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Hitch Rack Ranch
Colorado Springs, Colorado
About Rose Mary Allmendinger

Featured in "The Big Roundup," an anthology of the best of

Rose Mary Allmendinger 1939-2009

We were sad to learn of the death of rancher and poet Rose Mary Allmendinger on September 10, 2009. Her work appeared at from its earliest days.

From her obituary:

Rose Mary Allmendinger, 70, owner of the historic Hitch Rack Ranch, south of Colorado Springs, died suddenly at home on September 10, 2009. Rose Mary was born in Rocky Ford, Colorado on August 14, 1939. She attended Colorado State University, majoring in textile fabrics. After getting married and starting a family, Rose Mary worked in the fashion industry, modeling for Vogue magazine. She enjoyed a successful career in real estate, designing and developing Creekside Condominiums, a project which won the Governors Award for Design.

As a rancher and breeder of quarter horses, she was selected as the only woman in the first Agricultural Leadership Program, which traveled to Japan and China. Rose Mary is survived by her children, Blake of Los Angeles, California, and Cindi (husband, Dale Sivils) of Los Alamos, New Mexico, and her grandchildren, Taylor and Matt Stratton...In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Animal Welfare Protection Society, PO Box 11208, Pueblo, CO, 81001.



Mistress MOOOOO!

She is a burly cow, much like a bull, I'll have you know.
Wherever grass is greenest in the pasture's where she'll go.
She'll drag along the other cows as she goes on her way;
Her MOO so big it bellows and makes all the bushes sway.


She does not know she is not Mistress of entire ranch.
Too bad for any shrub that tries to block her path with branch.
Too bad for any fence that stands in path where that cow goes;
She'll mow it down without a single thought of going slow.


She does not know her owners are no bigger than her head;
Little children curled up evenings on a feather bed.
But when her owners need that cow for purposes so few,
She'll turn around and lumber home while bellowing that "MOO".


They'll crawl a-top the highest fence and holler out her name;
She'll lift her head and screech that bellow; right back home she came.
That cow just seems to know those children want her ... only her.
She'll seek them out, come to that fence, and almost seem to purr.


Each year a bull would visit her, brought in on loan from friend.
And soon she had her babies here lined up from end to end.
The baby boys went off to town to earn the keep of all;
The girls would stay and join in again with her come fall.


They've learned to be aggressive ladies like their mother cow;
And she's set out to teach them everything she knows, and how.
So soon instead of one old cow who tore the fences down
There's now a tiny herd of girls that follow her around.


When horses come to eat their grain they hog the trough for food.
They have no table manners and they often are quite rude.
You'd think her little owners would have given cow a name
That sounded just like Bossy since she sure behaved the same.


But no, they named her Cookie and her best friend Patty Cakes.
P. C. follows Cookie on whatever path she takes.
They really do not care if others want to follow 'long,
When they're headed off somewhere that pair is soon long gone.


Cookie does not know she is a college fund in purse.
She'd hardly 'pect to reckon she'd be eaten ... or much worse!
She does not know she's not in charge of all the elk that roam.
She does not harbor feelings ill against the deer at home.


The coyotes have become her target as the years go by.
If one of them end up beneath her feet you'll hear them cry.
They seem to think that they can sneak upon her in her sleep.
But they have found that Cookie's nap-time slumbers aren't that deep.


Cookie-cow is aging as all stately females do.
That fact hasn't slowed her down nor quieted that MOO.
If cows could just sing gospel music, Cookie'd be a star!
You'd need no microphone on stage to hear her, near or far.

That cow will never be a steak, she'll never be in stew.
To butcher her at any age won't be the thing to do.
Suspect that when her toes start curling, hair starts fallin' out,
Those kids will bring her in the house and hover all about.


In summer bet they'll fan her face, just to hear her MOO;
In winter bet they'll bundle her in coat and mittens too!
Maybe that old cow ain't like a fancy poodle dog,
But I am here to tell you she eats LOVE up like a hog!


There's lots of folks that's out there that think cows are kinda strange;
Or think they're wrapped in cellophane for cookin' on the range.
But those folks don't know Cookie and they ain't heard Cookie sing.
No kid should be without a cow who MOOOOS with such a ring!


It's okay if a kid can't have a fancy home or car;
It's okay if they never get to travel very far.
But if a kid can't have a cow like Cookie who goes MOO,
It could destroy all their life and everything they do!


They'd never get to feel that nose, so warm upon their hand;
Or see her runnin' straight to them across the pasture land.
They'd never get to giggle at the look upon her face,
When she discovers dinner's eaten, gone without a trace.


No game can compete with watchin' Cookie cow at play;
No computer can program what she does with her day.
Ain't no Barbie with the style of a burly cow;
Ain't no better friend for kids in world that we have now.


After that old Cookie cow has gone to Heaven's grass,
She will be remembered by that little lad and lass.
They will hear her MOO live on within their head and heart.
Mistress MOOOOO ... that Cookie cow ... will cause a smile to part!

© 2001 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Mistress MOOOOOOO... too ...

Rose Mary is full of poetry, and even her notes that accompany her poems are in verse.  Here's some of what she wrote with this one:


Ah, yes! ... the days are longer now,
The year has taken toll,
But you should never think that I've
Been dropped into a hole!
'Cause spite of setbacks one and two,
Or even three and four,
You'd have to guess and you'd be right
I'm here forevermore!

Just yesterday I thought of you,
While writin':  see below.
And since you published Mistress MOOOOO
Thought you would like to know
That Cookie-cow and me are ploddin'
Through the weeds in grass,
And I was writin' "update" for
That "little lad and lass"!
Of course, as Cookie-cow and me
Slow down and shrink with time,
That "little lad and lass" spoke of
Are TEENS now in their prime!

Amazin' how that works, you know,
How Life keeps movin' on,
And I suspect that day will come
When Life will be all gone.
But that ain't NOW, ain't happened YET!
Though movin' is more WORK!
And I am always fascinated
How MUCH I can't shirk!

That Mistress MOOOOO had 'nother baby,
Has one every year,
But this year she has copied HER,
From end of tail to ear!
I henceforth named that little sucker
"half-a-Cookie" calf
And I've laid claim to her new image
On my own behalf!

So since I ain't about to "share",
Decided it was time
To let those grandkids I adore
Find out in this here rhyme!


Mistress MOOOOOOO ... too ...

Her name is half-a-Cookie and her mom is Mistress MOOOOOOO.
If ever you would see them you'd not ask "Her mama's...WHO?"
Her vocal chords ain't limbered up so time is yet to tell
If half-a-Cookie BELLOWS like her mama, with a YELL.
By rights she'll open up some day with MOOOOOOO just like her mom's
And all the neighbors roundabout will think they're hearin' bombs.
'Cause some things are genetic, like the patches on her face;
Like red and white that's scattered on her ankles like a lace.
There's also signs of swagger, hint a burly cow she'll be,
Along with mama's look in eyes as she approaches me.

It's nice to know that Cookie, burly cow she'll always be,
Has finally reproduced her image, personality.
For were a person prone to speculate on matters thus,
Would be a stretch to count on one more cow with such a thrust.
'Cause there ain't never been a Mistress MOOOOOOO like Cookie-cow.
In fact I've wondered if the Lord could find the mold, know how.
He cut her from a batter that had nothin' left when done;
He iced her with a million sugar spices just for fun.
Our Lord makes lots of bodies and He makes no two alike.
But Mistress MOOOOOOO was challenge, not like ridin' one more bike.

She's had a bunch of babies, nursed a bunch of calves been born,
But half-a-Cookie's like no other, with or without horns.
There are a couple youngsters who think Cookie-cow is theirs,
Along with other beasts on ranch, includin' couple mares.
So I suspect my hankerin' for half-a-Cookie now
Will put 'em on the warpath and they'll want to tell me how
Their logic might construe that when that Mistress MOOOOOOO has calf
For someone else to claim it would be rustlin', not a laugh.
That oldest one, my male heir, has learned to shoot a gun.
Of course, he told his mother it was only just for fun.

His little sister seems to think a smile will win a war,
So she is apt to grin and show me right out their front door.
But little do they recognize the edge I've got on them,
Since Cookie-cow and me we've got this daily regimen.
She bellows when she sees me headed to her through the gate;
She bellows if I do not show up 'fore it is too late.
She shows up first when water fills the tank from which she drinks
And it takes only one look for me to know what she thinks.
And now when she shows up to drink with half-a-Cookie calf,
No question that I've got to pay attention, cry or laugh.

I guess they think as years go by that Cookie-cow will die
And I'll just call 'em on the phone so they can sit and cry.
But it won't work that way at all, no matter years long gone,
'Cause God won't need that Cookie for another thousand dawns.
However, He may think that she has paid her dues, produced
As many babies as we have a right to have deduced.
If that's the case the Lord might now have sent here just for me
This little half-a-Cookie for the future years I'll see.
'Cause there's no questionin' the Lord knows I expect to hear
The bellow of a Mistress MOOOOOOO each day of every year.

He knows when all else fails and a day is extra long
I'll head to pasture, find that Cookie-cow to hear her song.
He knows she knows that I will come, I'll listen to her yell;
He knows to find her I would never need an old cow bell.
'Cause Cookie-cow can hear me bellow, much the same as her,
When I pull through the gate and seek to find her, hear her purr.
It maybe has to do with "vintage", age we've both become;
Knowin' that we've got to use our vocal chords, can't run.
She waddles through the spaces where in younger years she ran.
And that would be my mode of movin', if I even can.

So I think that our Lord remembers that as we grow old
We need the comfort of a burly cow to still behold.
I think He knows that if we see a half-a-Cookie calf
We'll know that He perpetuates this world on our behalf.
He knows I'll never live to see the day that calf matures,
But while I'm watchin' I can think of memories that she stirs.
He knows a burly cow like Mistress MOOOOOOO is just like me.
She also knows the future patterns in that calf she'll see.
So Cookie-cow and me will lean together 'gainst the fence
And be prepared to come to half-a-Cookie's quick defense.

But I suppose I should show "class" and tell those kids some day
That if they come to take those two it won't be no horse play.
Can't 'spect to reckon they would dare to take on two old cows
Like Mistress MOOOOOOO and me together who could show 'em how
The West was won, the wars were fought, what weapons are the best
To use against those younger bodies; we could meet that test.
'Cause they don't know how long the days and nights have been sometimes.
They don't quite understand how Mistress MOOOOOOO and I draw lines.
We love each other, love our babies, love our pasture land.
And we ain't partin', one with other, to another's hand.

So half-a-Cookie's here to stay and she belongs to me.
If they would like to visit they can come and look and see.
That Cookie-cow and even me will let them feast their eyes;
We'll even let them listen if that half-a-Cookie cries
And bellows with that vibrant MOOOOOOO that she will learn to say
From Mistress MOOOOOOO, that Cookie-cow, who will teach her someday.
But they ain't haulin' Cookie off and they ain't gonna claim
That half-a-Cookie who is headed down a road to fame.
'Cause me and Max, my good pink dog, are watchin', takin' note.
Much as I love those youngsters they don't even have a vote.

... a musing from the West by ROSE MARY ALLMENDINGER

© 2004 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Mistress MOOOOO...

In Memory Of The Cow We Loved

 May She Rest In Peace

She was a burly cow, much like a bull, we came to love,
But on this day she went to graze in pastures up Above.
Perhaps it's fitting that she left us on the day of Hearts
Since ours are breaking with the knowledge we will be apart.

It is that day for Valentines in year Two Thousand Five
When we must reconcile with pain since she is not alive.
She lived no less than fifteen years, gave joy to us each day.
She was an Institution at this ranch in every way.

She managed wisely on this ranch; no cow was on its own,
Although she often would adventure by herself, alone.
And it was on that day before she left us that she went
To be alone and would not go back home when she was sent.

So when she now arrives Above where grass is always green,
Our Lord already knows she's most bullheaded cow He's seen.
And I suspect that God will smile, as we've done every year;
That He will welcome Cookie cow as His own Special Dear.

The children that gave her that name, who called her Cookie-cow,
Will spend this day of Valentines with broken hearts right now.
Those broken hearts and tears will hang around forevermore.
Mistress MOOOOO did make her mark in Hitch Rack Ranch folklore.

It's possible when half-a-Cookie cow was born last year,
It was a premonition then was whispered in my ear.
Through all the years and all the babies Cookie cow had seen
There was no other one to symbolize all Cookie means.

No other baby had been born in any year before
With Cookie's image, seemed so destined to contribute more.
I guess the Lord knew He be needin' Mistress MOOOOO upstairs.
And maybe He knew she'd be lookin' down on us from there.

If so, both God and Mistress MOOOOO will need to see and hear
A burly cow with vocal chords vibrating from down here.
Now it's up to half-a-Cookie to learn how to BELLOW.
Wouldn't do at all for her to grow up and be mellow.

Today's the day that Cookie cow has gone to Heaven's grass.
She will forever be remembered by that lad and lass.
Today their hearts are heavy 'cause of Valentine that's not.
But memories will remain and always mean, to them, a lot.

They'll hear her MOO live on within their heads, within their hearts.
Those memories of that Mistress MOOOOO will cause a smile to part.
And one day soon they'll learn to laugh; the joy that's missing now
Will rise to shine another day...with half-a-Cookie cow.

... a sorrowful musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

February 14, 2005

© 2005 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Read more about Mistress Moooooo (Mistress MOOOOO!)
and her offspring
 "half-a-cookie" (Mistress MOOOOOOO... too ...)


Nuts, Cactus & Cans!

There's peanuts
And walnuts;
Pecans and
Almonds and
Pinions and
Acorns on oaks.


But none
Of the nuts
Are as cracked
Or as fruity
As racers,
Those Rodeo folks!


There's women
And children
And men
And their nephews
All running
Their horses
In circles 'round CANS!


It bruises
Their ankles
Their calves
And their knees;
Then their horse
Slips and falls
And on top of them lands!


So is it
The clapping,
The roars
Of the crowd
Or a crack
In the skull
Makes them nuts in the head?


You'd think that
They'd opt for
A nice gentle
Pony who'd
Take them
For rides
In the mountains instead!


I hear that
If women
When pregnant
Eat cactus
Or drink
Much tequila
Their kids all chase CANS!


The ones
Without horses
Are vandals
Or lawyers
Or ladies
Who dance
After dark without fans!


A bronc
That is buckin'
That bolts
From a chute
With a cowboy
On top is a
Wonderful sight!


But a lady
Who dresses
In satin,
Silk ribbons,
Tight britches,
And boots
Is a vamp of the night!


So guess it's
The cactus
Or booze
In the cradle
That puts foot
In stirrup
On top of a horse?!?


And guess it's
That crazy
And wonderful
Makes us love
Runnin' their course!
© 1999 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Money Pit . . . 

I see a fence. It's fallin' down.
I see a weed that grows.
I see a post lopsided, bent;
On it a gate that bows.

I see the top broke from a tree.
Strength in the wind it lacked.
I see the hay is nearly gone;
Once in the barn was stacked.

I see the aging apple trees
Are starting now to die.
A shingle from the crinkled roof;
On the ground it lies.

All these reasons, even more,
Do remind me why
A ranch is but a money pit;
Half empty 'til you die.

No matter that you've poured it in
One dollar at a time.
The pit is never full enough
For us to hold the line.

Every time the sun comes up
There's more work to be done.
It's hard sometimes to recognize
A ranch as something fun.

But then I saw the morning sky,
Sun creeping o'er the hills.
The graceful deer in my front yard
Made me forget the bills.

They scampered through the failing fence.
They bounced as though on springs.
They never seemed to even notice
All those broken things.

I saw the cows stand up to eat
The grass between the weeds.
Cloven hoofs pressed on the earth,
Planting this year's seeds.

As the sun rose in the sky
They gathered in the shade.
Tree top broken in the wind,
No difference to them made.

Until the snow falls months from now
Why should they look for hay?
If they notice that it's gone
'Twill be some other day.

A hawk is swooping low, then high.
A robin's on the fence.
An elk is standing, silhouette,
A rack that is immense.

The bottom of the lake needs sealing.
Nesting ducks don't know.
Beavers build their dam upstream,
Prepare for winter snow.

The scent of pine is in the air;
Mountains, rolling hills.
Why would I ever think this place
Is all about the bills?

Perhaps it's not the drain that's clogged.
It's just a home for slugs.
Perhaps the weeds are all wild flowers
Brought home to mom for hugs.

Perhaps it's not a broken fence.
It's just a wildlife trail.
Perhaps a change of vantage point
Will make the joys prevail.

Perhaps the pit that looks half empty
Really is half full.
Can borrow money at the bank
And buy another bull.

That's the way a rancher thinks;
Senseless, dusk or dawn.
If we'd win the lottery
We'd ranch 'til its all gone.

And when we finally give up hope
That someday we'll break even;
Houses can go up in rows
On the land we're leavin'.

If we all forsake the dream,
Give up and go to town,
I somehow know that on God's face
There'll be a silent frown.

© 1998 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

All Ya Gotta do is Whinny! ...
... Listen up, cowboy!!!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If men had the sense of a dog or a horse,
Women would bow to 'em daily, of course.
Just treat us nice and as dear as both those;
We'll push yer wagons with only our nose!


If a dog or a horse can demand all our love,
With nary a whisper as soft as a dove,
Why is it that whispers that come from a man
Can ring just as hollow as empty tin can?


'Tis mystery of ages that man has not solved ...
How to be worshipped by women involved!
If truth were but known we would probably find
Each man has that vision of thrones in his mind.


On top he would sit in his levis and hat,
Worshipped by women on throne where he sat.
His single decision would be which to choose ...
Which of those darlin's would win or would loose!


He'd have his choice of a blonde or brunette;
Maybe a redhead would win on a bet.
Not only would she move the cattle each day,
She'd brand 'em all on the hip without pay!


She'd break all his horses ... yes, even the broncs;
She'd come when he hollered or when his horn honks.
She'd clean out his stalls with a shovel or spoon ...
And she'd acquiesce in the light of the moon!


What more could a fella wish for we don't know!
When he gets it together results would then show.
All that he needs is to follow the horse ...
Or treat all his women like dogs do, of course!


He needs to take notice that horses respond
To love like a fish swimmin' in a clean pond.
They know all's expected of them is to show
Unconditional love ... which is all that they know!


If each man would watch as a dog will respond
To the smiles or the tears of its mistress, so fond,
He'd recognize soon just how easy the job
To respond to that joy or to that last sob.


Particular knowledge of what women mean
When they talk or take action is not what it seems.
No dog ... nor a horse! ... is well-versed in those things.
It's the look in their eye that will make her heart sing.


All man has to do is to look in her eyes ...
Nod when she smiles and hug when she cries.
His mind can be out on the south-forty range
If he'll just pay attention when her mood will change.


Dogs seem to know just when she needs a hug;
Jump onto her lap from their bed on the rug.
Horses seem almost to purr when she's near.
And that makes a female feel she's dear.


It seems awfully simple to me ... don't you think?
Why is it that women can drive men to drink?
We know that a woman will kill for her dog ...
We know that she'll feed her best horse like a hog.


So what's the big deal? ... it's EASY to see! ...
Or so that it seems to most women and me.
Quit tryin' to train on your dog or your horse ...
Take trainin' FROM THEM and you'll win every course!

~ ~ ~

© 2001 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Remember Windy ...

The Power of The Will to Live!

~ ~ ~

"Windy’s" saga written when
Life just started to begin.
Snuggled in her mother’s womb;
Got lopsided without room.


If her mother’d belched just right
In the middle of the night
Maybe Windy would have come
Out of womb all set to run.


No such luck happened to her;
On her birthday ... caused a stir.
Front end stood up straight and tall;
Back end wouldn’t stand at all!


Bet you’ve never ever seen
Filly born with brain so keen
But a rear end "swept" aside;
Much too twisted then to hide.


Veterinary said "Wind-swept" ...
Wondered if she should be kept.
"Shoot her in the head" he said;
"Got that pistol full of lead?"


Problem was her eyes would "coo"
When they looked right up at you.
Wasn’t head-end ‘twas askew...
So what tha heck ya gonna do?


Weren’t no place to shoot her rear,
When you got up close and near,
That would end her life right quick.
All ‘twould do would leave a nick.


Figured she had vibrant brain
So her heart would be the same.
She would tell me with her eyes
If that Vet was tellin’ lies.


So I helped her to her feet ...
Tiny filly ‘twas soooo sweet!
Helped her find her milky dinner
So she would not end up thinner.


Her front legs were straight and strong.
Her rear quarter twisted, wrong.
‘Twas amazing she could stand
With all four feet on the land!


Soon as she stood up to nurse
I knew I’d feed her from my purse.
Always time some other day
To take her little life away.


Every now and then I’d see
That mare lick Windy on her knee;
Seemed to push her to stand straight;
Tried to help improve her fate.


"Wind-swept" is the term they use;
Hurricane cause such abuse?
How’d it enter in the womb?
Surely there ain’t THAT much room!


Were that baby made of clay,
Could see how she’d bend that way.
Twisted from the "waist" on down ...
So both legs can’t touch the ground.


But they DID, I’ll have you know!
She could stand and walk and go!
Never sell a filly short
That her mom does not abort!


Three years later ... look and see
What that Windy’s come to be!!!
God helped Windy to depend
On the strongest leg to fend.


That she did! ... she made it strong!
Never knew she was built wrong!
Muscles in best leg increased,
And her awkwardness soon ceased.


Now you’d hardly know at all,
One leg short, the other tall.
When she runs with her own kind,
Her rear end not on her mind!


Sure, she never will compete;
Racetrack ventures we’ll delete.
Beauty contests she won’t win.
Is that such a naughty sin?


God makes all of us with "flaws";
Crooked noses or wide jaws.
Hard to tell the day we’re born
What will make us loved, forlorn.


Dig through all your photographs.
Find the one with the most laughs.
Take it to your mirror and see ...
Was THAT what your life would be?


When we look at babies born,
BIG mistake to feel forlorn!
Had YOU just been shot in head,
Who’d have lived YOUR life instead?!


Who knows which delightful beast
Will contribute most or least?
One day Windy will have foal.
Can that be YOUR lofty goal?


Perhaps it’s time for all of us
To put "judgment" on the bus.
Should we leave that "destiny"
To our God? ... NOT you or me?


Maybe when a "wind-swept" man
Stands up tall and says "I can!!!"
We should pat him on the knee
And tell him "That’s okay by me!"???


Maybe when he’ll trip or stumble
We should help him and be humble?
Offer him a helping hand?
Put a pillow where he’ll land?


If you doubt it’s worth the trouble,
Find a living soul in rubble.
See what happens when you reach;
See what happens if you teach.


Perhaps that soul will never make it.
Or, like Windy, they can fake it!
Maybe you will be the crutch
That led them from a lowly hutch!


If someday they run ... like WIND! ...
If their fear is somehow dimmed ...
REMEMBER WINDY! ... tiny foal ...
Who stood up and reached her goal!

© 2001 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.




"Public" ..... "Person"


Are you a "person" or a "public"?
Just a "one" or part of "all"?
Are you "caring" or "destructive"?
"Crashing through" or "walking tall"?

If you're surveyed as a "person",
You're environmental minded.
If you're a "public" you destroy;
Sensitivity is blinded.

As a person at the meetings,
You make quite a penetration.
You profess to want to save
The earth for future generations.

As a public you destroy
Everything within your sight.
You have tramped and raped and plundered
With a thoughtless, careless might.

As a person you recycle,
Sorting garbage, very neat.
As a public you distribute
Cans and trash upon the street.

As a person you promote
And gather funds for hiking trails.
As a public you destroy
Habitat for bear or quail.

In your home you train your children
Not to play with matches there.
After camping in the forests,
Smoke and fire fill the air.

You may freely give your funds
To museums for displays;
Crowds on site at sacred places,
Fill their pockets there for days.

As a person you support
Legislation to protect.
As a public you continue
To treat all things with neglect.

If a neighbor tramps your rose bush
You will take him into court.
When you drive into the country,
Trespass there will be your sport.

You fence your private, personal boundaries,
To keep the passerby at bay.
But you snip, destroy, or climb
A wire fence near fields of hay.

As a person you distribute
Chemicals upon your lawn.
As a public you protest
A cow who pees at early dawn.

You may leave your sprinkler running
When you leave your house in haste.
But you think that farms and ranches
Producing food, with water:  waste.

Though your shoes are made of leather
And your coat is virgin wool,
You will march into the streets
Against the grazing ram or bull.

You say cowboys are on welfare,
Crush their economic base.
But you will spend public money,
To buy farms for "open space".

You'll spend half-a-million dollars,
Build large homes on platted land.
When your neighbor subdivides,
Their "open space" is your demand.

As a person you commute
To work in cars that create smog.
As a public you will lobby
To protect a wetland bog.

As a person you inhabit
Wooden house with redwood deck.
As a public you profess
To want the trees for owls with 'specks'.

If a bear or mountain lion
Eats your dog you raise a cry.
But if wildlife kills at range
You do not notice babies die.

You want wolves reintroduced,
On the range that livestock grazed;
Transplanted in that "open space",
Where only ranchers' babes are raised.

But when wolves with dogs are mated,
Turned loose on the city streets,
You will vote to kill, destroy them,
Put an end to bloody feats.

You send food to hungry people
Throughout the world who do not eat.
You think supermarket shelves
Provide the food to do this feat.

Should we lobby to protect
The conscientious "person" now?
Or shall we open hunting season
On the "public" beast, so foul?

© 1994 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

WHO holds the reins?
. . . ah, yes! it MUST be . . .YOU!

Snaffle. You like snaffle?
Curb. With chain or not?
Rawhide tree and leather?
Worn 'til it's half shot?

Shod or running barefoot?
Four hooves pounding dirt.
Fancy pants or levis?
Embroidered denim shirt?

Helmet or a Stetson?
Scarf or small bow-tie?
Sixteen hands or larger?
Fifteen hands too high?

Braided mane and tail?
Roached or flying free?
Lariat or leathers?
Strapped to saddle tree?

Backed into a chute?
Waiting for a calf?
Cantering in circle?
Racing mile or half?

Quiet, standing gentle?
Hyper, chomp on bit?
Waiting for your cue?
Rearing, pitching fit?

Maybe bay with dorsal?
Palomino? Roan?
Maybe cost a fortune?
Maybe out on loan?

Follows like your puppy?
Ties to any post?
Runs away at pasture?
When you need him most?

Healthy as a horse?
(If you'll pardon pun.)
Catches sleeping sickness?
When it's time for fun?

Robs you of beer money?
Chasin' blondes or fan?
Wish you'd chosen beach boys?
Bulging muscles, tan?

Think snuff is addictive?
Boozin' would be worse?
What about that bronco?
Ready for the hearse?

Broken bones a given?
Bruises only slight?
From sun-up in morning?
'Til the fall of night?

Sneezing from hay fever?
Shovel with sore back?
Joints are getting stiffer?
Speed you sometimes lack?

Miss the high bar jumping?
Refuse, screeching halt?
Thankful for that helmet?
When you want to vault?

Did your mother drop you?
Day that you were born?
Did you fracture skull?
Hand let loose of horn?

Submit your application.
Psychiatric course.
Gotta be SOME reason,
That you own a HORSE!!!

© 1999 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

TIMELESS . . . keepsake!

I live in Colorado
Where the skies are always blue;
Rugged mountains rise
From rolling meadows moist with dew.

Horses are my "habit"
(Just like boozin', so I'm told!!.. terrific "high" !..
Absorb the dollars and the gold!!)

But what good's a dollar,
'Cept for grass and hay and grain;
For that ranch with horses
Running freely, flying mane!

American Quarter Horses
Ring the globe from coast to coast.
We all hear the stories
And the common show-ring boasts.

Colorado cowboys
Create legend, calf and rope;
Many mountain rangers
Scale the steep and rocky slope.

High-tailed hunter jumpers
Leave the Thoroughbred aside;
Find the Quarter Horse
Will out-perform on every ride!

But every urban "junkie"
Setting saddle straight and tall,
Even with the trophies,
Missed the greatest joy of all!

One would not berate
The glamour of a bedded stall,
Eliminate arenas,
Trailers whizzing past a mall.

But even southern ranchers
Grazing green grass every season
May not understand
The total logic of my reason.

Late Spring or early Summer
There is majesty with a band
Of Quarter mares at pasture,
Stallion grazing close at hand.

When Fall oak turns red
Among the yellow aspen leaves,
Shrill voices ring;
Weanlings longing; mares bereave.

Blizzards frost the tails
Turned toward the windy snow;
As Winter silence settles,
Mares are quiet, fetus grows.

When early Springtime comes
To the Colorado ranches . . .
When a crocus opens . . .
When new leaves are on the branches . . .

Show-ring rules and honors,
Fancy footwork seems remote.
Pedigrees and papers,
Just another anecdote.

When you ride to pasture,
Untouched day is freshly new . . .
Or when the sun is gone
And skies are gray, no longer blue . . .

When you are the witness,
Earth's rebirth before your eyes . . .
And when you first discover
Newborn foal, that FIRST surprise! . . .

. . . you may well remember
Newborn foals from years before.
Good mares will produce,
This birthing season, many more.

But it's that FIRST foal standing,
Snow kissed pasture, mother proud,
That screams with grace and beauty,
Work and dollars disavowed!

There is a rush of memory
Every year that tells you why
American Quarter Horses
Grace your life and mollify.

FIRST FOAL! . . . TIMELESS keepsake! . . .
Memory with a rush of Joy! . . .
Is like a God-sent treasure
Sent each year as His envoy!

© November, 1992 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Those were the days!

Trigger was my space ship then;
Roy my astronaut.
Dale drove her Buttermilk ...
The Princess that he sought!

Second feature, here came Silver;
"Hiiiii-YOOO" ... off he went!
Chargin' straight into the sunset
From which he'd been sent.

Autry was the Gene of choice;
Singin' all around;
Sat beside him in grand entry
When he came to town.

To the world my little Ginger
Was a spotted steed.
But to me he was Mercedes;
All the speed I'd need.

'Twas long before those Little kids
Were labeled for their Britches;
Long before those fancy trailers
Hooked to pickup hitches.

Daddy had a Studebaker
With an old stock rack.
He'd jump pony-Ginger in
From ditch bank where he'd back.

Off we'd go for wild adventures,
Like we had good sense.
Waitin' in the pony paddock
We'd both be intense.

When he wasn't totin' me
'Round the countryside,
Daddy taught me all I know
About a horse to ride.

I was a tadpole, barely three,
When he brought Ginger home.
That feisty pony had a history
Every time he'd roam.

The man that owned that Ginger-boy
Taught him how to kick.
He'd sell that pony, then go back;
Redeem him for a trick.

He'd find out in no short time
My Daddy knew some stuff.
And he was not about to let
That pony get so tough!

By the time the man came back,
That pony to then snatch,
He found out that Ginger-horse
Had finally met his match.

From that day until I was
Half-grown and gone away,
Ginger was an institution;
Loved much every day.

Daddy taught him how to stand
Upon a knee-high box.
I'd stand in the saddle and
Twirl ropes just like a "fox"!

Then we'd run that barrel race,
Lined up three in row.
'Twas long before that cloverleaf
For barrel race in tow.

Although my legs were short those days,
Ginger tiny too,
We'd run those shetland races fast ...
Teach all a thing or two!

I'd bend down on his roached neck,
Whisper in his ear,
He'd stick his nose straight out for me
To win that race and cheer!

He'd prance and dance in all parades;
He'd make me very proud;
And all the time my Daddy there,
Clappin' very loud.

Don't know who had most fun of all,
My Daddy, horse or me.
But to this day I close my eyes
And all that joy I'll see!

Of course, with Roy in my heart
I'd have to try to be
Everything that Roy was
In movies that I'd see.

That cost me my first boyfriend then.
I circled rope on ground
And tried to pull him by his feet
Into a tree I found.

That trick never worked quite right;
Not like Roy's did.
My boyfriend fell upon his face
So I ran off and hid.

But I learned how to jump on Ginger
From the branch of trees;
I learned to jump o'er Ginger's rump
After a few scraped knees.

I could draw my cap pistol
As fast as any boy.
No one told me that a doll
Should be my only toy.

To this day I always look
For guys who wear white hats.
If black is what they want to wear
They all can just go scat.

I finally got that palomino
Horse that I adore.
He can't stand up to Trigger but
He's standin' at my door.

These days those Little Britches kids
Have lots of fancy things.
They're all out there competin' for
A lot of Golden Rings.

No matter what they have to ride
Or what those kids can do,
I only wish that they could have
A Studebaker too!

Its old stock rack would rattle when
We drove it down the road;
And it could not pull along
A big tremendous load.

And sumpthin' 'bout that spotted pony,
On that old dirt track,
Is gonna be sumpthin' that missin',
Sumpthin' they will lack.

I could dream that I had heard
Roy in the stands,
Jumpin' up and down and cheerin',
Clappin' both his hands.

I knew that Princess Dale stood
With Mother near the rails,
Tense and cheerin' as I rode;
Chewin' fingernails!

But times have changed and kids don't know
That much about my Roy.
They do not watch those movies, old,
Or play with all his toys.

He can't be found in their computer;
Video arcade.
That old white hat has gone downhill
From time when it was made.

Perhaps their dreams are just as big;
Maybe even more.
But on the shelves within my heart
I've got my memories stored.

And when my life goes over bumps,
Like the Studebaker then,
I always will remember all
That fun I had ... and when!

© 2001 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

This poem is also included in our special collection of
poems about Cowboy Dads and Granddads


When the Old Yella Bus Comes Down the Lane ...

The ol' school bus was painted yella,
Pulled through the front gate;
The school marm dismounted and
Was sorry she was late.

Behind her on the bus I spotted
Children everywhere!
Jumpin' from those seats and screamin';
Joy filled the air!

Their faces were just like a rainbow;
Each hue a gift from God.
Boots and tennis shoes and sandals
Trippin' over clods.

Not one of them had ever seen
A donkey layin' down;
They'd only seen a horse parade
Down main street in the town.

They thought that milk was bottled in
Containers in the store.
They'd never seen one on a cow ...
Or seen those "spouts" ... all four!

They'd never seen a baby foal
Stand up and nurse a mare.
They'd never had to wash manure
Odor from their hair.

Their pastures near their homes are concrete;
Gutters are their ditch;
Fields there are fertilized
With garbage that was pitched.

If any had a barn at all,
It housed a dog or cat;
And many of those children had
At home their own pet rat.

Too often their adrenaline
Was triggered by their fear.
Too often they had no one there
To hold them close and dear.

But they crawled into ol' barn loft
And danced across the floor;
They found a fascination with
The split-in-two barn door.

They sat their hindsides on the rail,
And watched the cowboy ride.
Their exultation o'er his courage
Much too strong to hide.

They held a tiny cube of sugar
On their palm for horse.
When that warm nose touched on their hand
Their joy ran its course.

They sat upon three-legged stool,
Pulled those "spouts" and milked.
They knew that all the stories heard
Meant their minds were bilked.

They scraped manure from their soles
And headed for the lake.
They filled their pockets there with rocks
And snails, both to take.

Those shoes came off and little toes
Sank in the soft, wet dirt;
And if they stepped upon a cactus,
Didn't even hurt.

Finally as the day was fadin',
On that bus they climbed.
Wild turkey feathers in their hands
Were firmly intertwined.

The old bus cranked, the teacher waved,
And they were on their way.
They left with memories in their mind
To warm a troubled day.

A cowboy and a rancher take
For granted all they love;
Although they often kneel and thank
The good Lord up above.

If they could watch the little eyes
Of children who know not
The value of the joys we share
They'd learn an awful lot.

If you are a cowboy from
Chicago or LA,
You may have chosen western life
To leave and go away.

But when you enter coliseums
Filled with urban folk,
Do not forget the joy you bring
Is not a silly joke.

You are the hero read about
In books by little kids.
And most of them have never seen
Or done the things you did.
Too many there will never touch
An animal so strong;
So much of all their little lives
Consumed by things gone wrong.

Cotton candy and balloons
Sweeten sight for them,
But they are there to share your life;
Rebuke a life condemned.

For just 8 seconds you may ride
That buckin' bronc that day.
But for a glimpse into your life
Those throngs would gladly pay.

So when you're ridin' out of town
Reach down and touch that hand
Of some small child who's sittin' near.
Forget the blarin' band.

And if you're not too tired and worn
When you get home at night,
Perhaps you'll take the time to show
A child all that's in sight.

Show them the moon when it comes up;
A sunrise in the morn;
And let them sit in your old saddle,
Grab onto that horn.

For I know God is watchin' us
And hopin' we will share
The life He lets us live together;
All the beauty there.

Be thankful for jack-rabbit stew;
And water gravy, too;
Be thankful for the thunderstorms;
The sun that shines on you.

However poor the crop this year,
Remember it won't grow
In concrete jungles that are all
These little children know.

© 2001 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Cowboy Culture

..... a workday devotion .....

The Culture of the Cowboy, such as poems and prose and art,
Has always mirrored the image of his work, spoke from the heart.
In his mind, and shared with others camping 'round the fire,
It was his workday labor motivating plots conspired.

For months on end they rode alone, no woman in their sight;
Working cattle in the daylight, 'round the fire at night.
They fantasized their mission with the legends they conceived;
They finalized a hero with a brand from God received.

When hearts were light and music clear they formed a square to dance.
Every second Cowboy donned an apron as he pranced.
For only when a cattle drive was finished would they go
Into a town to find a woman, wild oats there to sow.

Few Cowboys settled with a spouse, became a family man.
They only left the ranges when their lifestyle reached its span.
To some, and often to themselves, they were just orphaned men.
Isolated with each other, lonesome with their kin.

Those nineteenth century Cowboys wrote a floating text each day
Upon the cattle, claiming chattel, for a rancher's pay.
The brands they burnt were literature, the language of the West.
But stories, myths and poetry were fluid, oral texts.

The stories told were seldom written down upon a page;
A Cowboy's art depicted scenes of work he had engaged.
It was around a campfire where he first concocted rhyme;
Collaborated tales spoke a Cowboy's workday mime.

For many years there were few written down with pen and ink;
Were only written when the cattle industry would sink.
Late in the 1800s unemployment on the range
Separated Cowboys from their peers, life rearranged.

Blizzards, droughts, barbed wire fences entered ranchers' lives.
Railroads crisscrossed through the West negating cattle drives.
Some Cowboys used the skills they knew to rustle cattle then;
Others turned detective to find rustlers, bring them in.

Cowboys left those campfires when they rode off into town,
Supporting those they cared for with whatever work around.
Only in their isolation from historic days
Did pen unite with paper writing memories down to stay.

They wrote their rhymes they shared thereafter not around the fire,
But for themselves and for those strangers they could now inspire.
Most no longer rode a horse or chased a cow all day,
But memories that they put to paper soon began to pay.

Their audience for art and legend, mysteries and rhyme,
No longer was the campfire oratory of past times.
They found the willing ears of dreamers who would idolize
A glimpse into the fantasies a Cowboy lives and dies.

And soon the clamor for those legends, rhymes all written down,
Descended into main street of 'most every single town.
Demand, romance, soon made its way to urban fireplaces.
Big-Hat-No-Cattle people started typing in those spaces.

But none of that diminishes the Culture of the Cowboy
Whose workday and imagination fueled artful ploys.
Somewhere, but few and far between, The Cowboy rides the range,
Adjusting his profession now to centuries of change.

To mimic is the truest form of flattery man knows.
To The Cowboy such respect the public now bestows.
If God reincarnated nineteenth-century-old cowhands,
Imagine their reaction to the people in the stands!

In all their wildest dreams they forged around those fires in camp,
No way those boys could reckon books now read 'neath urban lamps!
They hardly were society's crowned princes of their day.
And certainly few urban folk were prone to live their way.

A gathering that drew a crowd to hear them spout their rhymes,
Would be the furthest thing of all within their Cowboy minds.
Many famous persons are not honored while they live;
It's only when they're dead and buried honors will we give.

So when we group together now and share a Cowboy rhyme,
Please bow your head and give respect to those who lived that time.
Thank God that each was branded by His hand, can ride His range,
And that the Cowboy Culture will survive each century's change!

© 2001 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



There Was an Ol' Cowboy Who Lived in a Boot . . .

There was an ol' cowboy who lived in a boot,
Way out on the prairie backed up to a butte.
He'd had one too many falls off of a brute,
Ridin' those bulls comin' out of a chute.
He used to be handsome, some thought he was cute;
Now they just call him a silly ol' coot.
He carried a rifle, 'twas ready to shoot;
Nary a man that would cause a dispute.
His dad was a Englishman, mama a Ute;
With many an outlaw he'd been in cahoots.
Each night he'd come home, hike to top of that butte,
And slide down the top of that tattered ol' boot.
It weren't much for shelter but his substitute;
The penalty paid for his known disrepute.


Next to that butte on the backside of it
Was a moccasin cradled in gully to fit.
There lived a young maiden dishonored, unfit,
Discarded from Indian nation, close knit.
'Twas there in that moccasin she retrofit
She hid from the tribe so as not to submit.
The ills of her ways she would not now admit;
Disgraced tribal counsel refused to acquit.
The legends of dastardly deeds she'd commit
Ran rampant without much concern if legit.
Society saw her as vagrant misfit;
Seductress, a vamp, and a bad counterfeit.
She'd roam o'er the prairie when sky was moonlit;
Retreat to her moccasin by day to sit.


A butte on a prairie is hardly discreet.
Was fate in the making that caused them to meet.
That maiden one day was late taking her seat;
That cowboy was early, no outlaws to meet.
So she who was trying no person to greet
Bumped into that cowboy when his day complete.
Surprised as he was to see maiden so sweet,
Hardened heart skipped a momentous heartbeat.
Saddened, betrayed by the tribal deceit,
Her instinct first told her that she should retreat.
But had she run backwards and missed a downbeat,
She just might have fallen and suffered defeat.
Both stood their ground with self-righteous conceit;
Challenging eyes met each other to greet.


Needless to say, neither one chose to go
To the boot or the moccasin that they did know.
They'd chosen those habitats, their status quo;
Reaping the crops that they'd chosen to sow.
The challenge soon left from those eyes, turned to glow;
As each of them liked what they saw on plateau.
Visions of loveliness change with life flow;
Each life responds to its portfolio.
She saw a handsome man, very macho;
He saw an Indian maiden aglow.
Now travelers, so few, passing prairie tableau,
In the sunset of evening or its afterglow,
Might catch a glimpse on horizon, shadow;
A silhouette dancing to soft stereo.


The boot was dislodged and it now sits atop
The butte on the prairie with moccasin prop.
Unseen by the traveler failing to stop
Is the passageway linking them both at the top.


On the horizon, with rainstorm or not,
Is a rainbow and happiness stored in a pot.
Outlaws nor Indians passing that spot
See anything more than a big prairie lot.


When God in His chariot comes to collect
Two souls of this world that have suffered neglect,
Alone on that butte, looking back, retrospect ...
A boot and a moccasin used to protect.


However so humble a home, a sweet home,
Can cradle the errant among us who roam.
No need for the silver and gold on the dome.
Discards of one to another their home.


© Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Your High Horse

            ... gettin' ON is easy ... it's the gettin' OFF that hurts! ...

Any cowboy worth his salt
Can figure out a way
To get atop High Horse he rides
On almost any day.

If he's sent out to tame a colt
That's never seen a man,
It's possible his day begins
By landin' on his can.

No tellin' what it's apt to take
To saddle up that colt
Before it gets the best of him,
Jumps the fence to bolt.

As time goes by and hierarchy,
Peckin' order change,
He'll maybe get to choose his mount,
Select one less deranged.

The cowboy has to get atop
High Horse to work each day,
No matter what he must confront
'Fore goin' 'bout his day.

But once atop that Steed of his
He falls in line with us
Who only have to dress ourselves
And crawl onto a bus.

It's not the Pony that we ride,
How hard, how High on top.
Our biggest challenge comes in play
Whenever that Horse stops.

Nothin' harder for a person,
Climbs on that High Horse,
Than gracefully dismountin' when
The day is done, of course.

..... a musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2002, Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



..... is but a bucket .....

I saw pump handle rise and fall,
The bucket in the sink;
The ol' stove cranked, the embers stirred,
To heat it to the brink.

One night a week, for each of us;
One bucket cold, one hot;
She pumped that water, filled the tub;
We'd soak and scrub a lot.

An old iron bucket sat beside
The stove, was filled with wood,
So when she needed fuel to
Re-heat the flames she could.

Ol' Jersey cow would chew her cud;
Her bag refused to wilt.
Mother pulled those teats with rhythm;
Bucket filled to hilt.

The granary filled with corn and oats
Had bucket waiting there.
She'd fill it to the brim to carry
To our saddle mare.

'Twas oversized, that bucket filled,
That soapy-water tub;
The one she used to wash our clothes,
To hold the board she'd rub.

Another bucket fit the mop
That cleaned our dirty floor;
Another smaller one she held
When scrubbing was her chore.

On top of one she built a seat,
To hold slop in the night.
She placed it near our featherbeds.
An often-welcomed sight.

When nights were long, a stomach hurt,
She'd hold a head in hand,
So when we would regurgitate
In bucket it would land.

When she went out to plant a seed,
Or pull a weed, unfit,
Upside down that bucket went;
A place for her to sit.

And in the summer when that garden
Filled with all its booty,
Bucket then turned right-side-up
To do its normal duty.

Filled half-full with water it
Became a vase for blooms;
Flowers from her tended gardens
Filling all our rooms.

Every year she filled one up
With fresh paint for the wall,
Mixing in a special tint
For bedrooms and the hall.

She carried coal to make a fire
When winter winds would blow.
It seemed she had a bucket with her
Everywhere she'd go.

Whatever else the world would see
In bucket in her hand,
I know for sure what I would see
From where I used to stand.

Those buckets made of iron or wood
Or tin or woven reeds,
Were nothing more than vessels holding
Treasured, fruitful seeds.

They were the seeds of Love and Hope;
The seeds to grow a Life;
The seeds that, given tenderly,
Protected us from strife.

They soothed the pain and shined the mirror
Reflecting all her Love
She selflessly and lovingly
Dispensed from up above.

I held onto her cotton skirt
Or grabbed her hand with mine.
And when my bucket emptied out
She'd fill it up, each time.

She always had that bucket full;
'Nuff Love to go around.
The burden never got so great
She'd dump it on the ground.

Motherhood is but a bucket
God refills each day.
For those who freely choose to mother:
Love their only pay.

No matter weight within that brim;
No matter shape nor size;
The Buckets that she bore for us
Contained God's greatest Prize!

. . . . a musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2002, Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

(Posted also in the collection of poems about
Cowboy Moms and Grandmoms)

Rose Mary Allmendinger told us her poem above is "based on my own experience living with and loving my own mother who was my best friend ..." And that the poem below, about the "school marm" who inspired her poem "When the Old Yella Bus Comes Down the Lane," was about her own daughter, the subject of the next poem.  She tells us "My life has been sandwiched between TWO of The Greatest Mothers this world has ever known!!!"


All are gifted, some are good, but only ONE is BEST!
She makes those extra efforts that will surpass all the rest!
She has no help, significant, to raise her children, two;
But she has talent to provide more than the rest would do.

In spite of working hard each day, teach other kids, not hers,
No family with two parents could have better life chauffeurs.
Two kids are always listened to; each thing they say is heard.
She knows that Love, unqualified, is not just another word.

When other parents are "too busy" she will coach the team;
When help is needed in their schools it's she who's often seen.
It's not because she has a spouse to cover other bases,
Nor pay the bills nor do the chores, dry tears on little faces.

It is because she knows the meaning: LOVE UNQUALIFIED!
And she will practice that until the day that she has died.
There is no money, school test, adversity surpassed,
That gives a child the firm leg-up of LOVE that's there to last.

The fact she has a brain she uses to promote their minds,
And offers them exposure to experience, all kinds,
Is just a bonus that her LOVE provides to children, two.
She does not count on recognition ... not from me nor you.

But if someday you want to see Motherhood at work
In all its glory, sacrifices done without a quirk,
Her name is Cindi and she raises Matt and T. Marie.
[She also is my daughter and she means a lot to me.]

And if it's true that Heaven waits for angels such as she,
Her children and the ones she's taught will join her there with glee.
No other have I ever known that's like her, anywhere.
Were excellence rewarded every crowd would turn to stare.

She'll never make a fortune and her days are always long.
But deep within her heart-of-hearts her LOVE is always strong.
I know she would enjoy the luxuries life can sometimes give.
But dividends of Motherhood she'll reap from life she lives.

... for my daughter with love - by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2001, Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

(Posted also in the collection of poems about
Cowboy Moms and Grandmoms)



GUTSY GAIL ... and her One-spur Scott ...

Gutsy Gail came to town a'ridin' on a rail;
Then she hopped a stagecoach that was slower than a snail.
Forty miles from nowhere she stepped down upon the ground.
One-spur Scott, her hero, met her there, showed her around.

Didn't think he'd ever find a gutsy gal like her;
One who'd sit astride a horse been cinched up with a burr.
Ain't no man he ever saw would climb on top a horse,
Ride it like that Gutsy Gail, given any course.

He'd teach a horse to sidepass with four-hundred pounds of calf
Connected to his rope in hand for just a belly-laugh.
He'd ride the range and fix the fence and take pride in his work,
But when it came to horses with a burr he'd often shirk.

So somewhere out in no-man's-land he'd landed him a gal
Who'd ride tornadoes in the wind, crawl off and be his pal.
She had a horse named Blizzard that she'd brought to his abode.
He was a storm, wind-driven, and he'd never 'fore been rode.

Some say the devil raised him from the time that he was born.
Some say the devil taught him how to make his riders mourn.
Some say the fact his coat was black but tryin' to turn gray
Was just an indication of a reason they should pray.

For even left on open range of fifteen million acres,
Blizzard had the talent to get rid of most horse-breakers.
Deceivin' them with great big eyes that seemed to simply purr,
Was just his way of sizin' up how much they could endure.

Then like the rain and thunderclouds appearin' in the sun,
He'd create an illusion of a pleasant day to come.
A photographic picture he'd create for all to see.
Sometimes he'd even put his head way down beside her knee.

But even on a sunny day a blizzard can come fast.
And Blizzard knew his time was comin' ... comin' with a blast.
From sunny skies, a bolt of thunder, followed by a flash,
Can turn a gal's perception into quite a mighty crash.

When Gutsy Gail climbed atop that storm that she called Blizzard,
She came to realize right fast he weren't no normal lizard.
Suspect she figured that he'd slink around like some ol' pet.
Suspect she hoped that ride would be the best that she could get.

'Cause, after all, how is a gal to know a storm's a'brewin'
If all that beast has done so far is stand around a'cooin'?
So Gutsy Gail, I dare say now, was unprepared to ride
A buckin', blastin' bronc determined to take off her hide!

There's stories circulatin' out there forty miles from town,
About that Gutsy Gail and that Blizzard that she found.
Some say she roped him from the ground where she lay in a heap.
Some say that Blizzard got the grief he sure did try to reap.

Some say her hero, One-spur Scott, descended from top rail;
Roped that sucker, held him down, on Blizzard's butt he'd flail.
Some say there weren't no truth at all in any tale told.
Some say that Blizzard weren't a match for Gutsy Gail's hold.

Some say she rode him through the fence and then went out of sight.
Some say she never did come home until the dead of night.
Some say her hero, One-spur Scott, saw Gutsy Gail no more.
Some say she rode that Blizzard off to some far-distant shore.

Some say that when the thunder builds way out in no-man's land,
You'll see a gray cloud shaped like Blizzard take his final stand.
Some say that every bolt of lightnin' streakin' 'cross the sky,
Blinds a man who's lookin' at it with his naked eye.

Annie Oakley had a gun and sure knew how to shoot.
Stories 'bout her escapades can fill a good-sized boot.
But Gutsy Gail ridin' Blizzard makes those stories pale.
Many nights have lingered with the tellin' of the tale.

Somewhere up in Canada where One-spur Scott is camped,
They say he leaves a rose each day on piece of sod that's tamped.
They say there's footprints in the dirt the size of Blizzard's hoof.
They say there's gray hair mixed with black still lyin' on his roof.

I do not know this story's true; I ain't been North that far.
But when I look in that direction I can see a Star.
And sometimes when the day is done and when the moon is bright,
I'd swear that I can see a horse-shaped cloud up there at night.

So whether One-spur Scott's just spittin', whittlin' on the porch,
With Gutsy Gail right beside him carryin' her torch ...
Or whether she took off on Blizzard, parts unknown, astride ...
Or whether she was stomped by Blizzard, in the dust she died ...

I know no way of checkin' out to tell the truth, The End.
Somewhere up in Canada the road stops ... there's no bend.
But if you happen up that way, see guy with just one spur,
Stop him and perhaps he'll tell what Blizzard did to her.

But if you find him and he's ridin' out of town that day,
Watch to see if he is mounted on a horse that's bay.
Look closely, see if he is blinded, ridin' with a cane;
Watch and see if he is holdin' tight onto that mane.

If a flash of lightnin' fills the sky when he rides out,
You better look around and see if Blizzard's still about.
If the air is filled with chunks of two-inch icy hail,
I'll bet it's Blizzard payin' dues for dumpin' Gutsy Gail.

Then we will know that One-spur Scott was blinded and did pay
For lookin' at the lightnin' streakin' cross the sky that day.
And we will know that Gutsy Gail lived up to her name.
A horse named Blizzard won't ... no never! ... ever be the same.

. . . a musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2001, Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



... the tale of a storm that weren't ...

Most winters when the wild winds blow,
The cattle gather movin' slow.
Tails turn, butts toward the whistle;
Sharp winds cuttin' through the thistle.
'Customed to the freezin' frost;
Remember winters they've been lost;
Remember times they've huddled near
Another cow, both lost in fear.
They know to close their eyes when wet,
Just waitin' for the ice to set
And seal their lashes to their skin
As freezin' snow and winds begin.

There must be cows in them Bahamas;
Must be calves there born to mamas;
Must be livestock everywhere ...
But me and cows we ain't been there.
I've only been near Rocky Mountains,
Never near the sea with fountains
Spurtin' water out the mouth
Of naked statues, way down South.
I only know the snow and cold
And wet when winter winds are bold.
Me and mama cows don't know
No balmy breezes, only snow.

So whacha gonna do, I ask,
When fightin' snow is not yer task?
And what's a mama cow to do
Without lashes iced like glue?
I gotta think that she, like me,
Is plum' dumfounded now to see
That is not snow on her behind ...
It's only dirt with cuttin' grind.
It fires right into her butt
And often leaves a dirty cut.
Ice from lashes, it will melt.
Now what's a cow to think she felt?

Cow eye matter mixed with dust ...
Is that a wintertime to trust?
There ain't no cow that I know of
That knows to 'spect mud from above.
'Cause all those many years of "moo"
Ain't never seen no winter do
No cuttin' wind all filled with dirt
Without no wet to ease the hurt.
This ain't no flat and barren plain;
This ain't no desert with no rain;
This ain't no sunny sandy beach;
So what's a mama cow to teach?

It's normal any cow might tell
Them calves and let 'em know full well
What's comin' at 'em in a storm
'Cause they ain't livin' in no dorm.
I guess us human beasts might 'spect
To reckon with our intellect;
But how ya gonna tell a cow
Or chicken or a fat ol' sow?
In Rocky Mountain countryside
They ain't never seen nor died
From nuthin' but a sky with dirt
Flung at 'em 'til their backsides hurt.

For ten years now it's been right dry.
Enuff to make a grown man cry;
Enuff to make a cow to wish
Their dinner was served in a dish.
But there is bad and then there's worse;
There is that weather makes ya curse.
There's lots of different kinds of "dry" ...
The kind that makes the green grass lie
So dormant that it turns to brown;
The kind that makes those cracks in ground.
The kind that makes a back so sore
From poundin' T-posts 'evermore.

When the winter dirt done blowed;
When fields of hay ain't never sowed;
When mama cows are caked with dust;
When even bulls ain't got no lust;
Is that the year ya go to town?
Throw them spurs upon the ground?
Too bad us people got a brain.
We can decide to catch a train.
But what's that mama cow to do
If she ain't got no cud to chew?
She's got no brain that stands to reason
How much dust they'll be next season.

If she did she'd prob'ly think:
Enuff to drive a cow to drink.
'Stead of that she stands and bellows
Every day at all the fellows
Passin' by her pasture fence;
Wonderin' why they're all so dense.
Ain't we gonna make her dinner?
Grow more grass that's gettin' thinner?
Ain't we gonna make it green
So she can eat all that she's seen?
Don't we know her belly hurts
With nuthin' in it, clods of dirt?

Spring has passed and summer's comin';
Still ain't grass where she's been runnin';
Flesh will soon be leavin' bone;
She thinks she's stranded, all alone.
She does not know there's hay to find
If payin' dollars one don't mind.
If banker screams and pulls his hair
Will she end up on his front stair?
Amazin' how that works, you know,
If you got money you can blow.
No tellin' how much hay you'll buy;
Enuff to make that grown man cry?

But if you spend that cash today
Can you make feedin' those cows pay?
Does two cents on the dollar work?
There are them questions that do lurk.
Of course, if papa was a man
With money then you surely can.
But if he, too, was runnin' scared
When he was with them cows then paired,
That borrowin' money from the bank
Might be the water where you sank.
It's times like these I'd hope to be
One of those silly cows I see.

How nice, sometimes I find I dream,
If thinkin' were not what it seems.
How nice to be a cow without
Nuthin' but sore butt to bout.
How nice to only have to eat
What rancher put down at my feet.
How nice to not remember when
The tales of life had different spin.
How nice 'twould be to see kids grow
And never even have to know
That if the rain refused to come
They'd not have pastures there to run.

'Cause somehow I suspect that cow
Is worried not about just how
Her calves will live or they'll survive
If banker eats me up alive.
She does not know that mud in eye
Is just about to make her cry
As slaughter house becomes her home;
No pasture grass for her to roam.
This tale of the storm that weren't
Is tale she ain't had to learnt.
And little does she know the endin';
'Round the corner life is bendin'.

Now I'm watchin' ... loadin' slow;
Every cow is due to go
Down that road and into town.
Ain't got hay ... there's none around.
Now I'm glad I ain't that cow,
Since I'd have to wonder how
A wind that filled with dirt alone
Could drive me from my life-long home.
Compared to how that cow must feel,
In spite of fact I'm low as heel
Of my boot that's in the dust,
I'll turn to God ... in Him I'll trust.

There is new meanin' now today
Whenever I hear someone say
"Here's mud-in-yer-eye" ... take THAT and go ...
Wherever rain makes green grass grow?
No longer, ever, will relief
Flood my soul instead of grief
When winter winds do not bring snow
For now results I truly know.
If in the future God sends freeze
I'm fallin' down upon my knees;
I'll thank Him for the wet it takes
From ice and snow, the drought He breaks.

If ever 'nother cow lives here
I'll try to whisper in her ear
That if her lashes freeze to face
It is a Blessin', not disgrace.
I'll smile when snow so very deep,
I wake up worried from my sleep,
'Cause I will know next time around
That if a frozen calf is found
It is "just one," not all the herd.
I will not curse; not single word.
For I will know without a doubt
That snow and ice pours gold from spout.

It is a dirty way to learn
Never winter storm to spurn;
Not regret when interrupted
As a thunder storm erupted;
Never wishin' mud would dry;
Never wastin' tears to cry
When stuck in snow or mud knee-deep;
How to smile when ditches seep.
All that is, of course I know,
If I survive without that snow.

Unfortunate ... it ain't this year.

Pull up a chair ... ya want a beer?

..... a musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2003 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



Ya wanna chew?

..... WHO WUDDA KNEW ? .....


"Ya wanna chew?" he said to me,
Hand goin' to his rear,
Where pocket on his hip betrayed
That faded circle, clear.

"Yeah, I don't mind," I says to him,
"But never mind to share
Your own you've got 'cause wouldn't touch
That stuff you got, on dare."

He raised his scraggly brows imbedded
In his gnarled head;
Gave me look that one might think
Would make me fall down dead.

"So what's tha matter with my chew?"
He growled at me, disgust,
As I was reachin' for my chew
From pocket on my bust.

"To each his own," I says to him,
"Don't sell us ladies short
Just because we got our own
To chew while we cavort.

"My gramma was a lady, fine;
She taught me all I know;
She also taught to take along
My own chew where I go.

"The fact it ain't the same as yers ...
It's pink, as you can see ...
Ain't a'gonna keep a gal
From nuthin' that may be."

"Oh yeah?" that cowboy said to me,
"What's colored chew to do
With ridin' for this Brand you hired
On with me to do?"

"What's colored chew to do with nuthin'?
That ya gotta ask?
Can't ya see that I am chewin'
Tool for my task?"

With that his gnarled brow unfurled;
His eyes popped open wide.
The fact his education lackin',
Purdy hard to hide.

Always be an unsolved mystery,
Long as I shall live,
Why their papas failed those fellas;
No pink chew to give.

Then I stop and think a minute;
Maybe they don't know?
Didn't pay no 'tention to
Those "fixin's" where they'd go?

Guess if yer a fella with
Big hat an' cowboy boots,
Wouldn't do much fer that ego;
Pink chew in cahoots?

All us gals that gotta wrangle
Fer our grub or fix
Everything in sight without
A fella know some tricks.

We ain't got muscles bulgin' from
The torn sleeve of our shirt;
Like we ain't got no one waitin'
To wash out the dirt.

Much too often we ain't got
A tool in our gear
T' fix whatever's broken when
The tool shed ain't near.

If a gal when growin' up
Had gramma 'round like mine,
Weren't none of that stoppin' any
Gal ... not any time.

A little pink ain't never hurt
A broken ranch, no time;
It don't make no matter if
It's only size of dime.

Amazin' what a thumbnail-size,
Sticky chew that's pink,
Can fix in a hurry so's
A gal can take a drink.

It's handy 'cause it's always there;
Close enuff to grab;
If ya use a hairpin with it,
Only need a dab.

Single thing comparin' when
Stacked against 'em all,
Be a roll of balin' wire,
Rolled up in a ball.

Cowboys they been usin' burlap
Bags and balin' wire
Ever since the first one of 'em
Rode a ranch fer hire.

Sad, however, when ya read
Tales of yesterday.
I ain't never seen no mention,
What gramma would say.

She'd say "Girl, when you roll hair
Underneath yer hat,
Never fail to use those hairpins;
Know just where they're at.

" An' it's a good thing to remember
Burlap ... balin' wire;
Those are handy tools when
Ya ride a Brand fer hire.

"But never once, no matter WHAT,
Leave pink chew on table!
Gotta have that handy fixin'
Everything yer able."

Let them cowboys ridin' range
So choose to be so dumb.
But I ain't never leavin' camp
Without my bubble gum.

..... a musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2003 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


It's that GOBBLE GOBBLE time of year!

As usual, the note Rose Mary sent with her poem is worth excerpting:

Rose Mary is full of poetry, and even her notes that accompany her poems are in verse.  Here's some of what she wrote with this one:

I do suppose yer startin' thinkin',
Now this time of year,
About those "Happy Holidays,"
With all that so-called "Cheer?" 

Well, if that's true then it's high time
I sent you off this note
For your consideration 'bout
Those feathered friends I wrote.

'Cause just this mornin', break of day,
I tried once more to teach
Those silly gobbles what each year
To them I always preach. 

So if yer willin' - know yer able! -
Do help out their "cause." 
They need your help from now till after
"Here comes Santa Claus."


It's that GOBBLE GOBBLE time of year!

There is a misty moisty air
That has moved in to stay.
But how I know that winter's comin'?
Watchin' turkeys' day!

Those silly birds are wild and sassy,
Get no grub that's free,
But when there's winter on the way
They come right home to me!

This is a problem, don't ya know,
Since many wish to kill
'Em off and pluck their feathers out,
Not wantin' just a quill.

'Cause if that feather's all they want
There's many on the ground
And all a person has ta do
Is walk and look around.

I've never told a single soul
I gobble gobble back
'Cause 'bout the time that word gets 'round
They'll know the brains I lack!

But long as folks are bound to eat
Those silly birds each year
I'm tryin' to teach 'em to hide
From all that happy "cheer"!

It's bad enough, or so I think,
Their feathers in demand
For headdresses and costumes made
Throughout their own homeland.

But when this nation celebrates
Thanksgivin' with a bird,
I worry turkey generations
Ain't out spreadin' word!

How is a baby gobble gobble
S'possed to be on guard
If Grandpa Turkey ain't done told him
To stay out of yard?

It ain't me that's got a shotgun
Aimed right at their head;
And it ain't aimed at turkey feathers,
Other end, instead.

And I got signs along the road
But seems too often those fly off
Like dried out autumn leaf.

Don't people know those purdy turkeys
Don't grow crops all year?
They never even harvested
When Pilgrims landed here.

I just don't know why celebrations
Every holiday
Are not complete without a turkey,
Even Christmas Day.

You'd think those folks would rather give
Thanks in November for
The fact some turkeys did survive
That silly ol' folklore.

But NO, they gotta pound upon
My front door every year
With bullets in their shotguns and
A voice that smells like beer.

And then there's those who will just crawl
Under my wire fence
Without a thought that they might need
Those guns for their defense.

'Cause I've got Sheriff on speed-dial,
Just waitin' for my call.
Each year those jail cells are full
Of hunters that he'll haul.

I've just about got all those turkeys
To sit in a ring
In my front yard to listen closely,
Lectures that I sing.

They seem to pay attention more
If every other word
Is "gobble gobble" interspersed
With that advice they heard.

But I ain't got 'em trained just yet;
Thanksgivin' much to near.
'n on the heels of that grand day
There's all that Christmas Cheer.

So guess I've got to be dependent
Once again on YOU:
It's least that you can do.

... a musing from the West by ROSE MARY ALLMENDINGER

© 2004 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Will the Winter Ice Creak All the Way to the Bank?

Spring ain't yet sprung and the winter ice creaks
Underfoot like the springs on the old wagon's seats.
When the snow is so dry you can shovel with broom,
After drought that dry-ice will spell nothin' but doom.
One wonders if daffodils later will sprout;
If heavy Spring rains will come later, break drought.
One wonders if sod underfoot is all dead;
If damagin' weed seeds so thick will have spread.
One wonders if dollars can buy all the feed
To cover the ribs of the critters in need.

One wonders when banker from town will appear
To load and haul off all those critters so dear.
One also must wonder if banker himself
Has that many dollars of his on his shelf.
One wonders, now one starts to think about that,
How banker would cope if he looked while he sat
In his chair and out window he saw truck arrive,
Unloadin' each critter all runnin', alive.
In many states there ain't no law to "fence in";
Supposed he would hope they'd all stayed where they'd been?

'Cause guess, now I think of it, he'd have to take
Each one of them critters for loan that he'd make.
He sure couldn't gripe if delivered to lot
Where he stores them pick-ups and cars that he's got.
It ain't gonna be any fault of my own
If he ain't got no fence to circle them bones.
And bones they will be if no money for feed
'Cause some banker's stealin', got nothin' but greed.
If you cain't convince him, confuse him it is.
The time will have come to make all critters his.

I've looked and for life of me I sure cain't find
A clause in that Note that delivery defines.
Don't say nowhere in there that I cain't just dump
Those suckers in his lot behind that speed bump.
If banker owns and can ride a good horse
Then roundin' up critters he can do, of course.
Protectin' what he calls collateral now
Sure will be easy if banker knows how.
If he needs some help then I'm sure he would pay
At least just as much as his interest each day.

'Course just one day's interest won't be for one cow.
'Least that sure ain't how my ol' pencil adds now.
Just maybe might be for one hair at a time,
Which way I am figurin' ain't no thin dime.
Suspect by the time that herd gathered, contained,
That banker just might wish that he had remained
As friendly as ads that he runs every week
Solicitin' those needin' money they seek.
Heard tell somewhere once ain't a good thing to do
To promise a smile if yer gonna sue.

Suppose when that banker sat down with his pen
To write his life history about where and when
There might be one paragraph, maybe one more,
Describin' adventures with critters at door.
He might tell the story, his nightmare might tell;
The one when he woke up with one mighty yell.
He might then have ordered a fence like you see
Surroundin' those crooks that have robbed you and me.
Seen barbed wire there that's put only on top
In a roll that will jab every crook it will stop.

It's made for a crook who escapes, dark of night.
But sure looks to me would keep cows in his sight.
Hind sight is thing triggered by fence that ain't.
That fence that he wished had been there when we cain't
Pay off that Note, he gets what he deserved.
Might then be wishin' steak on platter, served.
But here I have gone gettin' head of the weather,
Which is turnin' point as to when and to whether
Banker or me owns my critters come Spring.
Daffodils sproutin' would be a good thing.

Much rather see flowers, all purdy and yella,
Than have to go talk to that ol' banker fella.
Whether he knows it or not he'd be glad
That him 'n his banker pals ain't made me mad.
So just for the sake of those critters and me,
Will wait now for Spring when we'll see what will be.
My knees are all calloused, as much as my palm,
From askin' the Lord for more moisture come dawn.
Got ear plugs I bought when I last went to town
To keep all that ice creakin' noise turned down.

That seems to be all I can think now to do.
Trust in the Lord to feed too.

... a musing from the West by ROSE MARY ALLMENDINGER

© 2005 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

As we've said in the past, Rose Mary is full of poetry, and when Bucky asked he what inspired this poem, the answer came back like this:

Oooooooo-my, dear Bucky!  Do you not yet know not to ask ME a question like that?

But since you asked ... you SHALL be told:
  Ah, yes it was certainly day with dry ice,
  Cloudy and dreary with nuthin' that's nice.
  Wintertime moisture went 'round me, not here;
  Threatenin' sod and the things I hold dear.
  I sat at the desk and I looked out thar yonder ...
  (Remember how often my brain seems to wander?)

  If sumpthin' is worse than dry ice with no sun
  It's owin' a banker ~ now that ain't NO fun.
  So mind on its "wander" just happened to think
  How much a banker might happen to drink
  If he looked out his window one day and he got
  A truck load of livestock unloaded on lot!

  What you don't know, Bucky, is I got a streak
  As wide as a wagon in me that ain't "meek"!
  I've never had cause and I hope that I don't,
  But if it should happen don't think that I won't!
  Too often those bankers with desks in the town
  Could use a good "startle" to bring their feet down.

  So "wandering" mind blazed a trail that day ...
  Results I am sendin', this poem sent your way!
  And should that occasion arise when I do
  Load up these critters ~ I'm countin' on YOU!
  We'll pull that thar trailer right into that lot,
  And see how much "cowboy"  that banker has got!

  So read it and tell me if you get a grin ...
  Or only a worry 'bout where NOW I've been!



Fat 'n pink ... 'n his name is Max!

He's fat 'n pink 'n carried in the center of my heart;
It's rare or never me 'n him are ever far apart.
We'd never met at all 'cept for a fella with blackheart;
Some fella who was mean and sure cain't be considered smart.
On t'other hand he did provide me with my pink sweetheart;
The one who's come to always be my precious counterpart.
I'd lost a fat 'n black 'n was then ready to restart,
To fill that empty seat around the table in my heart.
The Blackheart who threw out my fat 'n pink is set apart
With others like him by the gates of Hell when they depart.
The Devil will be waitin' there, hot kisses to impart.
With any luck at all he'll sit and scorch his underpart.

There ain't no cause at all for lowly scoundrel, roustabout,
To roll his window down and throw my fat 'n pink one out.
He weren't no rotten garbage or some moldy sauerkraut;
If you could see him now you'd know that's true, without doubt.
But little fat 'n pink ain't able, didn't have the clout,
To grab the steering wheel and drive that pickup on this route.
'N when he hit the ground it musta hurt; he couldn't shout.
There musta been a bunch of coyotes havin' a cookout,
Which drove my fat 'n pink to me to find a safe hideout.
And that, my friends, was how I found this heartthrob, so devout;
I found him in my driveway where he'd come, was freakin'-out.
That was beginnin' of my lesson:  what love's all about.

It takes a tender soul, you know, to love without regret.
Perhaps my fat 'n pink knew if he gave then he would get.
Too many know the time it takes for one to say they met
Another livin' soul who snuggles, gives those kisses, wet.
"Ah, ha!", you say; I hear you now as you read print that's set.
"Why would you want those sloppy kisses that you cain't forget?"
"And why," you ask, " Especially from a pink that's heavyset?"
All of which would speak, I guess, to fact you ain't upset
To be deceived by some two-legged critter, kissed on bet?
I'm also here to tell ya that my fat 'n pink don't sweat;
Not when he's out buildin' fence or dancin' to cassette.
By time a day is over I don't care he's not brunette.

Sometimes my fat 'n pink has got to ride on pickup seat,
Since that Blackheart that dumped him caused him to have crippled feet.
His front legs, they ain't all that straight; but now he's here to eat
I give him what he needs the most to make him an athlete.
He works all day, he smiles at me; he ain't got no conceit.
I'm here to tell ya that's sure got most of two-legged beat.
'N most of them ain't never been thrown out upon the street
To tackle all those scary nights they might be bound to meet.
And they ain't had no wild coyote bitin' on their seat.
So when the tale is told to end that Blackheart gave me treat;
He gave me fat 'n pink to love, to make my life complete.
There just ain't any livin' creature that could be as sweet.

My fat 'n pink works cattle and he's known as a "cowdog";
Some people call him "red" but he's as pink as any hog.
Around his middle there's "blue saddle" where he's round as log.
He's just the kind you'd order from the front of catalog.
No matter what the task at hand, he is a vital cog;
His eyes are always smilin' and he always is agog.
He's never overwhelmed by duplications, a backlog.
Enthusiasm perseveres in rain or snow or fog.
But if I ever find that Blackheart, won't be dialogue;
Will be the day he'll learn from me no dog is "just a dog".
He'll rue those lessons went unlearned at church or synagogue;
Will be the final chapter in that Blackheart's travelogue.

... a musing from the West by ROSE MARY ALLMENDINGER

© 2005 Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Dear one-&-all ~ and Bucky too,


... and so goes the world around me;

Hot and dry and burnt.

Ain't much left here now to rescue.

Lessons to be learnt.

Lesson one:  do not be reckless

With the things-of-Heart.

Lesson two: those things-of-Head

Should govern what you start.

Lesson three: -of-Heart and Head,

-Of-pocketbook become,

Which often is deciding vote

To which we must succumb.


And I ain't seen a single drop

Of WET in more than year;

WALLS of dirt are blowing now

Throughout my ranch, so dear.

I'm hunting hard for homes to find;

Each beast must move their hooves.

Lush meadows used to stare at me

Now barren, cut in grooves.


Seems like only yesterday,

Though thirty-two years gone,

Since I drove through the gate and promised

Care with every dawn.

But now I have to tell the Lord

Without His help I'm dry.

Ain't got no sprinkler without His;

Can't stop wind goin' by.


Were I drinkin' woman I'd

Be leaned up to a tree

Not wishin' to be cognizant

Of all in front of me.


But "Such IS Life," I'm known to say,

When Life exceeds my reach.

So guess it's far past time to learn

What lessons Life will teach.


Assuming, of course, that a person can figure out whathah*ll they ARE. 


While I'm workin' on that I share with you:


Good night, dear Heart

. . . as we part . . .


 She tucked the children into bed;

Four-legged, one and all.

She’d never had the nerve to tell ‘em

What she feared last Fall.


But now that Spring had sprung once more

Without a lick of rain,

She knew that all she saw around her

Finalized disdain.


How many nights she’d spent on knees

With ever-growin’ pain

In every joint, calluses,

Prayin’ for that rain.


But now she knew this Wicked Witch

Of South and North and West

Must finally tuck her children in,

And leave with all the rest.


For with the Spring had come the winds.

No greater had she seen.

The only use to make of ‘em:

Motorize Ms. Mean.


So long ago the motor on

Her vacuum hit the skids,

Refusin’ ever or again

To journey ‘round her kids.


No longer could she plug it in

To tour all she knew

By ridin’ it around the ranch

Up in the sky of blue.


That said, and coins so limited,

She needed wind to ride

Into the sun or ‘round the moon,

To disappear and hide.


She’d walked a million miles in

Those many years without

That vacuum when not functionin’

So she could ride about.


But now she knew that she must go

Behind the closet door

And find the broom she’d ridden ‘fore

That vacuum bought at store.


The winds that were so strong and swift

Would carry her afar.

As she left her dreams would vanish

Through the door, ajar.


So when the mornin’ sun would rise,

Her kids woke for day,

No longer would they wonder why

She’d never gone away.


And if they noticed dreams were gone,

They, too, had flown the coop,

Perhaps some other witch’s dream

Would then have closed the loop.


For if the rumbles of the wind

Were true with words it spoke,

Those winds would blow across the concrete

When those kids awoke.


It would be only moments ‘fore

Those kids would find a home,

In spite of fact it would not be

Where deer or elk might roam.


And who’s to say, so said The Witch,

While huntin' for her broom,

That they’d not like the cage they’d have,

A stall they’d call their room.


For, after all, those floors are padded;

Ain’t no rock, no weed.

They’d never have to once again

Go graze to find their feed.


They’d never have to ever run

Another hill or dale.

They’d never have to hunt a blade

Of grass so they’d prevail.


So as she tucked 'em into bed

And kissed 'em on the cheek,

She headed for the closet where

She’d find the broom she’d seek.


It bothered her to move the spider

From its woven home,

But with the vacuum out of sorts

She’d need that broom to roam.


She’d not need then to worry ‘bout

A gust of wind to start

Her trip into the darkness as

She started to depart.


It’s well-known fact that folks like her,

The Wicked of the West,

Can always find another haven

Just to stop and rest.


It’s also well-known fact, of course,

When mother leaves her brood

There never is a haven that

Will do much for her mood.


So those who know the most about

The ways of Wicked Witch

Would also know she’d ride that broom

As mount and never switch.


When one horizon went behind

Another would appear.

Winds would keep that broom a’flyin’

From those kids so dear.


For if the ways of witches told

For centuries in the past,

Have a lick of truth within ‘em

Witches always last.


They do not die a silent death

In bed with kids they love.

They do not die when fallin’ off

A broom they fly above.


It’s said they only petrify

As Heart turns into stone.

It’s said the Hope they harbored there

Goes off to die alone.


  . . . a musing from the West by Rose Mary Allmendinger

© 2006, Rose Mary Allmendinger
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.




Read Rose Mary Allmendinger's commentary about the fires and drought of 2002 here, including her poem, The Old Barn ..... wood ...

See Rose Mary Allmendinger's Dear Santa, posted with Holiday 2001 poems (and repeated in 2002).



About Rose Mary Allmendinger:

There was an ole lady who lived on a ranch; horses and cows she adored.
Wrote silly rhymes to avoid prosecution; jail and nut-housed abhorred.
That purpose they've served this ole lady for now; future is not yet for sure.
So read and enjoy if you're of such mind; if not ... just try to endure!!!



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