A Grand Plan
When God first thought of man, He made 'eem a plan.
He grinned as He pondered His scheme.
This was such a grand plan, a plan as grand as man.
"This will be every little boys dream".
Th' time must be right, so He used His foresight
to determine th' where and th' when
He'd put into place this strong hybrid race
of th' species, Homo-Sapien.
"Peter, come here, and lend Me your ear."
God spoke and then grinned at His pun.
"I've had Me this plan since before I built man
and I think it's 'bout time it gets done."
God laid His plan out and Pete let out a shout.
He said, "Lord, that's th' best I've heard yet."
"This century's ripe for someone of that type.
But You knew that already, I'd bet."
The angels got word and their spirits were stirred.
They sang songs and beat tambourines.
"I'll give him great wit. Folks'll call him a poet.
And make sure there's plenty of beans."
"I know what I'll do." God spoke to His crew
as they gathered around th' Great Throne.
"I'll snatch that old demon, th' one known as "legion"
and put 'eem back in some hide, hair, and bone."
"That demon-filled hide will get known far and wide.
I'll call it a Texas Longhorn.
And this new breed of man, the one in My plan
will hear the "call" th' day that he's born."
Th' mother gave birth on God's beautiful earth
to a man-child. Her heart filled with joy.
His spirit grew free for he was destined to be,
The very first Texas Cowboy.
�2005, Dave Watson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Th' Call
Th� first time that I saw th� kid we were movin� yearlin� cattle
to th� next
patch in this new-fangled rotation.
In truth, pasture rotation had turned out to be a blessin�.
If ya stuck right to th� bi-monthly migration.
We put th� cattle in a heep, and slurried �em around.
They headed down th�
fence just like we�d planned.
Then, suddenly, th� lead steer jumped at somethin� on th� fenceline.
Eight
hunnert head o� yearlins broke and fanned.
These babies were th� freshest bunch. Th� �herd� concept was new.
So each one chose his own and separate trail.
We threw th� reins up on our ponies ears; th� chase was on.
Like gatherin�
eight hunnert head o� quail.
Right back where we started after I don�t know how long,
we heeped �em up and slurried �em again.
Cept, this time, I rode up ta where that steer had found that booger.
Despite my anger, I just had ta grin.
A little toe-head boy, couldn�t be much more�n seven.
Hunkered in a clump of
careless weed.
�Bout six feet on th� outside of th� fence, he looked up at me.
I said, � Boy, you have done a awful deed!�
I told �eem it was he who spooked these cows and made �em bolt.
Caused needless extra work for horse and man.
�Now you, git on where you b�long. Don�t come �round here no more.
I catch ya, I might give your hide a tan.�
A smile of terror on his face, he stood. His eyes were puddled.
I said, �GIT
ON!", he broke into a sob.
Lower than a earthworm in a wagon rut, I felt, when he said,
�I�m just
studyin� my job.�
We turned and went our separate ways. I pondered on his words.
I asked th�
cowboss if he knew th� lad.
�Yep, he�s somewhere�s in th� line of seven other younguns.
His mom does wash. Don�t think he has a dad.�
�That kid�s been bitin� ankles here since he got outa diapers.
He shows up when we go ta pen a mob.
I�ve run �eem off a hunnert times. He just shows up again.
He says that he�s
just �studyin� his job.�
I rode fer that brand two more years and in that span of time
I saw that kid a dozen times, I guess.
He�d always say th� same darn thing; �I�m studyin� my job�,
right after he�d
just made a awful mess.
From there I drifted place to place, and somewhere on that trail,
I found my
wife and started life anew.
I punched a time clock, lived in town, My heart still punchin� cattle.
Th�
hardest thing I ever had to do.
For ten years, me, my wife and kids, chased years, now, as a family.
I guess
you�d say I�d got �domesticated�.
I�d kept my saddles, horse and tack. Did day work on th� side.
I�d been toned down. Not emasculated!
We took a trip one summer. Th� boss called it a vacation.
(while cowboyin�, I never heard that word)
We passed right by th� ranch road where I first saw that young boy.
Way off, I saw �em movin� a small herd.
I turned. My wife just smiled. Both my boys could ride and rope.
We hadn�t let ourselves get citified.
I pulled up to that spot�.. I recalled �eem hunkered down.
I saw th� small
white cross and nearly cried.
Somehow I knew that small white cross was honorin� that lad.
It hurt ta think that little boy was dead.
I noticed writin� carved into th� cross. I squatted down.
�Just studyin his job� is all it said.
I drove in silence down th� road ta where I thought he�d lived.
My wife and
kids allowed me this aside.
Th� two-room clap-board shack was abandoned and run down.
My wife said, �Go
on, honey, look inside.�
A rat- infested sleepin� bag lay crumpled in a corner.
It had ta be that little feller�s bed,
�cause printed on th� wall in red crayola were these words,
�If you can�t be
cowboy- might as well be dead.�
Old pictures from old magazines of cowboys and their horses,
were plastered,
nailed and glued along one wall.
Regret and guilt washed over me like I had never felt.
Bless his heart�. This little boy had heard �Th� Call�.
That�s all th� story that I know. My diggin� stopped right there.
My soul took on th� grief that I had earned.
I�ll tote that grief around awhile � then store it in my heart,
with other
�Life�s Hard Lessons� that I�ve learned.
�2005, Dave Watson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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