SUZANNE BALL
Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada
About Suzanne Ball
Country That I Love
Country isn't only horses
an' cowboys on the trail.
Country isn't only cattle
and the brandin' every spring.
Look around at all the beauty
it's every little thing I see
I'm in the country that I love.
Night time we all settle down
the stars light our way
The fire dies
the coffee cools
the end of a beautiful day
The sound of the water's sleepy
no worries on my mind
I'm in the country that I love.© Suzanne Ball
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Looking back at the times I rode with him, the things he had to say
the stories he had to tell 'bout the true buckaroo way.
I wish I'd paid more attention to the ramblins of that man,
wish I could go back again, I know now I never can.
He didn't talk for long ya know, sometimes not even much to say
but what he said, it was worth hearin', to keep in mind fer another day.
The lessons I could have learned, the grief it may have spared,
all 'cause that old cowboy, well ya know, he really cared.
It's different fer a woman, leadin' the life that he had led,
riding for the brand, sometimes the cold hard ground yer bed.
Being wife and mother it's a proud and noble thing to be,
but like he used to laugh abiut, it never quite was me.
No frilly dresses, no high heeled shoes, guys around to court,
just my old hat and his old coat, and my mare who was two hands too short.
Now I tell my children, three of the five he did not see,
what a special man he was, and what he meant to me.
Trying to teach my sons and daughters his values and his way,
I hope they live their own lives, taught to me by what he had to say.
He had a kind of peace to him, brought out by down home roots,
That man he was my Papa, I can only pray to one day fill his boots.
© 2001, Suzanne Ball
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
That Old Sound
I hear that banjo talkin', that lonesome slide of steel
It seems them old pickers, they know just how I feel.
Talkin' 'bout those good old days of horses, cows 'n prayer,
I just let my thoughts take lead, and drift on over there.
Can almost feel the sun, it's clear warmth upon my face,
standing in a pasture made by God's own knowin' grace.
Children were still children then, loved to laugh and play,
a family stood together in good and hard times each day.
The sound of that old fiddle, that pleadin' singers wail,
memories of the past times, life out on the trail.
How it makes my soul and heart plain soar,
hopin' those days'd come 'round to be here just once more.
Until then I'll keep on listenin' to those old familiar songs,
of bluegrass, country, gospel, and pray the world can right its wrongs.© 2002, Suzanne Ball
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Read Suzanne Ball's An Unlikely Angel posted
with other Holiday 2001 poems.
About Suzanne Ball:
Living in Lethbridge, Alberta and have been writing cowboy poetry and songs for years...very proud of my country roots and appreciation for the finer things in life (like horses, herds and headstalls) and the great times with my kids...
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