Van Criddle ~
Eugene, Oregon
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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,
Bud says that they�re the latest things.
His dad is feelin� mighty poorly,
Bud says, �It�s to the past he clings.�
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 daylights 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.
Just like those sixteen horses
Men sure can feel that way too,
If they�re left to feelin� useless
And made to feel that they are through.
So when they get a little old,
And a little long in tooth,
If you feel that they�re outdated
And their ways of doin� things uncouth,
Remember they were once the foreman,
Cowhand, peeler or the boss.
They gave their work their everything,
many loops they each did toss.
While you were playin� in the yard
They knew how to git things done.
They busted gut and used their brains
When all you knew was fun.
So when you meet one old and gray
Be sure to give �em your respect,
Take some time to sit and listen,
Be kind,� their dignity protect.
�2005, Van Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Home On The Ranch
Now the old bunk house
It sure wasn�t much
Just four walls and four beds
A sink, potbellied stove and such
The walls all needed some paint
And the floor sure needed ta be waxed
The furnishings, weren�t nothin� fancy
With window panes dirty and cracked
The door slammed shut with a bang
The rusty hinges always squeaked
And when it gully-washer rained
The roof would always leak
But I loved that old place
In spite of its showin� age
Loved the sound of the babblin� brook
And the sweet summer smell of sage
The old black stove kept us warm
(If you could stand the smoke)
Four cowhands all just sittin� �round
Who all shared in many a joke.
At the end of a long hot day
The old beds they felt just great
There was many, many a night
When I could hardly wait
Sleepin� on an old feathered tick
Filled with the down of a goose
Head burrowed in a lumpy old pillow
It sure was easy to snooze
For four long years I would work
Every inch of that ranch I�d roam
And that four-walled rickety old shack
Was where I fondly called home.
�2005, Van Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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My Heart's In The West
Now when I�ve rode that last dusty trail
and my cowboyin� days have ended
I hope dear friend you�ll go my bail
and plant me where I�ve always intended:
Beneath the sod back in the pines
Away from the crowded spaces
Away from folks and telegraph lines
With just the trees to watch o�er my traces
Trees that watch my final lair
Where no one cries over me
There I�ll rest with nary a care
Where my pine guards watch and keep me
Snow covered branches bend under the weight
Over me who�s been a drover
While I quietly lie in wait
For my God to call me over.
�2005, Van Criddle
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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