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WILDWOOD SLIM
Manitoba
About Wildwood Slim

 

 

Ear Piercin'

"Ear piercin' done"
I write on the sign -
"Stop in 'an see
This new bizness uv mine"

X-periance I hev -
In piercing of ears;
Thousands I've dun,
And never no tears!

Tattoos have I inked,
An holes hev I made,
Come right on in,
Lets not be afraid!

You want it where?
The lip 'er the nose?
Wa'll, I ain't never,
Done none uv those -

But never you fear,
Jus' open hup wide,
An' see if my tagger
Fits thar inside!

What name 'er wud number
Yi' want wif thet tag?
Perhaps the 'lectronic
So small, hit won't snag?

No, No! Yi ain't leavin!
Not my first client loose!
Here, now I'll jus' grab
Thi' snare 'er the noose!

There, now yer hogtied -
'An I'll snap on thet tag,
Yer friends will all think
Hits all one big gag!

See, its cattle an' hogs,
Thet I've pierced in the past;
Perhaps this here bizness
Ain't gonna last?

'Cause the squealin' an bawlin'
I kin handle jus' fine;
It's the shoutin' and cussin,
Just ain't up my line!

2005, Wildwood Slim
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Wildwood Slim told us about the inspiration for this poem: I suppose it come about from taggin' so many animals in my lifetime, and a friend and I talked about how we should make a business of it, perhaps it could become a fad in the modern human culture? What with all the nose, eye, and other assortment of rings in style.

 

Sellin' the Cows

What wuz it you wuz sayin Ma?
Thet perhaps we sell the cows?
They're only takin' up my time,
No money in it, anyhows?

Hmm, maybe you iz right, my Luv,
Consider it, we ought.
No more work in the blazing sun,
Or equipment to be bought.

In fact, we'd sell the haybine,
The baler, an' bobcat;
Perhaps the horses, n' the saddles,
No need for stuff like that.

I'd kinda miss Starlite n' Pal,
There're sorta friends uv mine;
Tho mostly we ride the "iron" horse -
Even so, I'd probly pine.

No more fixin' fence, then Ma
In the acres, way out back;
But would I miss the birds and trees,
And one's life go kinda slack?

But iffen' we sold the haying stuff
Well, jeepers, confound the luck!
I'd have to drive a low down car
And sell my beloved Truck!

No use we'd have fer a monster truck,
With an engine, turbo driven;
I iz begginin' to wonder some,
If further thot be given?

And what about the cowboy, Ma?
The magic, deep inside -
Sayin' goodbye to the childhood dream;
It kinda chaps my hide!

Or do we let the cowboy go?
Is he just gettin' in my eyes?
But if we bury the cowboy, Luv,
          It's a part of me that dies.

2005, Wildwood Slim
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Wildwood Slim told us that his poem "...was based on an actual dialog between my wife and myself, and we did a bit of soul searching on it. And we kept the cows! No contest. Whether they make money or not, they have a physical and physiological place in our life. In plain terms - exercise and unwind. Last but not least, it's in my blood."

 




Where the Phantom Ponies Run

Will the phantom ponies run for me,
    Should I grow old and gray?
Should the lid be loosed from my earthen vessel,
    And the spirit drift away?

Perhaps you come to visit me,
    Just a shell in an' old wheelchair;
Maybe you try to connect with me,
    But hey, I just ain't there.

An' you're runnin' out of words to say;
    And figure, "his day is done."
Perhaps you're feelin' sorry fer me;
    But no, don't pity me none.

Perchance the Master planned it thus;
    Says his mind, it needs a rest.
And of us two, can you tell me who,
    Is havin' life the best?

While my mind is roamin' the distant hills,
    -  Where the ponies run and play  -
Poor you; - are stuck to these earthen troubles,
    And the cares that come your way.

So clap me on my shoulder, friend,
    And pass the time of day;
But please excuse my vacant look,
    From miles and miles away.

Miles away, on a grassy hill,
    With a silver stream nearby;
With trees stretched out on either side,
    An' a distant coyote's cry.

Way out beyond the earthen cares,
    In the glow of life's setting sun;
Watching with enchanted eyes,
    Where the phantom ponies run.    

2005, Wildwood Slim
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Wildwood Slim told us this poem was "written after spending 2-years' volunteer activity work in a seniors residence, and done in respect to those suffering the various forms of dementia, with sympathy to the family, who bear the greater burden. This may not be how it really is, but who knows? Perhaps it is."


Hoofbeats

Sometimes I find myself alookin'
  Through the years, a backward glance,
And I see the friends of childhood
    From the years now gone before.
And I ponder endless summers
  Fighting foolish odds with chance,
While life drifted, careless, onward
    Till we woke, a child no more.

But it's the hoofbeats. A hundred
  thousand pounding hoofbeats
Of a dozen horses, galloping,
    That keep calling from the past;
As we raced along the creekside
  Feet a pulsing, like vast heartbeats,
In those glorious bygone summers
    Lingering on, like shadows cast.

Bridle chains are still a ringing,
  Creaking saddles call my name;
Tinkling spurs, like errant windchimes,
    Feed my mind their ghostly treats;
Yes, at times I roam in fancy
  To the childhood, whence I came,
But the sound engraved forever
    Come as phantom, drumming beats.

2007, Wildwood Slim
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

 

Read Wildwood Slim's

A Cowboy Christmas Eve in our 2007 Christmas Art Spur

 

 

 

About Wildwood Slim:

2005

"Wildwood Slim" runs a agricultural A.I. business with 30 employees up in Manitoba, Canada, but spends just as much or more time with his 20 purebred Red Angus back in the 240 acres of woods where he lives with his wife and 3 of the 6 children still at home. Grew up with horses and cattle, done some roping, herding, horse training and trick riding, but had to leave the dream behind and work for a living, feed the family. Still has a daughter of the horse he had as a 10 year old. Now with the business running fine, he got back into cattle and makes all his own hay and hauls it home which keeps him out of mischief, keeps him from getting too carried away with his other hobbies of making knives and writing poetry. The poetry bug just caught him two years ago, and as a social recluse, he uses a name he hides behind.

 

 

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