VAN CRIDDLE
Eugene, Oregon
About Van Criddle
Sixteen Horses
The source of power on the ranch
Used to be the mighty horse.
Belgian, Shire, or Clydesdale
Did the heavy work of course.
Adorned with hames and harness
Hitched to the doubletree
They spared the backs and muscle
Of men like you and me.
You'd hook 'em to the cycle bar
To mow the new grown hay.
They'd work from dawn to dusk
Give their all, each and every day.
They'd pull the rake and push the sweep,
Push the plunger up the slide,
Pull the wagon out to feed
With harness straining at their hide.
They asked little of the rancher,
Their needs really weren't that much,
A little feed and water
Treat 'em right and use a gentle touch.
We'd put 'em out on Horse Creek,
That was their summer range.
They'd know that it was hayin' time
When the weather took a change.
They'd show up at South Pasture
How they knew we didn't know.
We never had to worry none
'Cause we knew that they would show.
We'd drive down to let 'em in,
We never had to wait.
Sixteen faithful, needed horses
Were a standin' at the gate.
Well, things have changed this year,
Now that Buddy runs the place.
He thinks the horses way too slow.
I never know'd that we was in a race.New swathers, rakes and balers
Have now replaced those working teams
Bud's father, Carl, sheds a tear
This wasn't the future of his dreams
I went out to swath the hay
I was thinkin' this is great!
Then I saw sixteen horses
a standin' at the gate.
They was lookin' kinda dazed,
Seemed to wonder what was goin' on.
They'd been there to go to work
Since way before the daylight's dawn.
I swear they looked dejected,
Hurt, and with some broken pride.
Somethin' broke inside of me.
I hurt and I just cried.
I'll not forget that sullen day
Nor will I forget the date
When sixteen horses, feelin' useless
Was left a standin' at the gate.
© 2005, Van A. Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
What Really Matters?
The old cowboy sat in the stands
High above the auction ring.
And waited for the auctioneer
To begin to chant and sing.
He'd smile and nod as folks came in,
Some would come to shake his hand,
He'd give them all a nice warm smile,
It was hard for him to stand.
I thought that he would nod his head
As cattle were bought and sold
But he never flinched a bit
Though the air was gettin' cold.
I learned that he'd been a rancher
His herd was two thousand head.
He'd long since sold the land he loved,
His wife was a long time dead.
He came each month to stay in touch
With the good ol' ranchin' folks
Who'd rode with him, helped him out,
And shared with him their jokes.
With town folk he didn't fit in
They just didn't understand
His need for some space or his love
For the beauty of open land.
The sale was o'er, folks left the stands
To settle for what they'd bought,
I watched the old cowboy leave
And thought 'bout all I'd been taught.
A man spends his life makin' his way,
O'er comin' the troubles that mount,
in the end it's life's relationships
that really do matter and count.
© 2006, Van A. Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Van told us: The sale barn is one of my favorite places in the world. I got to thinking
about the people at the sales that had retired from active ranching or farming and why they still came to the sale. I realized that it was to stay in touch with the people they loved and were comfortable with. They enjoyed having people know and respect them. They didn't have to buy anything. They just wanted to feel a part of the life they had lived and still loved. Though our ability to continue to do that which we love doing may end, the friends and relationships we develop in the process can live with us forever.
No Man Hath Made This BeautyThe new spring grass is wet and green
Misted mountains complete the scene
As I watch in wonder all that God has made.
The swollen river runs its course
Through valley pastures from its source
Through lodge pole pine and willows its course is laid.
The Angus cattle break the plain
And saunter, grazing through the rain
Strung out like picnic ants on the valley floor.
Mustang ponies race o'er the hill
Just the sight gives the heart a thrill.
No man hath made this beauty and that's for sure.
White-tailed doe seem to just appear
As sunlight fades with evening near
slowly leaving the shadows, as white flags wave.
Doe still keep their young fawns close by
With fleeting glance they keep an eye.
Ready to flee at first sign, their young behave.
Sunlight fades to dusk, cattle low,
The purple sky provides a show
That would test the grandest master artists skill.
Silence slowly creeps o'er this scene
All the world is at once serene
As sound of evening creatures and wind grow still.
© 2006, Van A. Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Van told us: I visited my son and his family in Lolo, Montana, over Memorial Day. He has a beautiful and peaceful view from his back deck that inspired this poem. After sitting there early in the morning and at dusk for three days I enjoyed many exhilarating and serene sights, sounds and impressions. Everything mentioned in the poem is part of what I saw and felt and experienced over those three days.
Hands Worth More than Silver or Gold
His old hands were leathered and gnarled
But oh the story that they told.
They showed the stuff that he was made of
Those hands worth more than silver or gold.
They'd dug more'n a thousand post holes
Set the posts and hung the cross rails,
Swathed and baled acres of new mown hay
And fed more than ten thousand bales.
They'd saddled a dozen good horses
He'd owned durin' his ranchin' life.
They'd played when the money was flowin'
And prayed durin' hard times and strife.
They'd roped bawlin' spring calves for brandin'
Were scarred from many a dally.
They've herded, sorted, cut cows and calves
And were perfect on the tally.
They've pulled hundreds of heifers' first calves,
Cradled a few in the saddle
When they were too weak to stand or feed,
Calf sittin' 'cross lap, a straddle.
Stroked the neck of a favorite mare
When she was tryin' to give birth.
When the new colt in due time was born
He was proud, the proudest on earth.
And when he first held each new born child
Those hands now partnered with heaven,
Held his wife in a soft special way
On the birthday of all seven.
Yes those hands are leathered and gnarled
But oh the story that they've told.
They show the stuff that he is made of
Those hands worth more than silver or gold.
© 2006, Van A. Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
I Don't Live on the Ranch Anymore
I've straddled many good ponies
And I've my herded my share of beeves.
I've sorted, cut cows and calves
And dealt with smells that gave me the heaves.
I've pulled calves that wouldn't be born
And then mothered 'em up to the cow.
I've worked 'em in all kinds of weather
But now sometimes I sure wonder how.
I've started and finished some colts.
Some outlaws jarred me clear to my soul.
A few were smart and quick to learn
Ya knew they'd never be on the dole.
They'd earn their keep with their savvy
And they'd be quick to tackle each task.
They'd respond to every demand
No matter what it was that was asked.
Life takes many a twist and turn
and sometimes it sure alters life's course
to make a livin' some other way
instead of on the back of a horse.
I now live at the edge of town
And travel down Interstate five.
Managing people's like herdin' sheep
Some days I feel I'm barely alive.
I wrote a few poems for my wife,
For Christmas, about ten years ago.
The words came down in cowboy prose
About the life of her loving beau.
She urged me in to sharin' some,
At Baker City some few years back.
Since then life's sure been a frolic
And has been on a really fast track.
Oh, I'd never trade in my life
Or change anything 'bout where it has led.
I don't live on the ranch anymore
But those mem'ries will never be dead,
And sharing' my rhymes and stories
Of cowboyin' when I was sprout
Put's a real big smile on my face
When they touch a cord and I hear a shout.© 2007, Van A. Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.This poem is included in our Poems about Cowboy Poetry collection.
'Tis in the Spring
'Tis in the spring when life springs forth
And shows the hand of God,
And in my mind I ponder life
And all the trails I've trod.
The things I've seen and all I've done
Have made me what I am.
The year's first calf, a mare's new colt,
Even a newborn lamb,
The chick'ry beds, the sunsets' glow
And all the rivers that I've swum,
Are now a part of what makes me
And all that I've become.
The soft spring rains and melting snow
bring winds that sting my cheeks,
and prairie grass so verdant green,
and swollen valley creeks.
The hands of pards from near and far,
The newborn babies' cry,
The past travails of life lived free
And when someone would die,
Have chiseled lines in this old face
And colored graying hair,
And touched my heart, and made me glad
I haven't traveled unaware.
© 2007, Van A. Criddle, All rights reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Van told us: I woke up one night and was thinkin' 'bout all the blessings of my life, all the things I'd experienced and all the trials we'd been through. I thought of each spring when life springs forth and the new life of the year helps me remember that I haven't traveled this road alone. The Good Lord above has let me experience many things, some good and joyful and some not so good and painful. Each of these experiences has gone into making me who and what I am. I'm grateful that I know that.
Read Van Criddle's
Star So Bright, in our 2007 Christmas Art Spur
and
