SHERROD L. FIELDEN
Clifton, Texas
About Sherrod L. Fielden
One of
recognized for his poem, Cowboys Then and Now
Cowboys Then and Now
I noticed him sitting there all alone,
with his chair tilted back against the wall.
Sweat-stained hat and run over boots,
squinted eyes watching the shadows crawl.
Faded blue shirt -- long ago new,
well-worn jeans that had seen better days.
Sweeping the street like a new straw broom --
not much escaped this old fellow's gaze.
I eased on over and introduced myself,
and asked if I could do a little interview.
The old eyes smiled and he said, "Sit awhile,
but I would appreciate a fresh plug of chew."
I stepped inside and bought a couple of cuts
of a brand I thought he might enjoy.
Found myself a chair and pulled up in the shade,
to listen to this old time cowboy.
He said, "Son, I've seen some of the good times
back from when I was still young.
A lot of the best education I've had
was at day's end sittin' on a wagon tongue.
Them old boys could tell some tales
that would charm a young boy's mind,
'bout horses and cows before the land was plowed
and water in the draws was easy to find.
When cattle way out numbered people
and time was important to few.
Your work was done from the back of a horse,
and the crew knew they could count on you.
Now, I've grown old, with tales of my own,
and it pleases me that you want to know
what an old man like me has been a part of
before I fade away in the twilight's glow.
I believe our history should be passed down,
before the dust devils blow it away
and erase the times hidden in my mind
of a different life in a different day.
Long before all the pastures were fenced,
when windmills pumped all the water,
before we had electric pressure pumps
invented by those much smarter.
Before cattle were sold in air-conditioned barns,
crowding alleys and squeeze chutes replaced a rope,
big round bales and four-wheel drive tractors
instead of cowboys and horses at a high lope.
Son, I've seen all that and a whole lot more;
still I wouldn't change it even if I could.
Some say change has ruined it all,
but I say every bit of it was good.
We just keep working like everyone else,
living has always been give and take;
but when you pull your chair up to the table tonight,
remember all us cowboys when you cut that steak."© 2003, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.We asked Sherrod what inspired this poem and he told us: My poem, 'Cowboys Then and Now," came about as do many of my other poems -- just thinking about those old cowboys. We owe the cowboy a huge debt. The old cowboys I knew when I was a young boy taught me a lot about their way of living and a time when a man's word was all that was needed. Observing the changes in the cattle industry during my lifetime, and remembering all those old-time cowboys, I just try to put it into words. There's been a lot of changes, but the end result is they're still producing beef, our main meat staple. With the passage of time there are fewer people who realize the importance of the cowboy and what a hero he has always been."
Payday
Spring round-up is finally over.
We finished the branding today.
We're ready for some relaxation.
Next week we start puttin' up hay.
We're ridin' back to headquarters,
looking like we've been in a war.
Skinned up, dirty and hungry,
every muscle is aching and sore.
Red, he's ridin' beside me.
His lip is still swole up and split.
A big calf we'd flanked for branding
jerked a leg loose and kicked him with it.
His lip spurted blood right quick like,
and mixed with his chaw-backer juice,
mud-pies formed on his cheek bone
as his tear ducts kinda let loose.
But, he'll feel better right soon now,
as he soaks off the blood and dirt,
in that ol' number three washtub.
When you cowboy, you're sure to get hurt.
We're cleaned up and had a good supper --
beef, beans and a big slab of pie.
They feed better here at headquarters,
than at camp out under the sky.
Boss already had our pay laid out;
he knows we earned it, too.
Cowboys and money are pretty much strangers,
except for a day or two.
We've got on our town hats and clean clothes,
the first we've seen for awhile.
We step in the stirrup and head out,
even Red can muster a smile.
There's a social and that's where we're goin'.
Later, we'll try the dance floor.
But, first we best wet our whistles,
'cause that's what paydays are for.
Later on, we'll work our way back home,
as daylight breaks over the plains,
Soak our heads in the water trough and change clothes --
and work till it's payday again.© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Bill Aldrich of Muleshoe, TexasHow legends grow, nobody knows.
There's little regard for truth --
Bonnie and Clyde taking down a bank,
or a home run by Babe Ruth.
The strangest one that I know
completely astounds and perplexes --
about a friend of mine I had one time;
Bill Aldrich of Muleshoe, Texas.
Now, Bill was a quiet, unassuming type,
contrary to how most Texans are seen.
He'd give you the shirt right off the back
of his body, lanky and lean.
Bill seemed to know everybody
and he treated everyone the same.
A mystery, indeed, for strangers passing through
Muleshoe, asked about him by name.
His circle of friends kept expanding.
They seemed to arrive on the wind.
Bill just kept on raising his cattle,
and he'd sell a bunch now and then.
He had an old friend in New York City,
who invited Bill to come see the sights;
to see how cultured and learned folks
spend their days and Big Apple Nights.
This friend of Bill's, a man named John,
had tickets to a banquet room.
Mayor LaGuardia was speaking there.
In New York, he hung the moon.
The dinner over, the speech begun
by this man of great fame --
stopped, stepped down from the podium,
shook Bill's hand and called him by name.
Needless to say, this astonished John.
He just couldn't believe his ears.
"Where did you meet the Mayor?" he inquired of Bill,
"I've been trying to do that for years."
John said, "Let's go to England."
So off to London they fly.
The Royal Carriage comes down the street,
Her Highness waves, passing by.
She rings the bell and the carriage stops.
A smile spreads across her face.
"Why, it's Bill Aldrich from Muleshoe, Texas;
what brings you to this place?"
John's eyes grew wide, as he tried to hide
his surprise that the Queen knew
his friend Bill, and suggested they go
to Rome for a day or two.
When they arrived, to their surprise,
the Pope was passing down the way,
blessing the throng and moving along.
The atmosphere was a holiday.
Then, to the crowd in tones clear and loud,
the Pope stopped the procession quickly.
He said, "Can this be? Do I really see
Bill Aldrich of Texas in Italy?"
Well, John just moved back, kind of melted into
the thousands the Pontiff had blessed.
He noticed a young lad there close by,
a native by the way he was dressed.
"Tell me, son, if you can, is that really the Pope
or an impostor with nothing better to do?"
"I don't know, sir. I've never met the Pope.
But, that's Bill Aldrich he's talking to."
How legends grow, nobody knows.
But, in the west Texas town of Muleshoe,
if you ask about Bill Aldrich,
be prepared for a story or two.
© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
To look at him now, you wouldn't know it.
In his young years he was a top hand.
If it had to do with horses and cows,
he could have ridden for any brand.
Born in the Panhandle of Texas,
with a full moon hanging there in the sky;
a coyote singing his lonesome song,
and the night wind breathing a sigh.
A half dug-out for shelter,
born of good stock, honest but poor.
His Dad had him in the saddle by three,
Boots never saw a school house door.
Grew up working on their small spread,
in the sun, wind, heat and cold.
Before you know it, you skin starts to show it,
and you notice even young punchers look old.
Never without a job through his working years,
his reputation made work easy to find.
When daylight broke, he was on his way --
a day's work for a day's pay was the set of his mind.
I knew Boots when I was still a kid.
Even then he was stove up and bent.
He rode lots of years for the "Mashed O" Ranch,
until his skills and eyesight went.
An old line shack on the Blackwater Draw
was about all the ranch could provide.
You can live here for the rest of your years,
and you can keep your old cow-horse to ride.
Well, that really ain't such a bad way to live,
and ol' Boots tried it on for size.
He and his pony ride the fence lines each day --
I guess you could say they've been "pasturized."© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The GreenhornThe train pulls into the station.
On board, a "Dude" filled with elation.
Amid smoke and cinders, he steps down,
and plants his feet on cowboy ground.
Standing there in awe of his surroundings,
another world, no doubt astounding.
With mouth agape, he surveys the scene --
this vastness like he's never seen.
His derby hat just bounds away,
in the first dust devil of the day.
His suit and tie denote a Greenhorn,
a curiosity to natives born.
His dream intact, he's finally here.
The end result, to him, is clear.
A quick, deep breath, it's time to start.
He's already a cowboy at heart.
Across the street, the mercantile -
work clothes and boots, western style.
To meet his needs --- the right size;
hope they explained shrink-to-fit Levis.
A 40-pound saddle and a rope or two,
leather chaps for brush he'll ride through,
a wide-brimmed hat to shield the sun,
a "hot roll" for sleeping, when day is done.
Catch a freight wagon about daylight,
soon Amarillo fades from sight.
Headed for Channing to try to hire on
with the XIT, a ranch that's well known.
Thirty and found, a true cowboy at last.
Takes a lot of ribbing about his past.
Slowly loses his funny way of talking,
and his high heeled boots change his way of walking.
Putting up hay and repairing windmills,
hard, boring work with very few thrills.
Once in awhile he helps with cattle --
a cowboy for sure, when he's in the saddle.
Round-ups and branding, sweat stains on his hat,
knocked off in the dirt and often stomped flat.
Cowchip fires that keep the irons hot,
used for cooking, too, when that's all you've got.
Cedar posts hauled in by the wagon load,
"Bob" wire comes in on the railroad,
to make six thousand miles, eventually,
of fencing on the XIT.
He's learned what lonesome is out here,
where the sky is big, and crystal clear;
so many stars, they dwarf all else,
and confronts his insignificant self.
In the distance, a coyote talks to the moon,
daylight will be coming soon.
Biscuits and beef - the standard fare,
strong, black coffee on the fire there.
Several horses make up a cowboy's string.
Not all horses can do everything.
Some are fitted for use in daylight,
night horses see better in diminished light.
Some are strong swimmers; others hate water.
A few slow and deliberate, but most are quick starters.
Close-coupled or leggy, cutters and ropers,
smooth walkers, trotters, and some easy lopers.
Regardless of color, stance, or size.
The telltale signs are there in the eyes.
Read it right and he'll work with you,
read it wrong and have lots of walking to do.
The work never ends, and years trail by.
Good weather and bad, one eye on the sky.
Thunder clouds that blot out the sun,
bright flashes of lightening cause cattle to run.
Prairie fires can occur at any time,
leaving long, black scars on the land behind.
Blue northers, blizzards, hail storms, too;
droughts, and floods to be worked through.
Time sculpted the faces of these outdoor men --
gouging canyons and crevices in weathered skin.
Hours of dust and sun give a permanent squint,
and you wonder, one day, where youth went.
Selling off big ranches, reducing their size.
Fast disappearing before startled eyes.
Land now used for farming cotton and corn;
end of an era, for which he was born.
Wind and dust while he waits at the depot,
for the Super Chief to get ready to go,
carrying his pine box on this last trip home.
No longer a Greenhorn -- just a cowboy alone.
Looking back through the veil that shadows the past,
these cowboys helped build something to last.
A strong sense of right, they would take a stand.
All that needs to be said is, they rode for the Brand.
All this was real, and I'm here to say,
I knew some old cowboys, before they faded away.
A true grasp of life, they knew where they stood,
before things became warped, out in Hollywood.© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
SandstormTexas tales have oft been told
when the hard day's work is done.
Who's the best man with a rope,
or the fastest with a gun.
It's funny the things you can recall,
sipping Arbuckle 'round the fire;
when all in fun, tall tales are spun,
to determine who's the best liar!
It's a well-known fact, a cowboy's jack
is spent mostly on new gear.
A few sacks of makin's to get him through,
with a little left over for beer.
A hand-tooled saddle, and bridle the same,
sliver buckles, spurs and bits,
a full-length yellow slicker,
and britches that shrink to fit.
All topped off with a broad-brimmed hat;
that's very important, of course.
It shields him from the sun and rain,
and is a water trough for his horse.
One of those bad sandstorms rolled in --
you could see it miles away.
It blocked out the sun and that son-of-a-gun,
blew hard for two nights and a day.
When the wind finally laid and the sun displayed,
new dunes, where before none had been.
Would you look at that! -- a nearly new hat,
where before only a ditch could be seen.
We raised it high and looked right in the eye
of a waddy from west of our spread.
He said, "Give me a lift, help me out of this drift,
'cause ol' Skeeter gave up and is dead."
"Who's Skeeter?" we said, uncovering his head,
about down to his shoulder line.
"The horse I was riding when the storm hit,
and a better one you'll never find.
He's a hero to me and always will be.
I realize this ain't my land --
but, if you'll agree, let's just leave him be,
and bury him right where he stands."© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Cowboy Way
A million words have been put down
about how cowboys lived and died,
how tall they walked and the way they talked,
and how cowboys never cried.
We think it was so, a long time ago,
back when the West was wild and young,
the fastest gun, a horse that could run,
the hero in every song sung.
The truth is that it's mostly myth.
Ask anyone who ever tried it.
You work 'til you can't, then work some more.
You're exhausted, but you try to hide it.
You must hold up your end of the load.
It's part of the cowboy creed.
Folks think he's trying to impress them,
but it's to fill his inner need.
The best he has is his driving force
that keeps his feet on the ground.
He can't give less if he's to pass the test.
It's the effort that makes his world go 'round.
These days we don't subscribe to much
that lasts beyond the moment.
We've lost control of body and soul.
We live only in the present.
But, cowboys know where they're coming from,
where they are going and how to get there.
If we follow their lead, then maybe we too
will have greater respect for what's fair.
We're a little short of heroes these days.
It's a dog eat dog world, we say.
We just might have the answer in sight,
if we would look at things the cowboy way.
© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Cowboy Vision
I headed out to work today,
as daylight was abreakin'.
I topped a rise and before my eyes
was a scene simply breathtakin'.
Wildflowers were blooming everywhere,
thanks to the recent rain.
I pulled my horse up and sat real quiet,
and scanned the scene again.
Broadcast amid a sea of green
(that grama grass was comin'),
off to the side and out of sight,
a prairie chicken was drummin'.
'Way down the slope by the little creek
a small bunch of cattle grazed.
I guess the Garden of Eden looked like this --
it must be the pattern for perfect days.
A fresh gentle breeze was kicking up,
carrying the good earth smells of Spring.
I ain't never been too good at it,
but, I tell you I wanted to sing.
Then all of a sudden I realized
what the scene in front of me meant.
If I would be good and act like I should,
this could be home when my earth time is spent.
I know that Heaven is a place apart,
reserved for those who live right and such.
But, there's a piece of good ranch land in Texas,
that won't miss Heaven by much.© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Stampede
Hollywood's "west" is glamorous indeed.
Western paperback novels are fun to read.
Cowboys get hurt, but barely bleed,
all in the excitement of a stampede.
Well, they did have the excitement right.
Chasing a herd of cows in the dead of night
sure will start your blood to pumping,
and prairie dog holes get your heart thumping.
Should your horse stumble, putting you down,
as you lie there on that shaking ground
knowing each minute might be your last,
as wild-eyed cattle go streaming past.
Nobody knows what sets cattle off.
The flare of a match or a "Nighthawk's" cough,
the creak of a saddle or a lightning flash,
a clap of thunder can start the mad dash.
Then it's ride like the devil is hot on your heels,
try to turn the leaders into a mill.
Settle and hold them 'til morning comes 'round.
Survey the damage -- how many head went down?
Spend the day gathering them once more --
sleepy, tired, hungry, aching and sore.
Knowing that they might run again
before the sun rises and the long night ends.
Ask any cowboy who has ridden through one,
how glamorous it was when finally done.
All he needs to know is he gave his best,
some biscuits and beef and catch up on his rest.
Sometime later, passin' the time of day,
and yarns being spun, you might hear him say
something 'bout a stampede he once was in,
and how easy life was, as he hides his grin.© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Winter Camp
The cowboy life is usually lonely,
though sometimes you work with a crew.
When fall roundup is finally over,
there'll be winter work to do.
Most of the hands will be laid off
as soon as the shipping is through.
They'll be back when the grass starts to green,
and the skies are springtime blue.
Some handle the cattle on the train to Chicago,
but eight or ten were "lucky" like me,
and were kept on to be line riders
scattered all over the XIT.
I drew the shack that was furtherest North,
not far from the Oklahoma strip.
I picked four winter horses, packed my supplies
and lit out on my little trip.
Crossing the Canadian, the water was cold,
and as I pushed out onto the plain,
clouds rolled in from out of the north,
dropping a light, cold rain.
I made the shack just after dark,
fed my horses, then lit the lamp,
fired up that old cast iron stove
to fix supper and drive out the damp.
Then all my days became the same,
as I covered my section assigned.
I got coal, mail and groceries about every two weeks,
and a visit with the driver 'till bedtime.
When he'd pull away at break of day,
and loneliness set in again,
I'd saddle up and start my rounds,
with just my pony for a friend.
Cooking for yourself and eatin' alone
sure does make meal time plain,
but horses don't eat biscuits and beans,
and I just can't digest grain.
Finally, New Year's eve rolled around --
I believe it was eighteen ninety-six.
I rode down to headquarters for the big party,
visiting, dancing and food I didn't have to fix.
At long last the cold weather was ending.
I loaded up and headed back down the trail.
I hadn't seen a town in four and half months,
and I never received much mail.
Well, I felt right proud that I'd survived
the loneliest job on the ranch.
But, if it were offered to me again,
I'd grab my hat and run -- given the chance.© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Brave Warrior
Grass brushes the belly of his pony,
as he stands on virgin sod,
facing the morning's cooling breeze,
horse and rider at one with God.
Blending in as he always has,
a natural part of his surroundings.
Free as the birds taking to wing,
or mule deer as they go bounding.
Disillusioned by treaties broken,
and the government's hunger for land,
totally devouring his way of life,
and spilling Indian blood on the sand.
Realizing the odds are against him,
but his honor dictates he must try.
Breathing the pure air of freedom --
this looks like a good day to die.
Looking down the slope to the river,
as mists rise in the early morn.
His birthplace spread out before him,
in the valley of the Little Big Horn.
The Seventh Calvary, all deployed,
sabers shine hanging at their side.
Though they'll lose here, the end is near --
the Brave Warrior begins his last ride.© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Supply RunOn the high plains of West Texas
where land is flat and there are no trees,
we all used coal to heat with,
when winter brought that icy breeze.
Fuel was running just a tad short
one frosty, wintry morning.
We needed to make a supply run,
should a blizzard strike without warning.
"Way before day, by a coal oil light,
and breakfast well over and done,
the foreman said, "I'll need my best driver to go
so, 'Injun Jim', you'll be the one."
Jim was the horse wrangler, from over the line
in Oklahoma, a full-blood Kiowa.
He understood horses and they understood him,
he was the best that I ever saw.
We got him hitched up -- he took Tony and Bill,
and the wagon rattled out of the yard.
Twenty miles to Muleshoe, load up, and start back.
To make it in a day you had to drive hard.
All through the day the weather got worse.
The snow started coming on down.
Supper time came and went, and still no Jim --
maybe he stayed over in town.
About ten o'clock we heard him drive by,
toward the barn to get out of the storm.
In awhile he came through the bunkhouse door,
and started hugging the stove to get warm.
As Jim started to thaw, he took off his coat
and hung it on the back of his chair.
A near empty bottle dropped out on the floor,
along with mail he'd stuffed in there.
"Boys, it was a cold day -- what else can I say?
That alcohol kept me alive.
It didn't taste all that good, but I knew it would
keep my hands warm enough to drive.
Here's the groceries and mail, now I'm mighty tired.
I've got to lay down and sleep.
I wasn't sure I could make it back here,
'cause some of the drifts were so deep."
We said, "You sleep late, we'll unload the coal,
it'll keep this old cast iron stove hot."
Jim snapped his fingers as he dozed off,
and said, "I knew there was something I forgot!"© Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Two wagon ruts twisting across the plains,
like Siamese twins joined by grass.
Echoing memories of long ago dreams,
forever entrenched in the earth as they pass.
Origins obscured as trail dust rises,
leaving ghosts of days gone by.
Dancing through the mists of spring time,
or mirages at water holes gone dry.
Riding the excitement of adventure,
as adrenaline courses through their veins.
Listening for the thunder of buffalo hooves,
before greed soaked the prairies with blood stains.
Just looking for grass to grow some cows,
with a little stream to water them down.
A prairie palace with walls of sod,
two days by wagon, from town.
Lonesome fills most of the days,
night sounds when darkness takes hold.
Heat of summer, lack of rain,
and the bite of winter's cold.
What we have today we owe to them.
Though long gone they still inspire.
Ability to "make do", a will of iron
turned to steel as it passed through the fire.
© 2002, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Dixie's Dime
He struggles just to stand up,
from the table where he sat.
He grips the edge for steadiness,
and slowly reaches for his hat.
A sweat-stained John B seven X --
new silver bellies cost a lot.
Scrambled eggs and grits his breakfast now,
can't chew with the few teeth he's still got.
A gnarled hand digs into a pocket
of jeans 'way past their prime.
He quietly lays the tip beside his plate,
it's always the same -- a dime.
His income now is limited,
since age has taken away
the cowboy skills at his command,
back in his younger days.
He rides the Social Security range.
He's on their payroll now.
Getting paid for doing nothing
bothers him a lot somehow.
He always sits at Dixie's station.
She serves his meals with style and grace.
She recalls his looks a few years back,
before time drew a road map on his face.
The size of the tip don't mean a thing.
To most he's a broke down cowboy reject.
But, when he shuffles in, with gaps in his grin,
she knows he'll pay her double -- with respect.© 2002, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Little BritchesLittle britches with a "W"
stitched in orange for all to see,
on each hip pocket of his jeans,
brings special memories back to me.
I wanted so much to be like my Dad,
and watched every move he made.
Knowing I could venture out on my own,
because he'd pull me back if I strayed.
As he grew older, and I did too,
it finally dawned on me one day,
that though we didn't agree on many things,
maybe I should listen to what he had to say.
He was just trying to smooth the bumps,
and straighten the curves in the path.
Maybe the most important thing he taught me --
was that sometimes we need to laugh.
Years have flown since he passed on,
but, I still feel good when I see
a little boy dressed just like his Dad,
'cause it sure reminds me of me.
© 2002, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
I knew a man.
His stature was small,
but if you really knew him,
he was six feet tall.
I knew a man.
Truth was in his eyes.
His word was his bond.
He didn't bother with lies.
I knew a man,
quick to offer help.
He thought about others,
not just himself.
I knew a man.
With respect for the land,
nothing wantonly destroyed
by the touch of his hand.
I knew a man.
Held animals in high esteem.
He cared for and used them,
they were part of the team.
I knew a man,
who took time to pray,
if just to thank God
for such a beautiful day.
I knew a man,
who knew from the start,
you work with your hands,
but you live with your heart.
I knew a man,
with whom I'd proudly ride -
a real, old-time cowboy.
I knew him with pride.
© 2002, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Trail of Steers
The war finally over, they straggled home,
to a land and life gone awry.
Economy in shambles, a future so bleak
the weak just lay down to die.
But, we had this land that owned our heart,
and horses that could handle cows.
Running longhorns out of South Texas brush
was sure better than farmland and plows.
Nobody could guess how many head there might be
hidden 'midst the pear and mesquite.
So we went to work, rounding them up;
the wildest cattle ever seen on four feet.
After the gather was finally done,
and the Trail Boss had hired his men,
we pointed them North to the Kansas rails --
the first drive of many, done again and again.
A glorious birth occurred that day,
when that first trail drive started.
The Texas Cowboy legend was born --
a way of life not for the faint-hearted.
Headed North through Texas, ten miles a day,
three months from our destination.
Cross the Brazos at Kimball Bend,
on the trail to Red River Station.
Hot, hard, dirty, dangerous work;
throw in a stampede or two.
Across the Red and the Indian Nation,
just doing their best to get through.
Millions of hooves walked this trail,
marking it deep for those yet to come.
You'll notice an occasional grave on the way --
another cowboy didn't make it home.
This legacy of the Chisholm Trail
lives on in the heart and mind,
in dreams of the young and memories of the old.
They found what they set out to find.
In a short 20 years of work and sweat,
the Longhorn put Texas back on her feet.
Reconnecting the North and South,
'cause even Yankees have to eat.
As we look back through the mist of time,
we're proud of what the past has given;
an enduring spirit that never gives up,
the Chisholm Trail Cowboy just keeps on livin'.© 2002, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.This poem was written when Sherrod Fielden was asked to write a special commemorative poem for the occasion of the "Texas Chisholm Trail Cowboy Heritage Celebration" held at Kimball Bend in 2002.
We'd been hearing about this bronc
over on the Triple LLL spread.
The great-grandson of Satan himself,
wild-eyed, with a big hammerhead.
He'd piled every hand that they had
from the wrangler right on down.
They decided to host a little event,
so handbills were posted in town.
Everyone is invited out to the LLL's.
Come one, come all, and try your luck.
Beef and beans will be provided for strength,
if you care to see if this outlaw can buck.
Sunday is the day we've decided
would probably be the best time to try
to let this crowbait show his stuff,
and teach a few angels to fly.
Sunday finally arrived, as Sundays always do.
A good number of twisters showed up.
Each paid a dollar for a little white stone,
and dropped it into a tin coffee cup.
One was removed and a bluish one added.
Then the drawing was set to begin.
Each man drew a stone until the blue one appeared,
and that "lucky" man would have his chance to win.
Well, no one had explained to this ol' horse
the importance of an extra month's pay.
He just stood there, hip-shot and cool,
munching on a mouthful of hay.
The cowboy who held the blue stone in hand
was the wrangler from the Flying U.
A top hand named Fred had it in his head
to teach this nag a thing or two.
Fred stood there and studied him for a bit.
The corner of his mouth had the hint of smile.
You just knew that when he stepped up,
they would churn up the ground for awhile.
Fred threw his leg over and found the stirrup,
then he reached down and pulled off the blind.
The first move that this outlaw made
was when his head passed his behind.
He let out a scream that would curl your hair,
while he was reaching for the moon.
The high dive he made began late in May,
and probably wouldn't end until June.
He landed on four ramrod stiff legs
that made Fred's innards swap place.
His nose was dripping blood on his chin,
and pain was drawn all over his face.
Then something happened to this ol' bronc.
He plowed up the ground and heaved a sigh.
He raised that ugly old head one more time --
glared back at Fred, rolled over and died.
Well, in our part of Texas when tales are told,
sooner or later this ride comes 'round,
and how a twister who drew a blue stone one day
rode a shore 'nuff outlaw into the ground.© 2004, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sherrod told us: When I was about eight years old, an old-time cowboy named Bill Rowland told
me a story about a horse that dropped dead under a cowboy. Bill said "We never knew for shore what killed him but I think it was just too much ugly. That horse had the ugliest head I've ever seen." The bronc ride in "Hammerhead" is a figment of my imagination -- but the core of the story is about this old horse that just dropped dead under a cowboy.
I was born and raised in Texas,
out on the open Plains,
where most trees are just bushes,
due to the lack of rain.
My heroes all were cowboys
riding horses through my dreams,
and I wanted to be just like them --
wild and free to chase moonbeams.
I knew I had to have a plan
to learn the cowboy trade.
I had to learn to rope for sure,
if I hoped to make the grade.
So I talked my Dad into a rope;
it was the world's best in my eyes.
I kept it in my hands all day,
twelve feet long and just my size.
As days passed by I practiced hard.
No fence post stood a chance
of being free to roam the range.
I'd pick 'em out with just a glance.
I couldn't wait to dab my rope on
something that was alive,
and that was where good judgment ends,
I guess because I was just five.
One fine day with rope in hand,
I was looking for a target, when,
to my surprise, right before my eyes,
was my Daddy's great big hog pen.
Now, Dad had many times explained
to me, in no uncertain terms,
why I was not to run fat hogs.
It was a lesson I should have learned.
However, on this near perfect day,
when it seemed all the world was right,
there before me were many to choose from,
and I had my target in sight.
I've often wondered over the years,
why I chose one of such great size.
I'll blame it on my young age,
and power and speed I didn't recognize.
I made my approach, cocky and sure,
with my loop already made.
This big white sow was just laying there,
in her "waller hole" in the shade.
All of a sudden she's on all four feet,
and then turns to move away.
Out went my loop and settled over her head.
Goodbye to a beautiful day!
As the loop tightened she let out a squeal,
and she took off like she'd been shot.
She pulled all my slack and never looked back --
I'm holding on with all that I've got!
Well, we'd only gone about ten feet,
when my two feet forgot what to do,
and, I hit the ground and was plowing up dirt,
and other stuff I wouldn't mention to you.
About that time what rope I had left
burned through my hands like a hot rod.
My eyes were leaking like I was peeling onions,
and my shirt was bunched up in a wad.
Then desperation washed over me,
as I realized the mess I'd made.
The sow's wearing my rope and I can't get it back.
I need Mom's help, but I'm a little afraid.
But, I went straight to her and told her my tale,
and at first she seemed a bit strained.
Then she grabbed a full bucket, went straight to the pen,
stepped to the trough and dumped in the grain.
That hog started eating and had her head down,
so Mama reached over and loosened my rope.
When the sow jumped back, it came over her head,
and lay on the ground, with my last hope.
Mom was upset, but I knew it would pass.
Dad was different -- he was direct without a doubt.
He looked at me, then reached for his belt,
went to the seat of the problem and wore it out.
I went back to fence posts and things that don't move,
and found I didn't put myself in a fix;
but today I saw a new calf romping around --
heck, I can handle a calf, 'cause now I'm six!© 2005, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
We asked Sherrod about the inspiration for this story and he told us: The poem tells the story. As a five year old, I guess I thought I could hold a hog because I was as tall as the hog. Not understanding low center of gravity and the strength a hog can generate, it was just too tempting not to finally get to rope something that was alive. It may not have been my first mistake, but it is one I have never forgotten.
Cowboy Obituary
Thumbing through the paper over coffee,
I came across the obituary page.
I glanced over a few of them,
mostly checking for the age.
Some were very well written,
a few had pictures at the top;
a thumbnail sketch of their whole lives,
from date of birth until it stopped.
Their accomplishments were mentioned,
things they must have been proud of.
Where they were born and went to school,
and survivors that I'm sure they loved.
Down near the bottom of the page
a different picture caught my eye.
A saddled Blue Roan horse was standing
with a cowboy, in grass knee high.
Beneath the picture words took over,
telling all about what he had done.
Working cows all over Texas,
and spreads he rode for while still young.
Well known for his skill at ropin' --
he knew good horses and owned a few,
but he never had one that was half the fun
as working cattle off the Roan named Blue.
Their years together really flew by,
and the heavy work load took it's toll.
The cattle seemed to be bigger and faster.
Could the cowboy and Blue be getting old?
Horse years are few compared to man,
and one day Blue just up and died.
He's cut out and chased his last calf,
now at rest on a shady hillside.
The cowboy continued a few years more,
then one day he drew his time.
Now he and Blue ride together again,
leaving only their picture behind.© 2006, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sherrod told us: All my life I've heard the argument that there will be no animals in Heaven because animals have no soul. I have never been able to accept this. I am a Christian and believe Heaven to be the absolute perfect place. If it is there just has to be horses, dogs and other animals that have given us so much beauty and pleasure here on earth.
Real Cowboy
~ A Tribute to Wade Morris ~
Wade was a cook of some renown,
his biscuits were always golden brown.
His chuck wagon was the center of attention,
and a meal he cooked was worth the mention.
But, it hasn't always been this way.
When he was young there were days
spent fighting bulls at the rodeo,
and Wade put on quite a show.
Too many hookin's and busted bones
finally forced him to leave the bulls alone.
Still, this old cowboy was far from done,
and not yet ready to sit in the sun.
Out of the spotlight and back to the range.
Cowboys only earn a few dollars and change,
but then they get paid in other ways.
They know when it's over, they didn't waste their days.
His love for horses pulled him through,
always in demand to train a few.
A working cowboy is the way to live,
then Wade discovered he had more to give.
Storytelling was always a part of his life,
so he started performing for his kids and wife.
Their laughter could be heard in the evening time,
as Wade sat on the porch and opened up his mind.
Then he started to write some stories down,
and his poetry made smiles of many a frown.
While he cooked up the vittles, he was mixing in rhyme,
and he got them both right most of the time.
Later sculpture became his number one goal.
Whether mounted cowboys or newborn foal,
his fingers translated the thoughts in his mind
into art that's as real as any you'll find.
Wade rode the circle—he's done it all.
He's lived through the spring, summertime, and fall.
With winter approaching in a short while,
he's carved out his niche in the cowboy style.© 2007, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sherrod comments: I wrote "Real Cowboy" as a tribute to my friend, Wade Morris, who is a real cowboy and who looks like the image that most folks have in their minds of what a cowboy should look like. He is "the long tall Texan."
Read Sherrod L. Fielden's Charlie's Christmas,
posted with Holiday 2003 poems, and The Awakening, posted with Holiday 2004 poems
About Sherrod L. Fielden:
Sherrod was born on a farm on the South Plains of Texas. His birth place is Lamb county, which was in the Yellowhouse's division of the original XIT ranch. As a boy, he was privileged to spend time with the old cowboys who had spent their lives working on ranches. They told him of their cowboy lives in their early days. When Sherrod began writing poetry, late in life, he began with telling the stories of those old cowboys, written into rhyme. In this way, he helps preserve their history, and their significant contribution to our lives.
Sherrod especially enjoys opportunities to share his poetry with children and young people. His aim is to write poetry that anyone can pick up, read and enjoy. Sherrod enjoys every opportunity to visit schools and speak to students about the enjoyment of writing and reading poetry. He interacts with students, ranging from elementary students to high school students, in school assemblies and in the classrooms. During the visits he reads his poetry to the students, answers questions, encourages the students to write, interacts with them about their ideas and writing styles. Using his humorous poems, he emphasizes the fun of writing and reading poetry. Because of the theme of his Cowboy Poetry, it is also a tool for interesting discussions of the history of our state and nation. For the past two years, the fourth grade students at Salado, Texas have used selections of Sherrod's cowboy poetry in the annual fourth grade melodrama presented at Tablerock Amphitheater, written, produced, directed and acted by the students.
Sherrod Fielden in a visit to second grade classroom.
In March 2003, he was honored to have been commissioned to write a special poem that was presented to the Senate and House of Representatives at the Texas Capitol on the occasion of "Texas Chisholm Trail Day."
Sherrod is a 2004 nominee for Poet Laureate of Texas. The town of Meridian declared September 15, 2004 as "Sherrod Fielden Day" in recognition of his poetry and UIL Students from Meridian High School read some of Sherrod's poems during the recognition ceremony.
Sherrod Fielden and wife Sue Fielden, with county Judge Cole Word (standing) reading the proclamation of "Sherrod Fielden Day" on September 15, 2004.
Sherrod was very honored to be invited to write a poem for the October 1, 2007 dedication of the Elizabeth Crockett Butterfly and Hummingbird Garden at the Acton Nature Center (near Granbury, Texas). Elizabeth Crockett was the widow of Davy Crockett. (Read an article by Mike Cox about her at Texas Escapes.)
Pictured: Regent Marcy Carter-Lovick of the Elizabeth Crockett chapter D.A.R.,
Carolyn Cotton (great-great-great granddaughter of Elizabeth and David Crockett), and poet Sherrod Fielden
The Acton Nature Center was developed on five acres of land, in Acton, off Smoky Hill Court, from land given to the community by the US Government. This property was used by the military during WWII to land planes, placement of beacons, and for other military purposes. The Government donated this land to the community with the stipulation the land is used solely for the benefit of the community....no other purpose. The Acton Nature Center consists of an Alamo Mission-style building surrounded by various gardens, trails, and more, named for prominent figures in the fight for Texas independence, particularly those involved at the Battle for the Alamo. There are hiking trails, bike trails (such as the Bowie Bike Trail), various gardens, including the Elizabeth Crockett Butterfly Garden.
Sherrod was contacted by Board member Andrea Roiz about writing the poem for the dedication. He wrote the poem and read it during the dedication ceremony, at which time the descendants of Elizabeth Patton Crockett present for the event were recognized. Marcy Carter-Lovick, Regent of the Elizabeth Crockett chapter D.A.R. of Granbury, attired in period dress, gave a very interesting history of Elizabeth Patton Crockett. This is Sherrod's poem:Elizabeth Crockett Butterfly and Hummingbird Garden
Reflecting Our Texas Pride
We gather here today to celebrate
this special place that’s set aside;
a link to the past on the road to the future,
this site reflects our Texas pride.
Ever mindful of those who came before,
making it possible for us to be here.
We honor, Bowie, Travis and David Crockett
and sing their praises loud and clear.
This nature center and beautiful garden
embrace the wonder of our great state.
These native plants adapt and survive,
and still keep their beauty up to date.
As visitors enjoy this oasis through years yet to come
we can feel the pride that education brings.
Our children can take away worthwhile knowledge,
and honor Elizabeth Crockett when they sing.
As always the future rests upon our youngsters,
how they bear the burden begins right here.
May the peace of this place bless their journey,
and butterflies of this garden bring them cheer.
© 2007, Sherrod Fielden
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Sue and Sherrod moved to Clifton, Texas in 2008. Sue writes, "One of the favorite things we do now on a continuing basis is a monthly poetry session with the residents of a local nursing home. What a joy it is to hear their memories recalled with laughter and twinkling eyes as Sherrod helps them form it all into poems, which are then published in the monthly newsletter."
This "Bio" is written by Sherrod's darlin' wife, Sue. If Sherrod wrote his own "bio," it would simply be something like this: "Hello, I'm Sherrod. I'd like to read you this little 'thang' I've scratched out here between naps."
Sherrod and his wife are the parents of two grown sons and a grandson.We asked Sherrod why he writes Cowboy Poetry and he said: "I tell people I write poetry because it is good therapy and I am too cheap to hire a 'shrink.' The real reason I write poetry is because I love telling stories in rhyme. In particular, I like writing cowboy poetry. Where would we be without the cowboy -- then and now? We all live busy lives these days, but we should not forget those who have helped level out the trail for us. Cowboy poetry is important in preserving the history of early days of ranching and the men who developed the strains of livestock that we know today. If my small contribution to cowboy poetry can help preserve their legacy, I am most pleased.
You can email Sherrod Fielden.
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