The Reciter
The backdrop was darkened
on the barren platform stage,
Then a spotlight focused
on a cowboy bent with age.
The old man walked slowly
a grin on his grizzled face,
Then he began to recite--
his deep voice filled the place.
He told of the cowboy past
through poems about the range,
Classics like the �Zebra Dun� and
�The Strawberry Roan� wasn�t changed.
Those tales bro�t the crowd to their feet
With applause and calls for more!
Then that cowpoke made them cry
When �Lasca� was brought to the fore.
�Little Joe the Wrangler� and
then �Little Joe�s Sister Nell�,
When that old man left the stage
The crowd continued to yell.
Then he limped back to the mic
And slowly spoke to the throng,
Recalling a young man�s life
Then he thrilled them with a song.
He sang the �Cowboy�s Lament�,
Badger Clark�s �Bad Half Hour�,
Closed with �Passing of the Wrangler�
with feeling and with power.
Then encore after encore,
Followed by more requests,
I left the gathering that night
knowing I�d heard the best. . . .
Then the buzzing alarm clock
Pen�trated my fuzzy brain,
I re�lized I was dreaming--
of performing once again.
�2004, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Simple Tastes
I'm a simple man
With simple country tastes you see
And these are some scenes
that really please me.
Black cows belly-deep
In tall grass, so lush and so green,
`tis quite a sleepy
and pastoral scene.
Streams and gurg'ling brooks
Meandering thru undulating ground,
With regal green trees
sprinkled all around.
Wildflowers in bloom
And wisps of dust behind the herd,
Driven by drovers,
shrill whistles and words.
Soft puffy white clouds
Drifting through a deep cobalt sky,
Tall snow capped peaks
and the eagle's cry.
A breeze gently sighs
The aspen leaves flutter and quake,
Midst pleasant sounds
that the song-birds make.
Peaceful valley farms
And hamlets with tall spires above,
The haunting soft coo
of a mourning dove.
Dawn's mist rising
Above the surface of a lake,
As ripples trail from
a skiff's shallow wake.
Barefoot boys traipsing
Along a shaded country lane,
Driving the cows to
be milked again.
Radiant Fall leaves
And the bark on a northern birch,
As peace enfolds an
old frame country church.
I'm just a simple man
Saved by God's Mercy and Grace,
Facing life's trials
at a rapid pace.
And I thank my God
For giving me these simple tastes,
And may we never
view-His scenes-in haste.
�2003, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Paso Por Aqui
Near the San Andreas Mountains in Sierra County, New Mexico,
there is a grave located on the White Sands Missile Range. That of raconteur,
cowboy, gambler, author and poet;
Rhodes, Eugene Manlove
b. Jan 19, 1869, d. Jun 27, 1934
A scenic surprise awaited my eyes
as my pony and I topped the ridge;
a canyon floor I'd not seen before
with meandering stream and a natural bridge.
I took it all in and then looked again
upon a vista so vast and wide,
a gentle breeze through aspen leaves
whispered, then murmured and sighed.
�Can you not see `twas meant to be
that you should pass this way?
Muses and bards and cowboy pards
followed this path in yesterday.�
The cowboys of old in poetry told
of their life out on the range,
that era is gone but their memories live on
and their poetry will not change.
Rhodes, Eugene, part o' the scene
�The Hired Man on Horseback�,
tho he is dead his poem's still read
and his writings have left their track.
And etched upon his old gravestone
in Spanish for the world to see,
these words relate beside name and date,
he passed this way; �Paso por aqui�.
�2003, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Melee
�Go jump in the lake!� Ol' Smitty told Jake
And one word led to another;
Jake hooked a left onto Smitty's cleft
And two friends were fightin' like brothers.
As quick as you please they'us rollin' in leaves
A-biting, and gouging and clawin',
And along came Slim who jumped right in
And started some gosh-awful jawin'.
They'us huffin' and they'us puffin'
Then ol' Smitty lost his shirt,
He was a-jabbin' while Slim was still gabbin'
And Jake went face down in the dirt.
Slim punched Ol' Pete, and was grabbed by Skeet
As Bill, Hal and Jim waded into the fray,
Cowpokes a-hittin' and Skeet was a-spittin'
A front tooth is still missin' to this day.
The horses were rearin' and clothes was tearin'
Hal's hat had been trampled flat,
Pete was bleedin' and Jim was retreatin'
As Wild Bill swung a slat.
A blast from a gun ended the fun
And the melee was o'er.
With pistol smoking the boss wasn't joking
When he came outta the bunkhouse door.
Slim was battered blue and I'm telling you,
Them `pokes was a pitiful sight;
Smitty's chin was black and Jake's nose cracked,
And Jim's eye was swollen tight.
The boss looked around then he spat on the ground,
And he stuffed his cheek with a new chew;
The juice ran down as he stomped around,
Then he up and fired the whole dern crew.
He fumed and he fussed and still he cussed,
As he looked hard at each of them hands,
Then with a sheepish grin he hired `em all back ag'in
There was simply too much work, fer just one man.
�2003, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Cowman's Question
His skin was deep lined and leathery
evidence of the West Texas wind,
deep-set eyes pale and twinkling
and he was wearing an infectious grin.
His face was shaded by his Stetson
with his arms acrost the top wire,
studying the cattle in the pasture
and those calves by his blue ribbon sire.
He squinted up at me in the saddle
then he sprayed a thin stream of brown,
he said, "Son, I'm not one for meddling
but there's a rumor spreading in town."
"The girl you've been seeing says she'll marry
and that the intended groom is you,
Son I have but few words of wisdom,
and on these I'd like for you to chew."
He asked, "Will she help feed cattle in Winter,
will she help the cows calve in the Spring?
Will she doctor and water in Summer,
will she be happy with what Fall prices bring?"
* * *
Twas long years ago when we married,
now its my son in the saddle with a rope.
It's his heart full of passion and love,
and his head filled with dreams and high hopes.
I said, "Son, I'm not one for meddling
but there's a rumor going around
that little girl that you've been seeing
was seen shopping, for her wedding gown."
"I don't have many words of wisdom
but these you can do with what you will,
it's something for you to think about
when you're holding her so close and still."
"Do you think she'll help feed in Winter,
and will she help the cows calve in the Spring?
Will she doctor and water in Summer,
will she be happy----with what Fall prices bring?"
�2003, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Something Special
This poem was inspired by a quote from former Texas Ranger
George Durham; �Clinking silver dollars in my pocket has always done something
for me - sorta like having a blooded horse between my knees.�
There is something about having
a blooded horse between your knees;
That makes a man sit proud and erect,
in anticipation if you please;
Of the raw power released
when rowelled heels lightly goad,
Midst swirling dust and flying
clods gouged from a country road.
There is something special about
a blooded horse between your knees,
Pigging string in your teeth and
elbow tucking your loop with ease;
Then a calf catapults beneath
the gate and in loose dirt races
Across the arena's floor
as the horse and rider chases.
There is something special about
a blooded horse between your knees,
The windblown tears generated
as horse and rider splits the breeze;
To return that old renegade
back into the herd just once more,
As it crashes through the brush
as it has many times before.
There is something special about
a blooded horse between your knees,
When you target a yearling calf
and then your horse's focus freeze;
Then cutting that calf out of the herd
and the gentle waltz proceeded;
While keeping it separated
and added reining was un-needed.
You bet there is something about
a blooded horse between your knees,
That makes a cowboy feel special,
so very special, indeed.
�2002, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Legends In The Sand
I was just a lad of five or so
when my grandpa took me in tow;
To the creek bank where he'd teach
the signs there on that muddy beach.
Possum tracks, or maybe a cat,
a coon's handprint and things like that.
Musselshells with a pearl-like glow
and things he thought that I should know.
Where a turtle had slowly crawled
and a wading Crane's three-toed scrawl.
The diff'rent track of a buck and doe
or where the rabbit had `had to go.
He's been gone now near forty years
still I can hear his voice in my ears;
When I take my grandsons by the hand
and show them the legends-written in the sand.
�2002, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Morning Gather
Soft muffled sounds of riders and hounds,
Penetrate the morning's still.
Silent faces kissed by slow rising mist,
As shadows move upon the hill.
The saddles creak `neath dawn's first streak,
A stock-whip snaps with a sharp crack;
And bedded down cattle arise with a rattle,
With their tails high o'er their backs.
Rattling horns echo through Huisache thorns
Cattle crashing through brush so thick;
Midst Hackberry leaves and clumps o'Live Oak trees,
Cows and steers disappear quick.
Strays near the bog found by rider and dog,
And soon returned to the herd.
To race with a bound startled by a fluttering sound,
From the wings of a flushed bird.
O'er downy thistles and cowmen's shrill whistles,
Hoarse voices and �hi-Yah� sounds,
Chaos was resembled as the herd assembled,
Before nips and yelps of the hounds.
Cattle were lowing and horses were blowing,
As they dance both to and fro.
Cattle want loose from the agile cayuse,
And the ropers with accurate throws.
The sun rose up high in the mid-morning sky,
The gather was divided thrice;
Beeves for the sale and calves for branding travail,
And the main herd was driven twice.
The dogs were called and mother cows bawled,
One steer led in by a dally;
Tired riders dismount and at noon-time discount,
Errors disclosed by the final tally.
�2002, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Typical Small Town Texas
Decorated floats and marching bands,
Mounted horsemen and local cowhands;
Banners and streamers of Blue, Red, and White,
A town full of spenders, a merchant's delight.
Uniformed police directing parking,
Duded up locals and stray dogs barking;
Carnival midway of thriving masses,
F F A and 4-H All-Breed classes.
Aromatic mixture, of hay, manure and beer,
Seven running boys after one loose steer.
Cowgirls in satin and denim and boots,
R C A cowboys and local galoots.
Horses and riders loosening up,
A few sipping drinks from a tin cup.
Some contestants lounging in the shade,
Dignitaries and a Grand Entry Parade.
Amidst swirling dust and stifling heat,
Grandstands filled with folk in every seat;
To watch an event that was S R O,
An Independence Day rodeo.
�2002, Gene O'Quinn
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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