Alf Bilton ~
Whitehorse, Yukon
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When Walls Forgot
Her voice banished walls, and "coyotee" calls
Would wash newer noises away;
I'd hear eagles scream, and mountains would gleam
On distant horizons each day.
Revived by her words, the buffalo herds
Again roamed the prairie she knew;
Were slaughtered again, plain seeded to grain,
When "sodbustin' farmers" came through.
She often retold how "Charlie" was bold
Enough to set blooded studs free,
To join a wild bunch, 'cause he had a hunch
Their "get" would remount cavalry.
They could have sold more, "come the Civil War,"
But left a seed herd running free;
And "Young Charlie" wed my grandma instead,
And started his own "fambily."
A found "massacree" became real to me,
As things that she kept on her shelves.
Her stories went on, but wilderness gone,
The plains were like ghosts of themselves.
When pierced by the rails paralleling old trails
That horses bestowed on the West,
And worse yet fenced, the prairie commenced
"Tuh shrivel, 'n' shrink," like the rest.
Then she'd story North, where they had gone forth
On a quest for more untamed land,
Of Saskatchewan, and how they'd gone on
To the Yukon's promising sand.
The mustangers died, but seed scattered wide
Carried on in a world they spurned;
Where wild things are lost, and few heed the cost
Of values we see overturned.
What I am today, I owe in some way,
To stories she pulled from the gloom;
To cowboys and kin who lived once "ag'in"
When walls forgot Grandmother's room.
�2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Waiting For Nightmare
A young midnight sun was, having great fun, playing peek-a-boo down in the peaks;
And the last of the rain had, moved on again, having swollen the rivers and creeks.
Though now she must wait, by an old corral gate, my daughter's eyes shone with delight.
She thought of the mare we'd come to see there. If she liked it, she'd own it tonight.
Just the name of, Nightmare, had already scared older riders and buyers, away;
But I could surmise in her ten-year-old eyes, not a trace of such worry today.
The black Morgan mare just, hadn't been there, on the evening we had arrived;
They'd some riders out late, again she must wait. Hardly breathing, she somehow survived.
From when she could talk or, for that matter, walk; she had longed for a horse of her own.
She'd put reins on her trike, wanted spurs for her bike, kept longing through all the years flown.
Always horses she talked; faked a bow-legged walk; and sent her first letter away
To a famous relation lived 'cross the nation; Olympian rider, Jim Day.
Then Dad had agreed that, it seemed a real need, not a whimsical game just for fun;
But the contract she had with her, soft-headed dad, said first there were things to be done.
She should first realize why, a pony's no prize, for riders outgrow such a mount.
She'd get a real horse; when she'd, grown some of course; and they'd haggled the inches to count.
Most important of all, she must keep up a stall, learn to groom, to pitch, to work;
For such four-legged friends need help at both ends, and it's help that no owner should shirk.
She must learn to ride, so the horse could be tried, and her skill would be part of that test.
Dad knew from the grin, that his closest of kin figured, this was the part she'd like best.
For a four- legged pard she had pledged to work hard'n' wait 'til the inches were grown.
And she had learned to ride, and done chores on the side. So now Doubting Dad had been shown.
From the lake past the trees, a loon warbled pleas, to the powers, in this lonely land;
And the thought crossed my mind that, I hadn't been kind. How much could this little girl stand?
When dreams are fulfilled, something else may be killed, something hid, helping shape who we are;
Achievement can cause other dreams to be lost if an, unforeseen change, goes too far.
Fulfillment's a door can be closed evermore, if we step out to take the great test;
But if we never try, we'll never know why; nor if wanting or having is best.
Now my daughter's first door, I could see there before that, rustic old log corral gate,
But seen only by Dad in the, thoughts that he had, encountered, while sharing her wait.
Then the drumming of hooves, and the glimpses of moves, through the limbs of a nearby pine!
... Running horses swept in with a thundering din ... a black at the front of the line!
Now, it's many a year since, last I was here and, stood leaning against the old gate;
While a kid and a mare took a spin, right out there, ending their long lonely wait.
The door seen as closed, the one that had posed such a, problem, for me, near the end;
Here today I can see as, what it has been: something opened, to let in a friend.
�2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Sylvia
To the hills above Whitehorse, that cradle Fish Lake,
Came a short gritty woman for the home she would make.
With two outridin' daughters, one 'fore an' one aft
Of her team an' ol' wagon, though some thought her daft,
She trekked up the Alcan with rubber-shod stock;
Cuttin' horseshoes from tires so the horses could walk
All those miles on the highway without splittin' hooves;
Set a record in passin' for bold Northern moves.
On a sorrel called Red Fox she prowled the whole land,
What was lackin' in stature, they made up in sand;
Blazin' trails we still follow right through to Primrose
When we're takin' horses where better grass grows.
She dragged up a fam'ly, can't really say raised,
Her methods were different an' not often praised;
They turned out a good bunch, with grit an' stout hearts;
Some took to her lifestyle an' some, other arts.
Her living room forest, her carpet fresh snow,
For a ceiling she'd bright lights that Northerners know;
For a pantry, the wildlife, or ridin' to town
For a shower an' shop some, then turn right aroun'
An' back to the mountain, the lake, an' the chores;
To trail ridin' tourists, an' dude saddle sores.
In the hills above Whitehorse, that cradle Fish Lake,
There's a grave an' a marker you might think is fake;
They are real as the blue tint in clear northern air,
Just as real as the cowgirl that came to rest there.
�2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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That Ride!
A time when the blood's up in horses and man,
When hoof beat and heart beat thud hard as they can,
When sanity, caution, and couth fly away;
Berserker-like joy's turning sober eyes fey.
The herd's into timber and not slowed a lick,
We're racing full tilt where I know it's too thick,
We're taunting the Fates who will flip the next card;
But there's joy in the madness and riding this hard.
Frustration's behind and the fear never rose,
Elation's the spur now that's shredding my clothes;
We plunge through a gauntlet of flailing green limbs,
The forest so dense here the dawning light dims.
The wind's singing by me and hat hits the string;
I'm being slapped silly, but don't feel the sting;
I'm high on the saddle and drunk with the speed,
At one in a union of tree, man, and steed.
It's dancing, this weaving that seeks to avoid
The lances and lashes of trees we've annoyed;
It's graceful and rhythmic as any Strauss Waltz;
And so far, we've danced it without any faults.
They're slowing, we've turned them, we all settle down.
The madness is passing, I feel myself frown
At chances we took with what's left of my hide.
But Heart, Lord, insists we thank You for that ride!
�2005, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Sad Saga of Parsimonious Murray
Parsimonious Murray could never be hurried when thinking of spending a cent,
And if it cost two before he was through, that penny would never be spent.
When he heard of the gold to be won from the cold in a faraway Klondike place,
He was off like shot for the wealth that he sought, one of the first in the race.
He did lose some time while saving the dime on train fare down to the coast;
But assured of his prize, he figured it wise, having taken a lead at the post.
Though it took a few days to walk such a ways, he finally got to the dock;
But when he inquired of boats to be hired, the price was an awful shock.
Next seen on a log going North in the fog, bold Murray evaded the fare;
Pursuing the dream launched so many schemes in a way that no other would dare.
It was getting near dark Parsimonious parked his log on Skagway's beach;
And scuttled through town never looking around with the Yukon now within reach.
At the top of the pass he knew he'd be asked to produce a whole pile of things,
With no ton or two, he'd not be let through, in pursuit of the metal of kings.
"I am here to get gold and not to be told how to spend any money of mine.
When I get to the top, I'll circle the cop, and continue along doing fine."
So he gave them the slip, though it lengthened his trip a bigger bit more than he'd planned,
Beyond the street lights, out where the bug bites, lost Murray just wandered the land.
Where a life is the cost for most who get lost unequipped for the Yukon's way,
Bold Murray came through, to himself staying true, too thrifty or stingy to pay.
It was Dawson he sought and to Dawson he got, some eighteen summers too late;
Then just hung around on the edge of the town, as if he'd a reason to wait.
When the very next year, they called volunteers to go fight the Kaiser in France,
Parsimonious Murray was finally hurried, as if he'd awaited the chance.
The boys took their leave from a crowd looking grieved and I, in the shade of a tree,
Just had to smile, for after a while thought, "One ... wants a ticket home free."
�2004, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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The Wrangler's Hat
"Beneath this broad-brimmed hat of mine, I've always felt at home;
Wuz only while it, hung somewhere, I ever seemed alone.
It weathered life's indignities, bore all the ups an' downs;
An' though it sometimes, drooped a bit; it never let me down.
Without complaint, or mean advice, it shared my hopes an' fears.
No other's ever proved that true, throughout the many years.
So keep yur shiny halo, Pete! If my hat can't go through,
I'll side a pard already tried an', you can ... toss me too."
�2001, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Beyond This River
If other hours and other days await,
Beyond this river beckon hills unseen,
Unwalked, untraveled yet; but here's my fate
On water writ between these banks of green:
It's here I'll fail, or best the current and
Hone my skills to best effect. I will sound
This crossing's bitter temper, learn to stand
Alone in Fury's path and hold my ground
('t may serve me well another time and place
Beyond this ford, beyond this test and text).
I'll not be ruled by Boredom's golden mace,
Forever foreseeking what's coming next.
I'll chance what joys and pain this world can give;
I'll win a shore unknown, and knowing, Live.
�1967, Alf Bilton
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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