Eve Thornton

Eve Thornton ~ Michigan

The Kid From Durango

Scrawny pint-size cowboy trying hard to be a man,
mimicking his heroes with a toy gun in his hand.
Riding wooden stick horse up and down a cotton row,
dreamin� dreams of boots and buckles, did the kid from Durango.

Young man picking cotton balls, his stick horse and toy gun
laying in the attic gath�ring dust out of the sun.
Toiling with his fam�ly up and down each cotton row,
still dreamin� dreams of cowboy scenes, did the kid from Durango.

Soldier dressed for battle trying hard to be a man,
sent to fight for freedoms in a hostile foreign land.
Crawling on his belly through a wild rice paddy row,
too scared to think of cowboy dreams, was the kid from Durango.

Wounded son face-down in mud and passed out from his pain,
dreamin� dreams of small hands dragging him from where he�d lain.
Waking to the sound of copter blades whirring real low,
then drifting off to sleep again, did the kid from Durango.

Survivor weeping softly, holds photo in his hand,
found tucked inside his helmet, brought home from foreign land.
A Nam child on a stick horse beside a wild rice row,
dreamin� dreams of cowboy heroes, did the kid named Ca Binh Hao.

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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How Special Can A Cowboy Really Be?

Have you ever wondered why a cowboy�s different
How he chose his life the same as you or me?
Or just what makes a cowboy what he is, and
How special can a cowboy really be?

I�ve seen a few cowpokes as lean as beanpoles
While others are as portly as their steed,
I reckon size don�t ever make no diff�rence, though
How special can a cowboy really be?

Some have got a flashy stagger in their swagger
Kind�a like that ol� John Wayne in baggy jeans,
Their clothing reeks of horsehide and wet leather, so
How special can a cowboy really be?

Now my daddy was a cowboy and a wrangler
And my ma loved him until she went t�seed,
Ev'ry mornin� he�d pick flowers for her hair, though
How special can a cowboy really be?

They�ll look you in the eye without a blink, pard
And their handshake�s all it takes to strike a fee,
They believe that reapin�s what you get from sowin�
How special can a cowboy really be?

I can tell you all first hand that you�re mistaken
If the outside of the man is all you see,
�Cause it ain�t his clothes or scent or even gait, but
That big ol� cowboy heart that calls to me.

So if you ask me why I think they�re special
Or, how special can a cowboy really be?
Why, I�d trust my life a hundred times to a cowboy
�Cause who they are is good enough for me.

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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The Last Word

Now all the boys at the Bar IQ
had heaps of smarts in their noggins,
but two stood out among the whole crew:
�Young Hoot Worth and old Bill Skoggins.

Young Hoot was a blue-blood character,
and windy as a cyclone blaze.
He�d been there, done that an� seen it all,
�tongue quicker than a crow on maize.

Hoot could talk at length about the �greats�
like Van Gogh an� Shakespeare an� Ford,
and always had to have the last word,
�mule-stubborn was his keep and board.

It came to be on December 3,
that snow storms hit the old line shack.
Nothin� to do �sept to drink what brewed
�so young Hoot went on the attack�

Now Skoggins was known to ride alone,
real quiet with a slow boil point.
But hours of Hoot�s ramblin� IQ
�soon got old Bill�s nose out of joint.

We could plainly see that Bill was peeved,
but bein� a wagerin� man,
he proffered a bet that counted on
�Young Hoot not seein� through his plan.

When the boy took rest from his windies,
an� when a pin-drop could be heard,
Bill Skoggins laid out his wager plain,
�when he said: �I�ll have the last word.�

�You�re on!� said intelligent Hoot Worth.
�Old man � you�re silly as a loon.�
Then threw down his share of the wager,
�an� waited for his �opportune�.

Hoot got right quiet �round the bunk house
�hangin� on to Bill�s every �neigh�.
Bill's only comment was a �howdy�,
��til the day he just passed away.

All us boys were gathered �round Bill's grave,
payin� last respects to our ol� crone,
when Hoot turned whiter than chalk dust as
�he read this engravin� on Bill�s stone:

�Boy, don�cha know that Van Gogh was slow?
Shakespeare had fear of bein� heard?
Maybe Ford forged mobile empires, Hoot,
�but this old LOON had the last word!

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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Last Call For Sweet Creek

An old conductor made his way between the aisles again.
His simple spiel the same today as it had always been:
�Sweet Creek is comin� up next folks � your last call for Sweet Creek �
�bout five more minutes down the line then three from Sutter�s Peak.�

He eased himself down in his seat, the one toward the back.
He guessed he had some time to eat the sandwich in his sack,
and as he ate his eyes looked at the passengers in tow
� just one for Sweet Creek stop today, four total in the row:

A friendly lookin� ol� cowboy dressed in his Sunday best.
White stetson trimmed with feathered band and shiny blue-stitched vest.
The silver buckle on his belt proclaimed what he had done
� six seconds when he�d lost the ride, but ten when he had won.

The young couple just behind him, I s�posed were newlyweds.
They tightly held each other�s hands and nestled with their heads.
Cloth luggage bags between their feet, containing all they own,
and silently I wished them well while travlin� to their home.

A bespectacled grandmother, white hair pulled back in bun,
was smilin� at the newlyweds, remembrin� her loved one.
She took his photo from her purse then held it to her chest
recallin� mem�ries in her mind of livin�, work, and rest.

An old conductor checked his watch, then pulled the whistle cord.
The train chugged once and stopped right near the disembarkin� board.
He waited for the passenger, knowin� he�d be weary,
then took his one-way ticket to � Sweet Creek�s cemetery.

A friendly lookin� ol� cowboy dressed in his Sunday best.
White stetson trimmed with feathered band and shiny blue-stitched vest.
The silver buckle on his belt proclaimed what he had done
� six seconds when he�d lost the ride, but ten when he had won.

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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Is O'Malley A Real Coward?

I was hangin� out at Danny�s place with friends from �round the town
where most would gather Friday nights just t� laugh and clown around.
All waiting �til the singin� hour when Karaoke sounds
would further cheer the atmosphere of Dan O�Malley�s lounge.

Dan stood six-feet-six, three hundred pounds; a muscled, gentle man.
For many years he labored hard just to buy his piece of land.
Then nail-by-nail and plank-by-plank he�d made his dream come true
and built this fine establishment, patroned by rough stock crew.

For all his �timidatin� looks, some folks thought Dan a coward
�cause sev�ral years before this one he�d run across Rank Howard.
A mountain man and mean as sin, Rank had confronted Dan,
then spread the word that Dan turned tail to keep from fightin�, ran.

Tensions had brewed between these two until on that fateful day
when someone yelled out from the crowd �Rank is headin� this-a-way!�
The boys clustered by the windows � looked out the swingin� door �
and sure nuff come that orn�ry son, �mean� pourin� from each pore.

Dan stopped wipin� off the table tops when Rank burst through the door
but seemed to me Dan swallowed hard, then he looked up from his chore.
Rank stepped t�ward Dan with fists balled tight, intent on doin� harm;
then Danny done the strangest thing and raised up both his arms .....

O�Malley started twirlin� �round, like them ballerinas do!
Some good ol� boys a-watchin� Dan started chokin� on their chew!
Rank Howard�s jaw dropped to the floor; he stood there mesmerized
and then he started laughin� hard, tears jumpin� from his eyes!

Is O�Malley a real coward, or a real good bus'ness gent?
Rank Howard a mean mountain man or a lonely malcontent?
Whatever questions there might be, or answers we might know
one thing�s for certain on that day, Dan put on quite a show!

I still hang out at Danny�s place with my friends from �round the town
where most will gather Friday nights just t� laugh and clown around.
All waiting �til the singin� hour when Karaoke sounds
are sung by ol� Rank Howard, boys, in Dan O�Malley�s lounge.

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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Whispers On The Mountain

I hear whispers on the mountain
with each breath they call to me
to view a sound remembered
in the land of Cherokee.

Hear Hunkpapa Sioux beat war drums
in a frenzied rhythmic show
bidding warriors join the dance where
only bitterroot will grow.

Hear the call-to-arms resounding
as the 7th Cavalry
are sent riding forth in battle
to enforce a boundary.

Now the whispers have grown silent
but the mountain casts a glow
o�er each fallen son of 7th
where a red skin son won�t grow.

On the Black Hills of Montana
Little Big Horn River crooks
and the trickling blood of his�try
writes the pages of its books.

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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What A Hoot!

Does anyone remember ol� Hoot Gibson,
That silver screen compadre of renown?
His heroic deeds inspired some,
And the ladies hearts he won some,
As he drove black hearted bad guys out of town.

He had no comic sidekick to bring laughter
He wore just one six-shooter in his belt
His pristine white hat was tallest,
And his cowboy manners flawless,
Right beside his loyal steed he often knelt.

Now Hoot was not a John Wayne in appearance
The truth be told his face was somewhat plain
But his smile was quite infectious,
Teeth as white and bright as Texas,
With a five-feet-nine thin frame he�d guide his reign.

In Hollywood they�d seen his great potential
The 20s lit the screen with Gibson�s rank
He rode hard to keep his calling,
And made money by not falling,
Then he grinned that famous grin straight to the bank!

He hit the big time rolling in that money
For sure he�d earned his fame and laughs t� boot
Vested time in learning acting,
Drew real fast that pistol packing,
And was heard exclaiming loudly �What a hoot!�

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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Old Boot Sunrise

My ol� pard, Jake Montgomery,
just left a while ago.
We�d vis�ted �til the sun came up
when our conversation�d slowed.

Cause suddenly he got real quiet,
tears glistening in his eyes,
then says to me, �Thank you, my friend,
for this good �old boot� sunrise.�

�Old boot sunrise?� I�d queried,
�Don�t think I�ve heard of that one.�
Then ol� Jake began to speak, and,
I listened �til he got done.

�Old friendships, just like ol� worn boots,
make creases in our living
sometimes the scratches, scrapes and dents
can show how much we�re giving.�

�Now, take for an example, son,
them mule boots that you wear,
that gouge right by the heel there, pard�s,
�bout ten years old, I swear.�

�It happened when ol� Ruby bay
got spooked by that field rat�ler
and ol� Doc Simpson grounded me,
�cause my leg bone got shattered.�

�Just like the neighbor that you are
you took my chores as yourn,
for months you worked my land and yours
got boots well scuffed and worn.�

With that, ol� Jake just up and went
still swiping at his eyes,
and left me here just pond�ring on
this good old boot sunrise.

�2008, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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At The End Of My Last Ride

At the end of my last ride and the end of this trail
when my pay�s been collected and I don�t owe no bail,
I�ll just brush down ol� pony �n I�ll drop off my gear
then we�ll head out for someplace that�s not too far from here.

Where the grass grows so thickly that it�s like a green bed
and I won�t need no saddle to lay beneath my head.
There�s a waterin� hole there just as pure as can be
where we sip our fill slowly, my ol� pony and me.

Then I�ll see from a distance some old pards ridin� tight
so I greet them and seat them �round a campfire that night;
And the stories we share there �bout the place that we�ve come
gives each cowpoke great pleasure, right down to the last one.

We�ll visit by the firelight �midst a warm hick�ry breeze
while our ponies are feedin� neath the lush green grass trees.
In the mornin� we�ll saddle and head out t�ward the rill
where the Trail Boss is waitin� at the foot of Boot Hill.

At the end of my last ride and the end of this trail
when my pay�s been collected and I don�t owe no bail,
I�ll just brush down ol� pony �n I�ll drop off my gear
then we�ll head out for someplace that�s not too far from here.

�2007, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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The Ballad Of Katie McCray

While she knelt down on the earth that held her husband�s final mirth as
Preacher Simpson was delivering the word,
Katie�s thoughts of vengeance fleeting soon consumed her mind a-greeting
all the ways to seek revenge �gainst what she heard.

That blackard who had coldly shot her Danny dead so boldly,
left him bleeding on red clay to die alone,
couldn�t know the woman�s grieving held such hatred in its seething
and that soon he�d face the judgment he would own.

Some say poor Katie�s mind went right along with all good horse sense
wedding ring she traded in that very day,
and the rifle she had toted was then cocked and fully loaded
when she found ol� Al O�Malley by the way.

Though Al saw her from a distance he pretended no resistance
while his hand moved slowly down to reach his gun,
then a blast came from the alley where it felled ol� Al O�Malley
and left Katie's rifle smoking in the sun.

A beleaguered June O�Malley then stepped forth from that dark alley
all could see that she�d been beaten by the man,
as tormentor lay a-dying those two women stood a-crying
soon expecting that the law would take a stand.

An indifferent Sheriff Lawdare turned away from what he saw there
he declared that Kate and June were never seen,
and as sure as south winds blowing o�er two graves �neath trees a-lowing
not one person in that town said diff�rently.

Some years later old Doc Leary made a statement then quite queery;
when three bullets in O�Malley he had found,
seems that dear ol� Preacher Simpson had refused to preach his end son
since his daughter, Kate McCray, was not around.

�2007, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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The Hitchin' Post

That hitchin� post I used to see
has been cut down, for pricey fee,
and all that�s left of my home town
are mem�ries strewn �bout hallowed ground.

Not sacred to construction crews
is town�s old church with wooden pews
or big red barn behind Hank�s Store
where all would meet to ready for

planting season or yearly ride
in hay-filled wagons pulled side-by-side
and all us kids jumping around
and having fun to hoofbeat sounds.

In just one day I saw it fall �
but that old post hurts worst of all
a hundred years it stood around
�til progress marched and took its ground.

And now I sit �neath this old tree
while watching this calamity
but I can think of just one thing �
an old hitchin� post rope tied to
long-ago Springs.

�2006, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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Mem'ries Of Yesterdays

If I imagine, I can see them
mem�ries of yesterdays,
like deep-grooved hooves in traveled trails;
wagon ruts in sun-baked clay.

Mama cooking on the old wood stove,
Paw tending to the stock;
big Brother Jared skipping stones,
�cross a pond named Muddy Rock.

My baby Sister Sarah napping
in a crib that Paw had made;
a �whooshing� sound when wind blew through
the old hayloft where I played.

The ride to Sunday morning service
in an old tarp-covered rig;
and Dillon James, the preacher�s son,
fiddlin' to a boot-scoot jig.

Jared signed on with a cattle drive
the year he turned 18;
then made it big in rodeo
and settled in Abilene.

Sister Sarah became a teacher
in a town not far away.
She never married; but she�d say,
her �kids� always brightened her day.

Now me, why I married Dillon James,
he preached and I'd sing a song.
Together we raised five young�uns
who have long since grown up and gone.

Paw and Mama, you�re not forgotten.
Just yesterday I placed some flow�rs,
above the meadow you rest in;
loving thoughts have mighty pow'r.

If I imagine, I can see them
mem�ries of yesterdays,
like deep-grooved hooves in traveled trails;
wagon ruts in sun-baked clay.

�2005, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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Beloved Oklahoma

A yellow moon is lowin� o�er the hills of Oklahoma
and the stars are bright as any ever seen
The splendor of the shadows cast across the rolling meadows
reinforces all that man could ever dream

The rain is softly fallin� o�er the range of Oklahoma
and subjects the earth to bounty here below
Beloved land of promise where my people live encompassed
and well nourished from clear rivers mighty flow

A breeze is fairly blowin� o�er great land of Oklahoma
all the deep green grass moves gently to its sway
Over countryside wheat crops and black sod below geese flocks
Oklahoma mine, another perfect day

A time will soon be comin� o beloved Oklahoma
I must surely rest within your fertile ground
And when that time comes to me cover o�er me ever gently
that I may hear the music of your Oklahoma sounds

�2005, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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She Was The Maker Of The Song She Sang

She was born in a sun-weathered farm house
near the black oak woods of old San Antone
her folks had been farmin' people
and older then when she came along

They had not been bless'd with other children
so this babe was a blessing from the start
tho' over time they came to know her diff'rence
and special love was purposed in their hearts

Now her parents were God-fearing people
without a doubt they would accept it all
resigned themselves to just be there to love her
until the Great Almighty made his call

Not quite 10 when they first heard her humming
ears straining toward the songs of singing birds
she'd never spoke a word up to that moment
and now these wondrous sounds were being heard

She hummed a diff'rent tune for wind and water
for tumbleweeds and crickets out at night
her angel's voice took on a special lull when
hearing beating wings of doves in flight

The townsfolk people came to know and love her
accepting who she was as long years rolled
the soft-like gentleness in disposition
endeared her to the hearts of young and old

Death came a callin' in the Spring of '20
together Mom and Dad had gone away
beneath an aged oak were found with hands clasped
in prayer they'd met their maker there that day

The girl was taken by the hand and brought to
a modest outdoor graveyard in the town
as she looked upon their rest, her first tears came
long moments she stood still with head bent down

And then her shaking hands she raised toward heaven
with upturned face the hum was softly heard
she saw something in the sky that we could not see
from clouds came forth the sounds of many birds

To this day I can't explain what happened there
she was the maker of the song she sang you see
and as sure as doves alight there day and night now
'twas she who sang ... God wrote the melody

�2002, Eve Thornton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

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