Holding The Gather
They come from miles around—
Silver survivors of the sage,
To chew cuds and paw the ground,
Tell windies and act half their age.
Gathering they call it—
A revival of cowboy pride,
Seeing old pards just for a bit—
And remembering those that died.
They sit around campfires
And under spreading shady oaks—
And no one calls them liars
About old days and older jokes.
It’s more than old stories—
It is something that does matter
‘Bout friendships and old glories
And the holding of the gather.
And like the herds contained
And rounded up in days gone by—
We sing the cowboy refrain,
And laugh and shout and nod and cry.
So years now round us up,
Under clear skies and on new sod—
No longer young calves or pups,
Brushed by the last brief breath of God.
©Glen Enloe
2007
When Trails Have All Grown Over
As the city keeps encroachin’
And ranges grow up in clover,
Few cowboys ride out this way,
When trails have all grown over.
Cows are few and sparse these days
And trail drives are in the past—
You seldom hear cowboys yelp—
You fear it might be the last.
Campfires are few on the range,
They used to be near and far—
Now when there’s one on the plains,
You wish on it like a star.
Each year ranchers grow fewer—
Business bought out the drover—
Like Indians we’ll be gone
When trails have all grown over.
©Glen Enloe
2007
Faces In The Fire
On those cool summer evenings when coyotes haunt the night
And the campfire is dying--burning low, then flaring bright,
A cowboy plays harmonica while others sing and hum--
While down by the chuck wagon a lonely guitar still strums.
A few pokes like Lon Stonecipher stare silent at the fire,
Imagining old friends and folks in times both dear and dire.
Lon sees and talks to faces that flicker in gold flames--
He asks them of the weather--remembers all their names.
"There's Delton and Rosella, old Burlin and Rob Alcorn,
There's that sweet Renata Robins that kissed me one June morn.
There's Cal Shirlo and Spud Scanlon, that both died in the war,
And Addie Belle from Abilene that said she'd love no more."
Cowpokes yawned and nodded--on his wild words did not dwell--
They knew the man he used to be, but this was just his shell.
The faces in the fire gave him comfort and offered hope,
They were his last salvation--without them he could not cope.
Lon stared into the fire for many hours before sleep--
His rest was fitful, frenzied--never calm, peaceful or deep.
And often he'd awake and gaze mournfully once again
Into those glowing embers in search of friend or kin.
"I can see my last saddle pal, young Matthew Leatherwood
And a Dodge City gambler that I shot right where he stood.
I see my dear grandmother and my sister Anna Lee--
My grandpa and brother Jim who died at the age of three."
The fire burned low and so did Lon out on that prairie bow,
But this was as it always was, at least until just now.
"I see you, ma--I see you, pa--your faces smile at me,"
So said old Lon one last time drifting upon a prairie sea.
They buried Lon Stonecipher right out on that cold dark land--
And right beside him built a blaze as hot as they could stand.
Then they watched the flames dance and stared long into that pyre,
And to this day some still swear Lon's face was smiling in that fire.
©Glen Enloe
2004