WHAT A BOY LOOKS UP TO
Del Dube; thin cowhand in the rafters
helping Dad to build the shed
Torn jeans and old bent boots
too full of holes for walking
but good enough to ride
Stepping light
from beam to beam
held up by air and cowboy pride
and a young boy’s adoration
COWBOY POETRY
This is not the poetry of pulling calves
in a cold wind and a foot or so of spring snow
with only a vest and a bottle of rye
to keep you dry
This
is the poetry
of that calf that would have died
standing on shaky legs
to drink warm milk
from the cow that would have died
REED BETWEEN THE LIONS
My mother’s will was always
stronger than my won’t
My father’s won’t was always
stronger than my will
Caretaker soft or Cowboy strong
How quick I learned to change my face
to face the faces that I faced
And’
I can still spin that mirror now so you
can see the face you want to see
But neither you nor I will know
which one is me
BLUE EYED BOY
Blue eyed boy
blasts off from breakfast like a quail on a rail
Collie dog leaps on board
and they’re off across the prairie
barely touching the tops of hills
Sun gives warmth or cloud gives shade
all depending on his whim
birds and rocks and swaying grass
everything living embraces him
Burrs don’t stick and thorns don’t prick
even fences joining in the play
happily turning their barbs away
Floating along on the wings of four
not long now till they slam that door
FROST BITE
On the prairies they know
that you have to use snow
In January on the Wood River
the laces got wet and then stiff
and could not be untied
Walked the whimpering long mile home
in one frozen skate and one warm boot
part of my foot and all my toes
numb and milky white
On the prairies they know
that you have to use snow
Too much warmth all at once
can bring the feeling rushing back
with more pain than you can stand
I have since learned
and this is the sad part
It is the same way with the heart
FOR MARY WHO LOVES HORSES
I have ridden the fence line
without believing in fences
I have been one with the movement of horse
the strength and speed of horse
the grace of horse and the
soul of horse
I have been one with the wind
and the high rolling hills
and the sky
I have stepped down
with my hands filled with staples and pliers
For the welfare of cattle and neighbours
who still have need of believing
in fences
ODE TO THE FARMER
No one will be surprised by the report
that farming is a very dangerous sport
What flapping empty fingered gloves
point back to momentary lapses
What limbs with what power
have been taken off by
power take offs
What tendons snapped like glass
and bones cut clean as grass
by unthinking mowers
And what of those neighbours dead and true
who for a minute forgetting what they knew
through red machines combined
with their grain
All these have earned his dusty tear
and many a “who’s next” fear
Year after year, after year, after year
And yet deep in the soils of time
the seeds of his goodness are growing
while the world turns in slow seasons
and he will be ready
when at last they declare
a true war on poverty
and are willing to bomb with wheat
SWEARING OFF
The story was told by my old friend Bill
about a time when he was four
well maybe a little less, maybe a little more
Seems he’d been rubbin’ up against some boys in town
and learned some language that made his momma frown
His folks tried about everything from soap on down
but the lessons they were pouring in just wouldn’t stay down
Finally they said, now Billy my boy
the decision we’re makin’ gives us no joy
Because generally we like you , and you’re pretty good
with your chores
but there’s no room on this ranch for language like yours
So, though it’s sure to make us grieve
we’ve packed your bag, and you’ll have to leave
They peeked through the curtains as he walked down the lane
with Dad remindin’ Mom that some lessons have pain
Billy stood at the road for 20 minutes or more
then slowly trudged back and knocked on the door
They slipped from the window and opened it slow
he said
“where in the hell am I supposed to go?”
THE COPENHAGEN KID
I didn’t kill a b’ar when I was only three
but I did start to chew before I was two
They say Copenhagen cowboys have a tendency to lie a bit
usually it’s how young they started and how far they can spit
Now I ain’t got many silver buckles to brag about
but this is for sure and without a doubt
I’ve got the record when it comes to snuff
for the earliest, and shortest, addiction to the stuff
Now my memory’s a little foggy but the legend’s quite clear
that somewhere between my first and second year
My daddy leaned over the crib to kiss me goodnight
with the can in his pocket not sittin’ too tight
It seems from the beginning that I sure liked the stuff
and, in no time at all, ate that whole box of snuff
Legend doesn’t tell my exact shades of green
but I hear there were some that had never been seen
Though out behind barns and sometimes in bars
I’ve tried cigarettes and pipes and a few good cigars
Still when folks pull out that old round can of thar’s
all my colour comes back and they think I’m from Mars
ALBERTA AIR
(a song still waiting for the music)
Alberta air, Alberta air
You’ve gotta breathe
that good Alberta air
It rolls in over the mountains
it rolls out over the plains
it smells of age old glaciers
and brand new gentle rains
It’ll cleanse your heart of worries
and wash your soul of pains
for there’s a world of love and kindness there
feel it blowing through your hair
Alberta air, Alberta air