SLIM McNAUGHT
New Underwood, South Dakota
About Slim McNaught
Slim McNaught's web site
Slim McNaught's MySpace page
photo by Jen Dobrowski, used with permissionRecognized as one of
for his poem, "Where the Hard Grass Meets the Sky"
Where the Hard Grass Meets the Sky
When time began God promised man
a lifetime of sweat and toil
So we started our clan where the coyote ran,
in the west, on hard grass soil.
Where winter's snow and summer's blow
took it's toll on those who'd try
To tame this land with calloused hand
where the hard grass meets the sky.
We were young and free with a need to be
out where the rivers run
And we did our work with nary a shirk
from dawn 'til the settin' sun.
We stomped our broncs while the wild geese honked
and the prairie sharpened our eye
Of dangers there we had our share
where the hard grass meets the sky.
We'd mount our horse and set our course
by the stars of early dawn
Each trail we rode by the cowboy code
'til the sun had come and gone.
Then squat on heels and eat our meals
with campfire smoke in our eye
And we thanked our God for this prairie sod
where the hard grass meets the sky.
When winters hold on a range so cold
gave cowboys a dangerous trip
And horses then were our best friends
as the blizzard tightened it's grip.
With each comrade lost we counted the cost
of hardships we all lived by
And inside we cried as the night wind sighed
where the hard grass meets the sky.
But our faith was true 'til our work was through,
we finished each job with pride,
Each blessing received because we believed
made us thankful we'd stuck to the ride.
When my time comes and my roundup's done
and Heaven is waitin' close by
I'll ride o'er the ridge when my Master bids
where the hard grass meets the sky.© 2007, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us about his inspiration for the poem:
I was driving home after doing the Heritage of the American West Show in Spearfish, South Dakota, with Joel Gothard and Lew Vasquez. Performing seems to inspire more poetry, and as I looked across the Black Hills landscape, which was a high ridge that appeared to go right into the sky, this poem came to me.
We asked Slim why he writes Cowboy Poetry and why he thinks it is important:
Cowboy Poetry is a heritage passed down to us from our ancestors who came up the trail and settled this land with their herds. We have not only the opportunity but also the responsibility to their memory to carry on their cowboy poetry style and their principles, the Code of the West.You can email Slim McNaught.
Slim McNaught was recognized previously as one of
for his poem, "Cold Weather Feedin'"
Cold Weather Feedin'
the snow crunches
the herd bunches
And the mares nicker in the cold,
their rumps facin'
to the wind, bracin'
As winter's forces take hold.
from the hay stack
I take a look back,
The horses are standin', heads low,
wind is whippin',
manes a' flippin'
As they bunch to ward off the blow.
as I pitch out hay
at the start of day
I marvel at these creatures I love,
as they wait for feed
for their body's need
I feel blessed by the Lord up above.
in this cold weather
they bunch together
By an instinct that's centuries old,
and the snow crunches
as the herd bunches
And the mares nicker in the cold.© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us about his inspiration for the poem:
You know, it don't make any difference what time of year it is or what kind of weather you're in, if you just watch a bunch of horses for a few minutes doin' what horses do, you will feel blest. This "Cold Weather Feedin'" is one of those times.
We asked Slim why he writes Cowboy Poetry and why he thinks it is important:
Cowboy Poetry is a heritage passed down to us from our ancestors, and we are fortunate enough to have the chance to honor them by maintaining their principles and continuing their style of poetry.
You can email Slim McNaught.
This Cowboy Thing
Well, I guess it's time
to speak my mind,
I've listened long enough,
to whether a tome
is a cowboy poem
or a poem about cowboy stuff.
Now, after years
of listenin' here
I think I figured it out
how to explain
this cowboy thing
that folks keep askin' about.
Now, two kinds of folks
write cowboy poems
and I really enjoy 'em all
'cause this range has some
of the best that's done
whose verse can leave you in awe.
But the way it appears
from where I was reared
it's the source of the story that tells
and if you've not had
the rope burned hands
you can't describe how it feels.
If you've never grasped
an unborn calf
in a cow up past your elbow
and carried the bruises
from her strainin' and movin'
it's a feelin' you never will know.
If you've never felt
that feelin' you're dealt
when your horse sticks both feet in a hole
while runnin' all out
turnin' a cow about
and the fall leaves you knocked out cold.
If your eyes have not strained
in the dark until pained
findin' a trail to follow
when badland spires
all seem to get higher
and your stomach is gettin' plumb hollow.
If you've not had aholt
of the head of a colt
while he died from problems at birthin'
and felt the heart break
as death overtakes
knowin' that you can do nothin'.
If you've not rode in awe
from ridge down to draw
in evenin' when the sun's almost down
and felt the warm air
turn to cool down there
as breeze from the canyon flows 'round.
If you've never stepped on
your horse before dawn
and got home a way after dark
with the temps below zero
and a cold wind to freeze ya
and so stiff you can hardly walk.
If you've never spent days
in the mud and the haze
when them cows are bent on calvin'
and your slicker leaks,
soaks your saddle seat,
to lay down and sleep would be heaven.
If you've never fought
a prairie fire in drought
with wet gunny sacks and a spade
tryin' to save grass
and make the range last
out there in the sun with no shade.
Then you'd be hard pressed
to explain to the rest
the feelin's that a cowboy knows
and without the pain
there's no way to explain
how he feels, 'tho it never shows.
Now, I've got friends
who have never been
on a range workin' cattle and horses
but the verses they pen
can be beat by no man,
they listened and learned from real sources.
Folks who don't know
how the joy and pain goes
can't write down those things with feelin'
but that shouldn't stop 'em
from rhymin' and jottin'
to show how the cowboy is dealin'.
'Cause lots of folks
never were that close
to actually feelin' the hardships
but they'd a been cowboys,
back in them old days,
it shows in their verse and their quips.
© 2005, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us: Jim Thompson of CBSI radio in Spearfish, South Dakota, was the inspiration for this poem. He asked what made poetry a cowboy poem (not his exact wording). My opinion is; if you've had frozen spots on your face from winter chores horseback, rope burns and broken bones, rode up on a ridge and watched a bitch coyote teach her pups to hunt, sat your horse on a ridge at sunrise and watch God's great creation come to life, ate dust trailing cows from summer to winter pasture, fought prairie fires and drought while trying to keep a herd producing, sweat the birthin' of your favorite mare and then lost the colt, calved out sometimes in cold
and soakin' rain and always wonder at the miracle, (to name a few experiences) then you can write cowboy poetry. If not, then you can write poetry about cowboys. There are excellent poets in both categories, and one should not be rated above the other, but that is my idea of what makes the difference. Therefore the poem.This poem is included in our Poems About Cowboy Poetry and Slim McNaught's comments are included in our What is Cowboy Poetry? section.
The Old Roller Towel
When I was a youngster some of the cow outfits fixed a place you could clean up a little. They'd mount two blocks of wood on the wall of the bunkhouse, usually outside, and put a stick between them. Then they'd take a piece of cloth anywheres from twelve to eighteen inches wide and six or eight feet long. They'd sew the ends of that strip together, run that stick through it, and hang it on them blocks. They'd set a wash basin and a bucket of water below it. We called 'em roller towels, and I can tell you folks, we felt real blest to have such modern comforts.
The Old Roller Towel
The old roller towel on the bunkhouse wall
was a comfortin' sight to see
It spoke of food and friendship and rest
and how welcome the traveler would be.
It told of the hands who worked this place
by it's condition at the end of the day
The stranger who stopped may not find a clean spot
but he was always welcome to stay.
The old roller towel on the bunkhouse wall
could tell volumes if able to talk,
How the boss's son left his hand prints there
while followin' his hero's walk.
It could tell the tale of his growin' up
to finally take over the place
And through all this time the old towel hung,
ready to dry the next face.
The old roller towel on the bunkhouse wall
that hung o'er the basin below
And the old cracked mirror that hung by it's side
were treasures in years long ago.
For with that old towel hangin' there on the wall
a cowboy'd get cleaned up and ready,
Then he'd head into town to strut his stuff
and go sparkin' with his steady.
The old roller towel on the bunkhouse wall
done service to an army each day
From the cowboys who rode there on that range
to those just passin' that way.
So, of all the comforts we had in them days
I'll remember that old roller towel
And how nobody cared who had used it before,
it brought us all closer, somehow.
The old roller towel on the bunkhouse wall
would today be a major eye sore
'Cause folks are now blest with fancy sinks
and faucets that make washin' no chore.
But the closeness we felt can't be found today
'mongst them fancy gadgets and all.
It sure was no beauty but it done it's duty,
the old roller towel on the wall.© 2005, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Lookin' Back
There's a strand of old barb wire
almost hidden in the grass,
It's layin' where the sod was broke
by a 'steader, back in the past.
It brings back memories to older folk
who watched our country growin'
They remember the hard times they had then
while futile seeds they were sowin'.
Hardships back then we can't even imagine
and most folk today couldn't cope,
Travel them days was by horse or train
and the most they had was hope.
Their crops burnt out and their livestock died
from lack of feed and water,
And the farmer worked from dark to dark
to care for his sons and daughter.
There's a windmill there, (or what's left of one)
tower head and pump rod gone
And the old house there is tumblin' down
it's windows blank and forlorn.
The barn's all rotted, roof caved in,
corrals all growed up with weeds
And the ground around is littered with trash
left from a poor family's needs.
When the sweat of man and the sweat of horse
mixed in that hard plowed ground
It began a trail of heartbreak and pain
that made many men strong and sound.
For the trials that beset them as they toiled away
was like fire to steel in a forge,
Some would shatter from the heat and the cold
but some would be shaped by the Lord.
But for some who toiled in the heat and the cold
there came the day for the end
When they knew they'd done the best they could
but the prairie would win and would mend.
So they packed up their frugal belongin's
and returned to where they started,
And the prairie took over their patches of land,
so went the drought's broken hearted.© 2005, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us: In the early 1900's the homesteaders came into this country and plowed up a lot of prairie. Then it dried up, the wind came up, and there was dirt hundreds of feet in the air. They called it the "dirty thirties". That's when I was born. Folks hung wet rags over the cracks and windows in their shacks to keep the dirt from siftin' in. We had kerosene lamps lit in
our old log house in day time because the dirt was hiding the sun. I remember growin' up during that time, and when I think back, I can see now it was purty tough for the farmers. We didn't have it as bad because we didn't have that much farm ground around us. We were more in the badlands where it was cow country. So in a moment of nostalgia I wrote this poem.
Memories in the Mist
In a clearin' in a canyon, at a crossin' miles from home
I was searchin' for a smooth spot to spread my bedroll on.
I'd been ridin' on the west range checkin' grass and water source
And since the night was comin' on, I needed grazin' for my horse
Now, I see a mist had gathered as I rode up to that spot
And my horse, he hesitated, one short step, and then he stopped.
Stood still with both ears pointed, at that mist there on the ground
And in the stillness I heard voices, sounds like cowboys gathered 'round.
Then a breeze, and in that moment, through that mist that's outta place,
I see an old chuckwagon, a campfire flickerin' on a face.
Then as my eyes grew 'customed to the settin' sun's last glow
Saw a group of cowboys gathered, eatin' chuck and talkin' low.
Well, my mind was churnin', racin', what I was seein' could not be
We'd had no trail herds on this range since back in eighty three.
And as I started forward my ol' horse, he wouldn't budge,
Felt a shudder go clear through me like an icy finger's nudge.
How long I sat there starin' I have really never known
And that horse stood like a statue as if he'd turned to stone.
While I listened there in wonder as they spoke of times long past
I recalled the way my granddad told me stories that would last.
How they trailed them cows to Kansas through drought, and storm, and mire
And how they usta gather in the evenin' 'round the fire.
Now they're speakin' low and somber 'bout the hardships of the trail
And how the weather slows them when it brings the rain and hail.
I hear 'em say they lost a man when storm brought stampede 'round
And then I see, in shadow, an empty saddle on the ground.
Now, as I listened to 'em, these men I barely saw,
A flood of memories crush me, leave me breathless and in awe.
For in my mind I see myself on horse that's white with sweat
And a herd that's flat out runnin', I can't get them turned back yet.
And I feel the thunder comin' from ten thousand hooves and more,
When, suddenly, I'm fallin' and the world is turnin' o'er.
Then I see a grave site lonely with no cross to mark its place
And somehow, in that mist there, in that grave I see my face.
With my body soaked and clammy in my mind I realized
That my life out there was ended, it's so real I'm terrified.
Then suddenly the spell is gone, I feel my horse relax,
And the clearin' there before me is completely without tracks.
It's as if that bunch of cowboys were never in my sight
And the daylight's almost gone now, it's comin' on to night.
Well, I camped there at that crossin' so I could see in day's broad light
If what my mind had witnessed really happened there that night.
And mornin' found me searchin' for tracks of man or cow
But my prints, of boot and horse tracks, are all that's in that clearin' now.
Yet that night still leaves me shaken when I remember how it felt
And I can't help but get the feelin' that in another life I dwelt.
But what of friends and family? Did I leave a mother grievin'?
Or was I just a loner with nothin' left worth leavin'.
Now some will say I'm crazy, that things like that ain't true,
But if you had been there with me you'd believe what I tell you.
And sometime at that crossin', look up that hill aways,
'Cause from down there in that clearin' you can just make out a grave.
© 2005, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Slim told us: This location was on the ranch where I grew up. It's been a lot of years, but I think I could still find that grave on the hillside, the rocks are probably still there. Imagination done the rest.
Hayin' TimeI was batchin', young and lonely
on that Buzzard Basin spread
When I decides I need a cook
just to keep me better fed.
I was tired of my own cookin'
and the dog was gettin' thin,
So I looks around the country,
found a bride to court and win.
Well, we got hitched and settled down
and things were goin' fine
Me, I'd gained a bunch of weight
and that dog thinks she's divine.
And when it come to ranchin'
she sure showed common sense,
Like when she helped me put the stretch
on some wore out wire fence.
Now, hayin' time was comin' 'round,
had to get my 'quipment goin',
Sharpened sickles, oiled and tuned up
'till I was ready for the mowin'.
So I loaded up the barrells
that would keep me full of gas
And all the tools I thought I'd need
to do this job at last.
Now, I had this old five speed Ford truck
that was my hayin' rig, you see
But to get that truck and tractor moved
I needed two of me.
So I thinks to myself, I've got a hand
to work right by my side
So I headed to the ranch house
to speak to my new bride.
Now, she's just more than willin'
to help out when she can
But she'd not had much experience
drivin' trucks in hilly land.
'Cause it's got to be remembered
she's a flat land country lass,
And that basin rim's half'a mile straight up,
even thru the pass.
So she hops right up in that loaded truck
and I know she'll fill the bill
And I tell her just to stay in low
while she climbs that basin hill.
But if it gets to pullin' down
just stick it down in super.
Don't even need to use the clutch,
just mesh them gears and goose 'er.
Well, I'm a quite aways ahead
pullin' mowers and all 'a that
And I see her startin' up that grade
as I top out on the flat.
And while I'm settin' there a waitin'
I can hear that tranny howlin'
And I can tell low gear ain't gonna do,
by the way that old truck's growlin'.
Now the tranny in that outfit
had a lever on the shifter
And when you pulled the lever up
it changed the gear that you were after.
So when she grabbed she squeezed the flipper,
hit reverse instead of low,
And just when the cab came into view,
down the hill I see her go.
Well, I can tell you I was worried,
there's a deep canyon down that hill,
And if she backed off in there
all that hayin' gas she'd spill.
So I went runnin' fast to catch her
but when the crest I finally made
I see her crank that truck around,
stopped 'er crossways on the grade.
Now, in fifty years that's come and gone
we've worked side by side by choice
And times have been when doin' things
she swears I raise my voice.
But when I got to where she's parked
she really blowed her stack,
'Cause first thing I done was check to see
if my gas was in the back.© 2005, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Slim told us: This is a true story. We were married June 1, 1954, and this happened during hayin' season just after that. But you gott'a have family members with the right attitude before you can tell stories on them. I'm just lucky, I guess, 'cause I have a couple friends who'll hide me out for a few days 'til my wife will let me back in the house after I tell some of these stories about her.
Prairie BonesThose bones on the prairie were one time old horses
who lived out their lives and then died,
And those dried out old pieces of saddle
were left where they wore out from the ride.
And the cowboys who rode 'em are buried,
some in sod, some in rocks in the west,
'Cause this country was tough on all comers
so the cowboy carried the load for the rest.
But those horses were one time young colts,
friskin' by their mothers' side,
And those saddles were once new creations
made from a fresh tanned cowhide.
And the cowboys who rode 'em were wooly and wild,
but they rode for the brand every day
'Cause this country was rough on women and horses
so it was the cowboy who cleared the way.
So, today as I gaze at those bones on the prairie
in my mind I see herds from the past,
And remember the trails and rides of my youth
where today streets and houses grow fast.
And from my old eyes comes a tear now and then
when I remember good horses, old pards,
And I know I'll catch up with 'em one of these days
'cause the Lord has our souls to guard.© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Spring in South Dakota
There's folks who talk of spring a comin'
when they chance to get together
And here in South Dakota land
it's all about the weather.
When spring comes to our prairie sod
you can never tell its pace
You could be up to your knees in mud
or have dust blow in your face.
There's things you sure can count on, 'tho,
like cactus growin' again,
And prairie dogs diggin' up new ground,
coyotes prowlin' 'round the pens.
Each night and day for months (it seems)
there's first calf heifers to check
Hopin' for a good calf crop,
gets the banker off our neck.
But lots of folks just never see
the grass as it comes back,
Nor that bunch of baby bunnies there
born in that old hay stack.
They never notice the smell of spring
when the mornin' sun is showin'
And when a colt stands, wobbly and wet,
the miracle goes unknown.
There's folks who never seem to listen
as the geese honk in the sky
When they're searchin' for a place to graze,
movin' smoothly as they fly.
And some folks never pay no mind
when young calves run and play
They miss the tonic spring gives us
to drive winter's cold away.
But our Maker gives us lots of signs
to know that spring is here
And how we look and feel and see
makes life feel good or drear.
Like when ol' hoss flicks both his ears
as he slips on frosty grass
And you feel him catch his balance quick,
and thank God you ride the best.
When those elm tree buds get full and fat
and purty soon there's leaves
Then once again a shade is grown
to give us summer ease.
You hear those frogs that croak at night
with their throaty, steady song,
They let the world know by their sound
that spring has come along.
So while this spring is gettin' here
and I'm enjoyin' all that's new,
I hear some folks discuss this one,
and reminisce about a few.
Then argue 'bout which one they say
was the dryer or the wetter,
Well, in seventy years I've seen 'em worse
but then, I've seen 'em better.
© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The Last CowboyThings have sure changed since my granddaddy's day
when he cowboy'd on a west Texas plain
And he'd be surprised at what all's come around
and some would sure cause him pain.
His wagon wheel ruts are now hard concrete,
the crossin' at the river is bridged,
And nowdays a man and his saddle horse
has fences 'tween him and the ridge.
Now, I'm near as old as my granddaddy was
when he went to that range in the sky
And the changes made from his time to mine
are enough to bring tears to the eye.
But from this time on we can see for sure
that changes are gonna' be greater,
So we'll live our lives the best that we can,
put our trust in our God, our Creator.
But I feel sorry for those who've never been throwed
from a bronc on a cold, hard mornin'.
Never rolled out to chop wood in the dark
to keep that log house a warmin'.
They've never held the head of a colt
that died 'cause of problems at birthin'
And never hauled some wet, smelly calf
in their lap in the saddle to warm him.
They've never pumped that well in the sun
when that handle was hotter than sin
'Cause windmills don't pump when the wind don't blow
and them cows gotta' water again.
They've never ate dust behind a movin' herd
or knocked ice off some old cow's nose,
Nor took the beatin' some old bronc can give
when he bogs his head and blows.
For lots of folks have missed out on the livin'
that makes up a cowboy's life
But it's not their fault, it's left to chance,
and for some that would be plumb right.
Now, that old cowboy way is a thing of the past,
with sadness we've watched it go,
From us who lived it away back then
when our lives were so full years ago.
But now we look at the new generation,
at what their way of livin' brings,
And it makes us oldsters feel purty good
when we see them do cowboy things.
Now they have pickups, horse trailers and such,
no longer ride them hard trails.
But you see by their ways that some of the things
we lived for have some how prevailed.
So this is an ode to the last cowboy,
as him and his horse fade away.
But I believe 'fore that time comes around
generations will have long passed away.
'Cause bein' a cowboy is a state of mind,
and of character, upright and true.
And when it's all said and the tally's all done
there may always be cowboys among you.© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us, "When I look back and realize that a bunch of folks I knew when I was a kid were born in the 1800's, including my grandfather, it kinda makes me think. I followed my granddad around when I was young and learned a few things from him. I could have learned a lot more if I had paid attention. The problem is that young people don't know how valuable a grandparent is until they're gone. So sometimes I get a nostalgic streak and write poetry like this one I call 'The Last Cowboy.'"
Closin' the Gate
When I was a lad, I thought it was bad,
and complained of such a sad state
That when finally my growth got me tall as a post
I got stuck with closin' the gate.
And from that time on, my dad would say, "Son,
your bones are younger than mine,
And your horse is shorter by a hand and a quarter
so it's easier for you anytime."
Well, I thought it demeanin' and it kept me steamin',
and I'd mutter under my breath.
But when my dad made a rule no one but a fool
would chance takin' on his wrath.
While sortin' out strays and workin' cows all day
with the older guys doin' the ridin'
I'd always get stuck behind a gate needin' shut
'til I felt I was back there hidin'.
Then when I got older and became the proud holder
of a spread of my own, that was great.
I was workin' alone, doin' it all on my own,
but there I was, still closin' the gate.
Now, I just took my crew, to the neighbors to do
some gatherin' for him, he's been ailin'
Needed his fall sortin' done, to ship some to town,
we pitched in, since his health was failin'.
He's got some wild critters, some mangy bunch quitters,
and each year he'd have trouble at his pen
He'd get the herd in the trap but they'd turn right back,
and he'd have to go chase 'em again.
But my crew are cowhands, gathered that bunch from the badlands,
headed 'em into that corral with ease
Cowboys all yellin', them ol' cows all bellerin',
and dust so thick you can't breathe.
Now, I may be in charge, but the chances are large
that I'll be the last one to the pen
And bein' the boss with the gentlest hoss
I'll get stuck closin' the gate again.
After hours in the saddle, to step down is a battle,
to keep my old knees from foldin'
And when I get on the ground, both feet planted sound,
Its a handful of horn I'm still holdin'.
So I hobble around, mutterin' some grumpy sounds
'Bout havin' to get out of my saddle
With my bones all creakin' I don't feel like speakin'
just wanna get done with these cattle.
But when the neighbor's wife steps up big as life,
asks sweetly, "How did you stop their escape?"
I say with much pride, hat in hand by my side,
"Why mam, it was me closin' the gate."
© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us, "Lots of us raised on a ranch got the dubious honor of opening and closing gates when we finally grew enough to reach them. It was good for us, but we didn't know it then."
The Snubbin' Post
dust swirlin'
horse whirlin'
Lariat flashes through the air
horse caught
rope taut
Dallied to snubbin' post there.
cowboy gains
horse strains
Two wills at odds in the sun
cowboy nears
horse fears
He longs for freedom to run.
teachin' begins
fightin' ends
As cowboy and horse connect
fear decreases
strain ceases
Between snubbin' post and neck.
time slides
cowboy rides
And horse gets the job down pat
works cow
knows how.
It started where the snubbin' post's at.© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
The JobA Gift from the PastWhen you got a thousand head to calve
with the weather cold and wet
And nothin' that you own is dry,
with cold winds blowin' yet.
The line shack leaks, you're outta wood,
yer burnin' sticks for fire
Supplies are low, boss ain't been near,
it's enough to raise your ire.
Ya do your best to calve these cows,
'tho they don't help a lot,
'Cause when you've helped 'em birth a calf
they charge you blowin' snot.
You switch your mounts, they're gettin' thin,
they don't get time to graze,
If things don't change right shortly here
you're askin' for a raise.
You get no sleep on this lousy job,
your temper's at an end,
Complain to your horse, he's the only one
you've got here for a friend.
For a sack of Durham you'd quit this job,
let this outfit calve it's own,
You've had enough, your body's shot,
you're hankerin' to be goin'.
If things don't give here purty soon
your gonna set 'em right
By now you're mad and wet and cold,
and spoilin' for a fight.
You'll give that boss a piece of mind
if he ever comes to camp
You've had about all you're gonna take
from that inconsiderate scamp.
Why, there's no boss that's worth his salt
would leave a man like this,
Most miserable job you ever had,
one you sure ain't gonna miss.
If he ever shows, you're gonna quit,
maybe even ride to the ranch
Tell him where to put his cows
leave without a backward glance.
But wait! In the mist! A wagon's comin'!
It's the boss, with Sam in tow!
Sam's leadin' his string, he's come to help,
and that wagon's full, you know.
Man, its good to see them boys,
you're just tickled to the core,
Food and fuel and extra mounts,
a man can't ask for more.
Then the boss shakes your hand,
says, "Been wantin' to get up here bad."
You know right then that this job here
is the best you ever had.
And when he says, "That herd looks great,
you've done real good here son."
You get ramrod straight and answer back,
"Aw, it's nothin', just doin' what needs done."
© 2007, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Slim told us, "When I was young we did not calve two year old heifers. They were too much of a problem, so we waited until they were three. Somewhere around 1960 my granddad brought a bunch of bred two year olds to the ranch my wife and I were on and wanted me to calve them out. What a nasty experience. Bred to a big Hereford bull, I pulled almost everyone of them with a saddle horse and a tree. Got to thinkin' about that experience and this poem came up."
A Bull in the Kitchenit needs brought to folks attentionthat a cowboy on a pensionIs a restless soul and sure looks outta placewith that battered hat pulled downhe prowls around the townEyes alert for any friendly face.what he really needs to findis a kindred restless mindWho will sit and reminisce with him awhileand discuss the days of oldwhen they cowboy’d wild and boldRememberin’ all the trails that made ‘em smile.now the general populationis so lost in concentrationThat they pay no mind to these old weathered handsand the people scurrin’ abouthave no clue, but there’s no doubt,How these oldsters cleared the way to these new lands.there’s no one knows the trails,nor the pleasures nor travailsThese bowed of leg old timers have lived pastand the youngsters on the runwith no thought but havin’ funNot carin’ that the old days didn’t last.the hurt these cowboys feltthat the loss of comrades dealtTook it’s bitter toll on spirits when they diedno one knows the lonely achelookin’ back on years can makeWith the memories these old cowboys hold insidethen as the years go bydrainin’ youth from step and eyeTheir spirits fight the years to stay aliveand as their eyesight dimsthey react to inner whimsBy recallin’ all their deeds of days gone by.so when you see ‘em there,stiffenin’ joints and grayin’ hair,Stop and think what these old folks have done for you‘cause without their sweat and tearsand honest labor through the yearsYour hopes and dreams would never have come true.© 2006, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.Slim told us, "I was in the grocery store waiting for my wife to get done shopping when I noticed two old cowboys setting on a bench. Leaning toward each other, balanced on their canes, hollering in each other's ear because of the surrounding noise of cash registers, kids hollering, and the bustle of the shoppers. As I watched these old timers, this poem came rolling through my mind."
Now, ranchin’ down here in the Badlandscan sure be a lot of hard workBut once in a while somethin’ happensthat takes on a humorous quirk.Like calvin’ time in the rain and mudand goin’ hours without sleep,To wind up havin’ a good chucklethat sure makes this life hard to beat.I’d been in the saddle, seemed like days,in a steady fallin’ cold rain,And them cows was shellin’ out young’nslike tomorrow’s plumb out’ta range.All those calves were soaked and shiverin’,them cows tryin’ to lick ‘em dry,But the cold and the wet togetherwas sure gonn’a cause some to die.Now, I’d been doin’ the best I couldto get them calves up and goin’,But I’d run out of dry gunny sacksI’m usin’ to rub and warm ‘em.So when I came to this big bull calfI threw him over my saddleAnd headed on into the ranch houseto see, could I save this rascal.Now, my wife is one of them ranch wiveswho will see a need and pitch inAnd I knew she would be plumb happyto run this bull in her kitchen.She’d always had lots of compassionfor critters when times were tryin’,And she’d stay up all night if neededto keep one of ‘em from dyin’.Now, you’d never believe how this calfperked right up in that nice warm room,And before I knew what’s happenin’it was time for the mop and broom.That little calf went wobblin’ aroundjust a’ smearin’ things as he wentAnd I was plumb flabbergasted bythe mess, no more time than he’d spent.Now, the wife took one look at that messand her German nature came outAnd I knew I was in deep trouble,‘cause that calf’s still wobblin’ about.Then that woman flat laid down the law,in terms that were both clear and mean,Instead of me, it’s she who’d do choresand that kitchen better get cleaned.Well, it took me three hours to mop,wash walls and furniture and all,Can’t believe such a mess could be madeby a calf so wobbly and small.When this subject comes up in a crowdI hunch down and get outta sight,‘Cause I know she’ll get even againfor messin’ her kitchen that night.If you folks have time, after this rhyme,just ask that woman about itShe’ll describe this true event to you,in such detail you might smell it.© 2008, Slim McNaught
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Slim told us, "We were married in June of 1954 and this story happened that next spring at calving time. We had been married less than a year and I didn't know that woman as well as I thought I did."
Read Slim McNaught's
Rod's Pinpoint of Light, a tribute to Rod Nichols
and
At a Cowboy Pace in our 2007 Cowboy Poetry Week Art Spur Project
and
The Kissin' Tree in our 2006 Christmas Art Spur project
and
A Christmas Thought posted with other 2006 Christmas poems
and
Headin' Home in our Art Spur project
and
The Tale of "A Christmas Tale" in our 2005 Christmas Art Spur project
and
The Memory, in our Art Spur Project
About Slim McNaught:
photo by D. EniseIn 1935, when Slim was one year old, his folks moved to a ranch in the Badlands country on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in southwest South Dakota. They lived in a log house on Bear In The Lodge Creek for a few years and later moved east of there into the Buzzard Basin area south of Eagle Nest Butte. They raised cows and horses and put up a lot of hay.
In 1954 Slim married Darlene Brodkorb and they purchased the Buzzard Basin ranch. They were blest with a daughter and three sons. After several years, they sold the ranch and started "Slim's Custom Leather," a saddle and boot repair shop and hand tooled leather business, which they have operated for nearly 40 years, starting in Kadoka, South Dakota and later moving to New Underwood, South Dakota. They are now trying to downsize to the hand tooled and handmade leather items and Cowboy Poetry gatherings.
Some time during high school Slim started writing poetry. Over the years he has had poems, stories and articles published in various anthologies plus many cowboy, horse, and agriculture magazines and newspapers. Currently, his page on cowboypoetry.com shows several poems published, plus some gathering reports at other locations on that site.
In 2005 Slim started his own publishing company, adding it to their leather business, to publish his books. The company is now called Slim's Leather & Publishing. Since 1981 he has published five books. Four are cowboy poetry and short western humor stories, and one book contains some of Slim's original works and some of his mother's original poetry. He also has published two books for his mother, Troy McNaught Westby, with another on the way for each of them. In March of 2006 Slim published his first CD, A Life of Rhyme, and has another CD in the works. Slim feels he has been blest in living and working in ranch country and dealing with horse and cow people all of his life and this carries over into his cowboy poetry.
Slim and Darlene have four children, seven grand children, and (at last count) ten great grand children.
Reflections of a Cowboy Poet
includes:
A Cowboy Prayer of Faith
A Christmas Thought
A Gift from the Past
Circle Unending
Cowboy Inspiration
Headin' Home
Prairie Bones
Spring in South Dakota
That's Where I'm From
The Memory
The Prairie Rose
The Snubbin' Post
This Cowboy Thing
Waitin' for the Call
The CoronationReflections of a Cowboy Poet includes fifteen poems and Slim McNaught's original illustrations. Slim, raised on a ranch in the Badlands country on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in southwest South Dakota, dedicates the book, "...to the memory of our ancestors who came up the trail and settled this land with their herds. We have not only an opportunity but also the responsibility to carry on their cowboy poetry style and their principles, the Code of the West.
Read some of Slim's poetry at his web site, including more about the book and a sample page here.
Reflections of a Cowboy Poet is available for $7.50 postpaid from Slim's web site or by mail: Slim McNaught, P.O. Box 274, New Underwood, SD 57761; 605-754-6103.
A Life of Rhyme
Slim McNaught's 2006 CD, A Life of Rhyme, includes 14 of his original poems:
The Old Still
Cowboy High
The Bull Fighter
Hayin' Time
A Bull in the Kitchen
One Old Dry Cow
The Cowboy and the Coyote
Memories in the Mist
Jump Startin' an Old Geezer
Cell Phone Rodeo
Pickin' a Brand
The Last Cowboy
Lookin' Back
Retire? Well I Don't Think So
Slim describes the CD as, "For all of us old enough to remember how much fun we had pretending when we were kids...until that mythical time some people call Retirement."
A Life of Rhyme is available for $15 postpaid directly from Slim's web site or by mail: Slim McNaught, P.O. Box 274, New Underwood, SD 57761; 605-754-6103.
You can email Slim.
See Slim's web site for more of his poetry and information about his books.
Read a feature about Slim McNaught's mother, Troy McNaught Westby, and her poetry here.
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