about,
through her work at the Booth
Western Art Museum:
I have become a volunteer docent
leading school groups and the public on tours through the
beautiful works of western art...so inspirational for a writer or
a painter.
It was there that I met the old singing cowboy
Doc Stovall, who works with the local
schools to round up poetry submissions for the yearly poetry
celebration coming in March...No one could sit through his band's
rendition of "Cool Clear Water" that he and the New Tumbleweeds do
in the style of the Sons of the Pioneers, and not be touched by
the harmony.
My poem and accompanying painting is in tribute for what he does,
reminiscent of those heroes of yesteryear; my heroes have always
been cowboys, perhaps a far cry from the heroes of today. (When I
ask the school children "who are your heroes?" they are mostly
blank, except for Spiderman, Ironman, or a rapper, etc.)
My art instructor from college days referred to me a "double edged
blade" when he saw the painting and the accompanying poem. I
presented them both as a gift to Doc Stovall.
Doc Stovall organizes two
gatherings each year at the Booth Western Art Museum, as well as a
successful and growing youth poetry event. Read more about Doc and
his music in our feature
here,
and about the Booth Western Art Museum gatherings and events in our
feature here.
