of Utah
recognized for his poem
Midnight on the Kaibab
Below:
Midnight on the Kaibab
Ol' Taupe
Becky O'
Cowboy Poetry Competition
A Cowboy Poem
Reel vs. Real Cowboys
Reflections
Fire
Wealth
Poetic Stimulation
Western Legends Roundup
New Year's Resolutions for Cowboy Poets
"Cowboys! Cowboys! Cowboys!" (prose)
Prestige
Comfort First
Mornin' Songs
"Sure Fire" Signs
The Reminisce
My Pal Gus
About Sam A. Jackson:
"Everyone should leave some sign of having passed this way!" With that in mind, at age 64, Jackson began his writing by documenting some of his early life's experiences in rhyme. As that material gradually dried up, looking for other story sources eventually moved him on through the entire spectrum of western life, writing about such diverse subjects as Geology of the Rockies; Old Barns; building fences; Steam engines, "Molly Cule," (the life cycle of a drop of water); even development of a fictional character called Captain Baaa-a-a-d who saves baby animals from predators and other acts of valor as he dons his cape and mask to fight pastoral evil. He calls his work "Western Verse" rather than using the more restrictive title of "Cowboy Poetry."
As well as reciting at numerous poetry gatherings throughout the West, Sam has produced several shows and competitive events. He organized a group of cowboy poets calling themselves Dogie Wranglers who, under a grant from Idaho Commission on the Arts, each year visit rural schools to teach and encourage students in the field of Cowboy Poetry. His latest venture has been to produce the world's one and only "Cowboy Poetry Rodeo" held annually in the heart of Canyon Country at Kanab, Utah. "Excellence through Competition" being the central theme.
We asked Sam why he writes Cowboy Poetry and he replied:
I write Cowboy Poetry primarily for sheer enjoyment of the accomplishment. Secondly, it is a means of communication that gives me my "best shot" of relating my life's experiences, historical themes and an outlet for my imagination
We asked Sam about his inspiration for "Midnight on the Kaibab" and he replied:
So as not to be confused with the "average bears," my wife and I spent the 1999, turn of the century, Christmas holidays at a line cabin on the Judd ranch near the Kaibab plateau on the Arizona strip. One clear, cold, starry evening, I came across a dusty old journal written by the original homesteader, Zadoc Judd. Although this poem's story comes from my own imagination, the old cowboy's journal lit the spark.Visit Sam Jackson's web site.
Sam's book, Wild and Woolly Western Verse and other Sagebrush Yarns was published in July, 2004. Read more about it below.
You can email Sam. Here's his award-winning poem:
Midnight on the KaibabIt's the last day of December,
year is eighteen ninety nine,
nearin' midnight on the Kaibab Plateau.
T'was a night to long remember
'midst those ponderosa pine,
Listen up and hear this tale of long ago!
It started as a whisper,
down the ridge just to the West.
A subtle sound, near toneless to the ear.
The pitch climbs higher, crisper,
like a Mountain Cat possessed,
to noise I figure sure the rocks can hear.
Well--I'm sittin' in my cabin,
had just finished up a chore,
figures how I'd best be seein' what's about.
Just about the time I'm grabbin'
fer the handle of the door,
froze with wonder as I heard the lusty shout:
"I'm a rippin', roarin', twister!
I'm a thundergustin' gale!
Eats a cyclone fer m' breakfast every day!
I'm a canyon digger, mister!
I can spit out rain and hail!
All the hills lay flat that dare get in my way!"
Hangin' just above the clearin'
is a dark hellacious cloud,
with an ugly vortex spinnin' 'round and 'round.
From its gut the voice comes searin',
boomin' clear and cannon loud,
usin' tones that stir vibrations in the ground.
"Zadoc Judd!! I'm hearin' stories--
yer the man that does it all--
You'z the roughest, toughest, Waddie on the strip!!
Well, I'll tells ya what, b'gories;
If you'd dare to take my call,
step astride Ol' Twister, take a little trip!
If ya rides him to the whistle
then you wins the "Futures Purse,"
an' I shows ya what awaits next hundred years.
If ya ends up eatin' thistle
well-ya gets the "Cosmic Curse" --
herdin' stars instead'a punchin' bally steers!
When the dust had settled, mostly,
and some noise had died away,
sets an ancient soul astride a monster Jack.
His appearance small and ghostly
gets me thinkin'; "Judgment Day??"
then I sees an Indian saddle is his tack.
Now, I've never scared too easy,
and not often prone ta brag,
says; "Old man I'll take yer challenge, that's a bet!"
Then at risk of soundin' 'breezy,'
adds; "I'll straddle that old nag,
heck, I'll buck'em out and never break a sweat!"
"Well now cowboy, fetch yer riggin',
Climb aboard and earn yer pay!
You'd do well ta set yer jaw 'fore getting' on!
That first jump'll be a biggin',
out towards the Milky Way,
Fer the 'cocky' that's the one that gets'em gone!"
There's a natty lookin' smile
floats across the weathered face
as he holds a blindfold o'er the critters' eyes.
Swingin' on in usual style,
snugs my knees fer 'just-in-case',
"Let-'er-buck!! and YO!! we're headin' fer the skies!!
Boys, with no exaggeration,
I can tell you peelers that:
T'was the highest jump a man will ever see.
Down below's the Indian nation
spinnin' under where we's at--
I'm a spurrin', yellin', WAHOOOO-look at me!!!
Though that first one kept me busy,
out the corner of my eye,
there's Ol' Taurus breathin' fire an' kickin' dirt.
For a second, wonders; "is he
my new neighbor in the sky?"
Then some 'twistin' brings me back to full alert.
Touchin' down just South of Zions,
humps his back an' brays an' snorts!
He ain't used ta baggage stickin' to his back!
We go bustin' past some Lions,
Leos' den's around these parts?
Got the rhythm now, I's glued to this ol' Jack!
Now I feels him start ta coilin' up
the springs in all four legs.
and I'm thinkin' this could be his biggest blast.
As rocks and dirt come boilin' up
from hoof-tipped powder kegs,
Still aboard, but kinda hope this jump's the last!
Just a speck far down below me
Sinbad country and the Reef.
floatin' high enough to spot the Southern Cross.
That last caper didn't throw me,
with a feelin' of relief,
finally got this critter thinkin' I'm the boss!
With our rodeo behind us, and
so long as we're this high,
might as well take time to do a little tour.
See some wonders that the Masters' Hand
has put here in the sky--
seems I've always had a fancy to explore.
There's ol' "Hercules" of great acclaim,
and "Lepus," giant hare.
Wave hello to "Bootes," the herdsman, as we pass.
Now there's "Pegasus," winged horse of fame,
a givin' us the stare--
(Hey! first time he's seen a cowboy on an Ass)
These allmighty cosmic ranches,
boundary's fenced by gleamin' stars,
sets my mind to think how small our earthly range.
When some comet avalanches
block our trail, we swing past Mars
there I spots a sight that strikes me sort'a strange.
Up ahead, in distant clusters
cowboys whoopin', ridin' hard.
keepin' maverick stars from mixin' with their bunch.
Ropes a swingin', poppin' dusters,
some on foot a'standin' guard--
"Them's the boys Ol' Twister's throwed," would be my hunch.
Well come on ya long eared critter!
time we's headin' back fer camp.
Set us down, I'll let yer partner pay his bet.
Sure won't brand you as no quitter
fact; at buckin' you's a champ!
with a gait as easy ridin' as they get.
As we glides in fer a landin'
there's some wonder on the face
of the feller that Ol'Twister knows as "Boss."
You could tell the way he's standin'
this had triggered some disgrace,
as he grumbles' "It's our first time fer a loss!"
From within a traveled buckskin poke
he lifts a glowin' stone,
gestures I should come and gaze into its light.
Warns me: "Nothing seen can 'er be spoke
of wonders you'll be shown-
as they'll never be recalled beyond this night."
The brilliant light begins to fade,
then dims to lanterns glow.
I rub my eyes and set up in the chair.
Some kind'a dream! A real charade!
A cosmic rodeo!
Me tourin' 'round the Heavens?? I declare!!
I step out in the winters night
and look up at the stars.
Fer quite a spell, just watch'em sweepin' 'round.
To wonder if some fellers might
be grazin' beef on Mars?
Then fetched from cosmic musings by a sound!
It rings a faint familiar tone,
like something heard before,
I lay it to the wind caressin' pine.
Or, Lobo, tired of life alone,
sings out from canyon floor?
Then mystic words are blended with the whine!!
"I'm a rippin', roarin', twister!
I'm a thundergustin' gale!
Eats a cyclone fer ma breakfast every day!
I'm a canyon digger, mister!
I can spit out rain and hail!
All the hills lay flat that dare get in my way!!"
Ain't sure if I should laugh, or cuss
at this creative hearin'?
seems my ears is twistin' winds to spoken sound!!
But things become less humorous
as daybreak lights the clearin'--
and mule tracks come a starin' from the ground!!
So, even now on cloudless nights
I'll look into the sky,
and smile a bit at constellations' gleam.
To wonder; if those starry lights
that's slowly trailin' by--
are drovers movin' herds? or just a dream??
© Sajac '00
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Ol' TaupeMy "YELP" was more from scare, than hurt,
but when I tried to run,
'hind' quarters hugged the rocky dirt.
Just nipped the colt in fun!
Her primal instinct sent the hoof
to strike it's glancing blow.
I dragged myself from out her reach
then heard the call from Joe-
"Heah Taupe! heah Taupe! You wayward soul,
That mare is mean as sin.
She sees you messin' with her foal
will damned sure do you in!
Come on ol' pup, let's hit the trail,
sun's still an hour high.
We'll race to camp, the first one in
gets all the lemon pie"!
I raised my shoulders, dug in claws,
boy, movin's quite a chore!
I'll get to Joe, he'll fix me up,
just like he has before.
"Heah Taupe!, Heah Taupe! now where you at?
Come on, we got'ta get!
Quit playin' games ya ugly cuss,
we got no time fer it"!
Joe rides around the pinyon tree,
see's me a layin' there.
"Taupe!", says he, "get up! let's go!
ya gave me quite a scare"!
Steps off his bay, when I don't stand,
kneels down, then says; "Dear God!
His ruddy face turns ashen gray,
then with a heart sick nod,
lays me across the saddle
swinging quickly up behind.
Ain't sure just where we're goin' but-
o let me ride is kind.
Probably to the Vets, I'd guess,
like when that ornery snake;
scared me and I nipped its tail-
turned out one big mistake!
We've been good pals since we wuz pups,
been through both thick and thin.
Partners, come it rain or shine,
where I go you'll see him.
Oh, he'll get mad and cuss me some
when things don't go just right.
A tail wag un sheepish grin
will usually end the fight.
I've helped him out a time or two:
I'll not forget the day,
that 'she bear' had him up a tree-
I chased her clean away.
Dogs ain't supposed to understand
the workins' of mans mind.
Life's "whys-and-wheres" , its "hows-and-whens",
are settled by his kind.
I've never seen him quite like this,
a tear is on his cheek.
Can't figure what's a botherin' him,
there's water in the creek!
And plenty grass has growed this spring,
the calves are good and fat-
The heifers brought good price last week!
don't think it's none o'that?
The ridge top's layin' just ahead.
Now why'd we come up here?
Joes ties the bay, then sets me down,
sure'nuff, he's actin' queer?The rifle glints from setting sun
while sliding from its boot.
A hundred times I've heard its roar
and cringe as Joe would shoot!
Hey! now I've got it figured out;
We're here to find some game.
We're short on grub fer supper-
won't take long, he's got good aim!
I usually help him with this chore,
jump rabbits fer his sight.
Today my tail won't even wag,
but heck- he'll do alright.
And I'll be feelin' better soon,
he'll fix things, wait and see--
The rifle muzzle swings around---
Joe?? ---Joe, why's it aimed at me???
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Becky 'O
There were no horses in North America prior to the Spaniards bringing them in the 16th century. Today's wild horses are descendants of the Spanish animals who strayed, and through inbreeding over the years, we have today's Mustangs. On occasion you will run across a 'throw-back' that seems to have many of the traits of the original 'blooded' equines. This story is about one of them, a mustang mare caught wild on Utah's West desert in the 1940's, who spent most of her life blind in one eye, but a truly outstanding saddle mare. Her name was Becky O'--- 'A Throw-back-from-Castile'!
Aye! Becky'O, yer a fancy hoss.
Got an easy gait, never throwed the boss.
Top hand in spite of yer seein' loss;
This Ode sings praise to you!
On the western Utah desert, in the north of the needles range,
stands a rise of rock called 'Mountain Home,'
an awesome place where the mustangs roam,
where grass grows tall in the sandy loam,
and today we ride that trail.
We're an hour out as the shadows break
from pitch black dark to a gray opaque,
we've a long tough ride this day to make,
through the trees and slick-rock shale.
Now, Becky 'O is the mare I ride,
has a 'cat-dimmed' eye on the 'git-on' side,
best danged Cayuse I've been astride.
She's a gen-u-ine 'broomtail!I reminisce as we climb the grade,
o'er the well worn path ancient hooves have made,
past the crumbled walls of the palisade.
Hello'd by a coyotes wail.
Our journey ends where the trees stand bare,
near the wind blown ledge of the Pumas' lair,
where there ain't no eyes but our own to stare
at the grassy, sheltered swale.
I'll be leavin' Becky here today,
on this high plateau where she used to play,
just slip the rope-and walk away.
Her reward for life's travail.
She'll cast her lot with a broomtail band,
feel the desert wind, roam the pinyon land,
then per-chance cavort with the stallion, and-
who knows what could prevail?
Aye! Becky'O, yer a fancy hoss,
got an easy gait, never throwed the boss,
how'd you come about this seein' loss?
I remember-Here's the tale:
Ridin' by this spot some years ago,
came across the blood stains in the snow,
where a buckskin mare lay dead, and so-
There's a misery I could feel.
T'was a cougar's kill I'd found that day,
swallered down his fill then sulked away,
now a colt stands near the spot she lay.
Sure to be the cat's next meal!But a shadow moves, and a subtle roar!
then my rifle speaks as I softly swore;
"Kitty cat you're prey, I'm the predator"!
When I hear that filly squeal!
It's a feeble charge, but she's snortin' fire,
stepped aside, What spunk! that I do admire,
I'm the good guy, Colt! we should both aspire
to work ourselves a deal.
When she reared and turned her head I saw,
one eye's been scratched by the lions claw,
bet yer boots she's tried to help her maw!
She's a throwback from Castile!
Aye! Becky'O, yer a gutsy wrang,
and the name seems right fer a "she" mustang,
from an old, old, song that my Daddy sang,
'bout a Lass named Beck' O'Neal.
Though my ropin' skills ain't a sure-fired bet,
dusted off my old hemp lariat,
made a dozen throws-and I'd be there yet-
if it wasn't fer ol' Taupe.
That shaggy dog see's I'm needin' help,
so he heels the colt with a growl and yelp,
mean enough to spook that little whelp,
My horse her only hope.
Well, I grabbed her tail so she couldn't go,
with the other hand made a 'classy throw'
then the three of us did a do-se-do-
in the tangle of the rope!
My horse ain't sure what it's all about,
fer a tiny thing that colt's sure stout!
just who caught who's still in some doubt!
hi-tailin' down the slope.
That all took place in the days of old,
we're retired now and the ranch is sold,
wouldn't trade that mare fer a sack 'o gold,
She's grazin' wild brome.
Bye! Becky'O, ya was a fancy hoss,
ya had an easy gait, ya never throwed the boss,
today your gain's my greatest loss--
Our last ride brings you home!
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
(Jim "Curly" Musgrave recently put this to music.)
Cowboy Poetry CompetitionSo--The wife and yer mama and paid hired hand
all tell ya; "yer rhymin' is good!!"
Insist that on stage "the performance is grand!
jist don't get applause that ya should."
Perhaps folks are lazy? Or clap with one hand?
or deaf in the ear, ya suppose?
Or maybe, just maybe, they live in town-and,
don't quite understand cowboy prose?
Whatever the problem, ya might wonder how
your stuff will stack up against peers,
That invite that came in the mail just now
says; "Join competitions pioneers".
America's built on this kind of a thing.
Competition has helped make it great.
Excellence our goal, perfection is king,
objectives the wise advocate.
Just put up your money, then ride each event,
a 'rodeo' it's bein' called,
and if ya gets throwed, only ego is bent,
so least ways, yer body ain't mauled.
Prize money's paid, there's enhances the fun,
and goes to each high scorin' ride,
and last, but not least, for year, 'triple ought one'
come braggin' rights---all certified.
So get on yer hoss, rein his head to the West,
let's see where you stand in this crowd.
Come show'em who's boss, and who ranks second best-
regardless, you'll walk away proud!
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A Cowboy Poem
I'd like to write a 'Cowboy Poem'
but there's some skills that I
must first have firmly in my mind
before I 'versify'.
A poem is how we might express
to others how we feel,
about our dreams, our schemes, our thoughts,
though fanciful or real.Writing helps our spelling and
vocabulary grows.
It also gives our minds a rest
from livings cares and woes.
'Poetic License', is a term
that many think is great,
it gives us due permission so
we may exaggerate.
There's many patterns can be used
when writing verse or prose.
Most 'cowboy' stuff is metrical,
sounds better, I'd suppose.
To rhyme, the words must sound the same,
as do both cot and draught.
Although appearance differs much
their spelling matters not.
Yes, ate and bait and straight all rhyme.
Two words can rhyme with one;
as kick it goes with thicket, see-
how rhymin' can be fun?
There's many words that look alike
with spelling near the same,
when carefully sounded out you'll see
to rhyme they have no claim.
Important are the syl-la-bles,
those units of a word,
let's keep them constant in each line
so rhythm can be heard.
A 'couplet' is two lines that rhyme
some poets use them all the time-
but if you start a poem with one-
keep with it 'till your story's done!
There's other rules we must learn
when writing western verse.
Use words the way you usually talk,
just as you would converse.
Don't write a sentence backwards just
to make the last word rhyme
as; "We are on a hike today
and up the hill we climb,"
Our teachers spend unselfish years
to teach us how to speak-
Then 'Cowboy Poets' come along
with words and sounds unique.
We're prone to use some 'lazy talk,'
most Western people do.
Leavin' of some endin' "g's,"
and sayin' "ya'll" for "you."
But shucks, don't fret about that none,
we'll write our verse and then-
take off our boots and cowboy hats-
speak good as new again!
So now, my friends, take pen-in-hand
let's get a runnin' start,
commit your thoughts to paper and-
make sure they're from the heart!
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Reel vs. Real Cowboys
To conjure a vision of 'Cowboy'
could carry your mind two ways;
most common's the Hollywood version;
'gun fights 'un adventure filled days'.
Tall, lean, and disgustingly handsome.
Tailor-made shirt on his back.
Sittin' a'straddle, a near silver saddle,
just matchin' the rest of his tack.
His hat is a Johnny B. Stetson,
pure white and at least 30 X.
Engraved in the band, his initials and brand,
and would you believe that it's "Tex" ?
The horse is a story worth tellin',
A high steppin', single foot bay.
That baby will run, 'till the villain is done-
not one drop'a sweat from the fray!His shootin' goes way beyond braggin',
usually one shot and they're done,
Then twirlin' the pistol, gives'em a fistful,
while smilin' as though it were fun.
Can swaller a glass of bar whiskey
without ever makin' a 'face'.
Walks with a swagger, never does stagger.
At poker he draws every ace.
Seldom needs sleep or good victuals.
Knows all'a them cowboy clichés,
and if he gets shot, it's in a good spot!
Back ridin' in just a few days.
When leavin', swings into his saddle,
not usin' the stirrups, of course!
The last look ya gets, is as the sun sets,
he's singin' a song to his horse.
Some swaller this bogus description,
though most view the picture as strange.
Let's look at another, cow punchin' brother,
and follow his day on the range.
Now-- picture this work-a-day feller;
five-eight, and he's built sort'a slight.
Boots decorated with cow-salve,
and clothes that ain't fittin' just right.
His face might'a wore out two bodies.
Hair brings ta mind moldy hay.
a big easy smile, breaks out'a that pile,
"Disguise keeps the gu-rills a-way."
The coat he's a wearin's a 'wonder',
you 'wonder' the source of the thing.
But now you know who, might'a skinned that old ewe,
that died of consumption last spring.
Its sleeves are too long, so he cuffs'em,
a tear has been patched with some twine.
Out front is a juttin', a stick fer the button.
But keeps out the weather just fine.
His horse ain't a whole lot to look at,
sure-footed and smart as an ass.
Turns on a dime, but stops every time,
it comes to a stand of good grass.
The saddle he's sittin' is weathered,
but still sports a good solid tree.
Some stitchin' still loose, from when his cayuse,
hit oaks on account of a bee.
His gun is a rusty old carbine,
scarred stock juttin' out'a the boot.
It's rode a long ways, and seen better days,
with a good chance it won't even shoot.
Says; "Gamblin' don't treat him too kindly,
in fact, nearly caused him a wreck;
Last time he played poker, was caught with a joker,
that weren't s'posed to be in the deck."
Quit drinkin' "hard likker" fer reason,
says; "Beer better matches his wage,
and sometimes that whiskey, would make him so frisky,
they'd keep him in town in a cage"!
Been known to climb into his saddle-
(if no one's behind him ta gawk)
by leadin' his bay, up the trail a way,
then crowdin' in close to a rock.
The last look ya gets at this cowboy;
He's standin' there scratchin' his ---- chin,
a wonderin' how, to clear that ol' cow,
that's in the barbed wire again!
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Poetic Stimulation
I figure to become a famous poet,
and once my mind has set upon a task,
will do my level best as not to blow it,
so-- putting on my best poetic mask-
Saunter down to Barneys Noble book store,
an' ask'em for a book with lots'a word.
"Would a million do sir?" I said "Oh shore
no harm in havin' some that I ain't heard"!
What set me on this rhymesical adventure?
A story in a science magazine!
While at the dentists waiting for my denture,
read all about this 'fixture' in my bean.
"The Brain," it flatly stated, "is the fastus
computer, unskilled labor's ever made.
Compact and cool running so's ta last us
for cogitating in the sun or shade.
Ten billion cells, each one it claims, a storin',
at least two megs of information bits.
Keeps right on hummin', even when we're snorin',
ordains us to be dull, or great poe-its!"
"Ah-ha!" says I, "With such a power factor,
computin' in my head a'while I muse,
I could become a surgeon or an actor,
or even-yes, a poet-- should I choose".
With open book and paper I am started,
but Whoa-this stuff ain't soundin' like it should!
Even when them sylly-bulls are sorted,
the meter and the cadence ain't so good!
It says "Cerebral cortex stimulation
will often set creative juices free".
So-drawing on my recent education-
I figure out what that might do fer me.
Perhaps a 'tich - or - two' of sippin' whiskey?
then if that doesn't cause me to inspire-
at least it might result in getting' frisky,
and sure enough could light some other fire!
Salute!! Oh aqua-vitae, start your charmin'.
I shudder as it sinks into my gut.
The burnin' in my throat is quite alarmin'!
A painful way to stem poetic rut.
With pen-in-hand awaiting mystic glimmer,
a twitching in my eye sets me alert.
Comes next, it seem me brain begins to simmer!
Suffice to say; "no longer I'm inert"!
Carrumba!! Words start flashing through my mind now.
I write one verse in clever metaphor.
If "one" spawns verbal hemorrhage of this kind- wow!
what literary treats, if I sip more?
My pen is drafting words as though some genie's
had just released Bill Shakespeare from a flask.
More stimulation for my dop-a-meenies-
Such brilliant work is now a simple task.
Example? You dare ask for confirmation?
No, dear friend, for I would dare suppose,
that judging from your common occupation,
me thinks your mind's not ready for such prose!
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Cowboy Poets
(of what they write)
They write of the 'old' days, of long ago friends
of horses and dogs they have had.
Of times they were younger, of dreams and pretends,
and stories that tell of their dad.
They write of the mountains and prairies they cross,
with danger a part of each day.
Admit all their trappings might load on one hoss,
as freedom means more than the pay.
They write of the romance and loves set aside,
lost, as they've chosen a life
not privy to luxury and tokens of pride
other men offer a wife.
They write of the everyday hardships employed,
accept them as part of the times,
and tell of some pleasures we've never enjoyed
except through their treasure of rhymes.
They set their adventures to paper with pen,
then with humble parade, pass on.
Another steps forward, starts writing, and then-
overshadows the bard just gone.
By using this measure, they pass on the wit
and wisdom they'd like us to keep.
With noble tradition, they're bound to commit
their stories before they sleep.
© Sajac '02
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Reflections
He was an old man. Over forty, I'd say.
We sat on the porch where we always sat after supper,
he's on the top step, I'm down a couple.
A white paper disc decorated with an engraved bull,
swings from a yellow string hanging out an overall pocket.
It doesn't quite fit the family crest-
Papa raises sheep.
A tug on the bull retrieves a small white cloth bag.
It's label proudly proclaims:
"Genuine Bull Durham Smokin' Tobacco."
Teeth grab the closed top-
Fingers tug the opposite side-
The draw strings slides--It's open!
Tapped gently, the "Durham" spills
into a paper trough shaped by a finger and thumb.
It fills-then stops-
Exactly the right amount! How'd he do that?
Then I wondered quietly; what part of a bull
does this "Durham" really come from?
but didn't ask-only a kid would do that.
Now teeth grip the disc, and with a clever nod
the sack is closed, then tucked away.
The bull-on the disc-on the string-
left hanging out for next time.
The paper with its "Durham" still loaded
is carefully raised, his tongue wets the papers edge,
then in one masterful motion, confirming
"the hand is quicker than the eye," another
Genuine Bull Durham roll-yer-own smoke is born!
A twist of the paper locks one end.
Lips shape, then seal, the other.
Some maverick bits of "Durham"
waiting on the tongue are tasted,
carefully positioned, then-spit-t-t-t away!!
He leans back, winces as he straightens a leg,
mutters, "Damn that gray mare!"
then fetches a match from the overall pocket.
Held firmly against the seat of his pants
it launches on a path worn by a thousand before it
and near the back of the knee-comes away flaming!
I once asked; "Why that way?"
"Well", he replied, "burning sulfur
under the fingernail is painful but-
scratch marks on yer Grandmas' porch is worse!"
A pause rids the sulfur, then held in one hand
habitually cupped against the wind,
the flame touches-paper flares-then glows-
The smoke rings swirls up and out-
Will it lasso my finger? Missed again! it's gone.
A look of amusement, his eyes smile, he pats my shoulder.
I stare with pride and wonderment.
He didn't spill one speck!
Don't know why Grandma won't let him smoke in the house?
Oh well, tonight is the best lookin' smoke we've ever rolled."Papa", I asked in my most grown-up voice,
"when will I be old enough to do that??
© Sajac '98
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
A sultry summers afternoon,
dust devils dance as fools,
as heat waves sculpt a vague mirage
of distant, shallow, pools.
The mountains launch a thunderhead
a dozen miles high,
then gouged by volts, from lightning bolts,
its thunder shakes the sky.
Beyond the ridge, a wisp of smoke
comes rising in the air.
This country's dry, and plants that die,
leave tinder every where.
As would a casual romance bloom,
so fires rise as well,
one spark will grow, beyond a glow,
to flame, then raging hell.
The gusty winds seek out, harass,
then coax each infant blaze
to leave its nest, no longer rest,
go out, begin its graze.
A ridge consumed with callow ease,
to whet the appetite,
finds more to burn, at every turn,
as all but rocks ignite.
Then feeding with the frenzy of
a Grizzly's first spring kill,
extends its bounds, the speed astounds,
in wake-a blackened hill.
Shear size creates the firestorm
from which there's no reprieve.
A forest lost, in holocaust,
robs air from all that breathe.
Now, vacuum powered tentacles
seek out and capture fuel.
Cares not the least, for man or beast,
beware! this thing is cruel!!
Sounds that vent from deep within
this 'devils carousel',
might echo those, I would suppose,
that man will hear in hell.
Flames that belch from canyon depths
belie a dragons breath.
A raptor floats, o'er smoke filled moats,
drawn in by smell of death.
A rabbit darts from cover, though
it fears not from the sky,
but runs to flee, the burning tree,
a will 'to-live' not 'die'!
The hawk will plummet t'ward the prey,
wings tucked and talons drawn,
approaching near, both disappear,
consumed and quickly gone.
At canyons base, a rocky bed,
was yesterday a stream,
now fishes die, as pools dry,
reduced to hissing steam.
Glowing bits of embers fly
on winds spawned of the heat,
to reach ahead, trap those who've fled,
annoyed by their retreat.
Now racing as a freight train might
that has no engineer,
audacious, reckless, daring, bold,
this monster has no fear.
Especially none from likes of man
whose efforts so amuse,
as shovel, axe, and dozer blade,
do little but abuse.
T'was Mother Nature's awesome force
that set the spark aglow,
and only She can change it's course
with rain and winters snow.
For learned man has now allowed
the forests to decay,
not using plants to nurture as
he must in modern day.
thus destroying species that
his efforts sought to save.
Endangered and domestic now-
both lie in common grave.
Whose fault, this great inferno that
destroys and wastes and kills?
Should blame be Mother Natures or-
Mankind's destructive skills?
© Sajac '95
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The herd is nearing bedground, slowly grazing,
dogies bunched and playing on the hill.
Hundreds in their number, how amazing,
by dusk each finds their mother-but they will!
The sounds of night, each echo like no other
join the serenade to end of day.
Blending in their tones with lowing mother,
calling soft to coax the young from play.
One-by-one they heed the call to dinner,
with bellies full now bed down for the night.
Days work done, you count yourself a winner.
Rewarding, this bucolic, tranquil, sight.
The moon is showing o'er the east horizon.
Wind begins to whisper through the trees.
Cactus flowers sweet aroma risin',
drifts across the trail on evenings breeze.
Your pony shakes his head anticipating
rewards that will be his when back at camp;
a nosebag full of oats will be a'waiting,
a rubdown where the saddle's made him damp.
With chores all done you set awhile and ponder.
Roll a smoke and put your cares away.
Though meager wage you're prone to promptly squander-
you wonder how the 'poor-folks' spent their day?
© Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sam writes: "This poem recalls an early June evening, many years ago, at one of our bedgrounds called "Cottonwood Corrals" in the hills a couple of miles above the ranch. It could be a tranquil place this time of day with a small stream making sounds only small streams can make. As dusk turned to darkness, the smell of the night blooming cactus made the evening's ride back to camp a rewarding experience. . . .
Western Legends Round-up
(a cowboy celebration)
This story is told of a city out West,
rich in its trove of historic debris.
A small, friendly town, with a most noble quest--
"Stayin' in touch with how things-used-to-be."
Each Autumn as warm summer days near an end,
memories of earlier times come astir,
then following through on this yesteryears trend,
folks will oblige grand events to occur.
Old legends are gathered from out of the past,
dusted, and polished to sparkle like new.
Events re-enacted, their heroes re-cast,
the "Past" comes alive for the "Present" to view.
The sights and the sounds you are likely to hear
will conjure up visions of much harder times.
See glimpses from life of the hardy pioneer,
hear echoes of history in ballads and rhymes.
So let your mind wander, forget it's today,
pretend to be livin' those days of the past.
Then when comes the morrow, you're likely to say--
"Kanab's Western Legends, shape memories that last!"
© Sajac '03
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sam Jackson is originator, developer, and producer of one of the top annual Cowboy Poetry events: The Cowboy Poetry Rodeo, held in Kanab, Utah, in conjunction with the Western Legends Round-up. Read our feature about the event here.
New Year's Resolutions for Cowboy Poets:
I will modify my creative writing habits in such a manner as to complete one
poem, and edit it at least 100 times, before beginning the next! But if I don't -----------
I will never ask my wife to listen to any partially completed poem that has
absolutely no editing! But If I do---------
It will never be more than just two or three times per day! But if It
is-------
I will put little credence in her comments if any [major] items are pending
on her "Honey-do" list! But If I do-------
I will also, before publishing, have the poem reviewed by at least two hired
hands, one close relative, (having no indication if they are included in my
will) and at least one Pastor who is not soliciting contributions! But if
I don't ---------
I will never allow overly positive feed back to go to my head, thus
preventing me from doing my very best work! But if it does-------
It will not allow it to affect my life style in such a manner as to begin
spending outrageously large portions of the family income for traveling to
cowboy poetry gatherings merely for egotistical purposes! But if I
do----------
I will never become haughty, supercilious or self centered merely because of
audience reaction, standing ovations or compliments from fellow poets, who
might be seeking compliments in return! But if I do---------
I will endeavor to continue to treat my fans, and the "lesser-poets"
surrounding me, with every ounce of the respect due them! But if I don't-------
I will never refuse autographs to the homeless, mentally challenged or
children under the age of four! But if I do--------
It will be with the proper courtesy and an outpouring of regret! And,
last-but-not-least----
I will absolutely never, ever, refuse any reasonable offers from major book
publishers, Hollywood movie studios or TV talk shows, regardless of how busy
my schedule!!!
© Sajac '04
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Cowboys! Cowboys! Cowboys!
by Sheepherder Sam Jackson
Some years back, I attended my first cowboy poetry gathering in St. Anthony Idaho, though liking the general concept of western history (and other assorted stuff) being set to rhyme-- I was quite surprised to learn that the West had been explored, tamed and settled solely, by ... cowboys!
Where I came from, cowboys and sheep men looked much alike--both did their days work on horseback; wore riding boots' kept the weather off their pretty faces with ten gallon hats; smoked Bull Durham; drew about the same wages; and smelled pretty much the same. Why then, so much chatter about one and not the other? My conclusion: movies. Cowboys just got better press! Thus began my "One Shepherd Crusade" to do something about itWe have six ol' cows a grazin' in a pasture near the road,
where they're certain to be seen by passers-by.
Just beyond the hill are grazin' several thousand head of sheep,
by design they're not apparent to the eye.
Folks would never guess by lookin' as they drive a past our place
hid behind that screen of lovely rollin' hills--
stands our "real" source of income, little woolly quadrupeds,
Shore enough, the ones that usually pay the bills.
But if someone were to ask us--at a place away from home;
How we make our livin', just per chance?
Why we'd straighten up our shoulders, look'em right straight in the eye
and proudly state: "We own a cattle ranch!!!"© 2004, Sajac
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.As I began reciting some of my sheep poetry at various "cowboy" poetry gatherings, more and more old bow- legged fellers would approach after the shows, pull me aside, then in a half-embarrassed, whispered voice would say, "Ya know, our outfit started out in the sheep business--might even say that's what got us goin' good." Or, "I used to herd woolies, pretty much enjoyed the work but had to get into the cow business when the price of wool went to hell!"
Although I am personally aware of at least a dozen such ranches in Utah and Idaho, Nevada also has some documentation as well.These excerpts are from Buckaroos in Paradise: Cowboy Life in Northern Nevada, published by the Library of Congress in 1980 and republished as a Bison Book by the University of Nebraska Press in 1981:
Many of the old cattle ranches began as sheep-raising operations. Particularly in the days when cheap, good labor was available, before the federal grazing lands were enclosed and brought under control in the 1930s and before the development of synthetic fabrics, sheep were profitable. Ranches like the Stewarts' 96 (originally the William Stock Farming Company), the Recanzones' Home Ranch, the Millers' 101, and the Pasquale ranch owed at least part of their early success to the sheep industry. The 96 Ranch once ran as many as twelve thousand Merino sheep.
The open-range cattle business glorified and exaggerated in popular fiction, movies, and television shows only flourished for a brief time, from about the end of the Civil War to about 1890.© 2006, Sajac
Comfort First
The older we get, the safer's the bet,
that 'fore we step out in the cold,
We're wearin' some clothes, won't let us get froze,
for comfort we're easily cajoled.Cowpunchin's our trade, but we ain't afraid,
when coziness comes into play--
To cut out the bull, admittin' that wool
outshines cowhide socks any day!© 2004, Sajac, from Wild and Woolly Western Verse
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Read Sam Jackson's
What If? in our Art Spur project
and
The Pack Train(ing) in our Art Spur project
Sam Jackson's poem, "Toast to the Sheepherder," is included in the 2007
Songs and Stories from Sheepherding CD produced by the Western Folklife Center.
A session at the 2007 National Cowboy Poetry Gathering introduced a new Western Folklife Center Deep West Records CD, Songs and Stories from Sheepherding, the impressive result of a project of over five years in the making. The show began with a rollicking, crowd-pleasing performance by Montana's Stan Howe singing his "Norwegian Sheepherder's Ball," which is also included on the CD.
The CD is described by the Western Folklife Center, "Hear the songs, verse and stories of shepherds who came to America to pursue the American Dream, including Scots, Scandinavians, Basques, Greeks, Iris, Mexicans and Peruvians. This historic collection is based on the expressive arts of sheep ranching—the "other" ranching tradition—and is bound to be a collector's item. This CD includes extensive notes, photos and translations to the songs and poems."
The 29 tracks include Sam A. Jackson's "Toast to the Sheepherder." Sam Jackson, who started herding sheep at age 11, comments that "The Songs and Stories from Sheepherding CD "documents the history of a nearly forgotten industry that had much more to do with the successful settling of the west than most folks realize." Also included are selections by J. B. Allen (reciting Curley Fletcher's "Sheepherders Lament"), Rosalie Sorrels, Martin Goicoechea, Della Turner & the Deseret String Band, John "Jake" Fleming, Linda Hussa, Dee Blackburn, Diane Josephy Peavy, Ringling Five, and many others. The CD includes an informative booklet that contains a wealth of background information on each piece.
The Songs and Stories from Sheepherding CD is available from the Western Folklife Center bookstore.
Wild and Woolly Western Verse
and other Sagebrush Yarns
Wild and Woolly Western Verse and other Sagebrush Yarns is full of Sam Jackson's meticulous, always-entertaining poetry. Sam writes "Some of the stories are true, and shouldn't be. Some are not true, but perhaps, should be! All are meant to entertain and enlighten readers to a view of life from the perspective of those spending their lives in the West..." Nearly 70 poems in 166 pages are collected in chapters such as "Frozen Tales," "Poetry for Reflection," "On the Lighter Side," "Scientific Musings" (with pieces such as "Time," "Wind," "Creation" and "Sheepherder Geology") and a first chapter, which shares the book's title. Pages of "poem narratives" include notes and asides on many of the poems. An special feature, an essay, "Writing Cowboy Poetry," explores his wealth of experience on the subject. Those familiar with the annual CowboyPoetry Rodeo -- an event conceived and produced by Sam Jackson -- know his commitment to excellence, and he practices what he preaches. The illustrations, photos, and the cover art are by his talented wife, Renee Budge Jackson.
Read our review here.
Wild and Woolly Western Verse and other Sagebrush Yarns is available postpaid for $14 plus $2.35 first class postage from Sam Jackson, 4675 E. Vermillion Avenue, Kanab, Utah 84741.
And it is:
Read Sam Jackson's essay about Competition among Cowboy Poets here and his essay, Writing Cowboy Poetry.
See Sam Jackson's Where's the What??, Rhymin', and Beyond?, all included with a feature about the Kanab, Utah Cowboy Poetry Rodeo.
See Sam Jackson's Country Christmas in the
collection of Holiday Poems from 2001
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