tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70787930753717940882024-03-13T11:18:57.206-06:00Paul Kern's Cowboy Poetry & Western VerseUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger114125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-17332938435064653252013-11-25T08:10:00.004-07:002013-11-25T08:10:41.003-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-27635372896829093392011-05-24T11:06:00.001-06:002011-05-24T10:53:12.920-06:00CDs by Paul Kern reviewed in "Rick Huff 's Best Of The West Reviews"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsJO1EqLFSXglx2jFbLrktT4It4OHRwrEg25L4uFhf4f3gyY31R8vYb9MM5R2rrQJ5J0BQArYI7jwthtPBBfnsxR3_ph44avuwJ15_RRaZlc9vbndurVEm4TnOhffeD7IZ0GZfJPN-Hih/s1600/Morning+After+Rain+CD+Cover.png"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 390px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610317404101387250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsJO1EqLFSXglx2jFbLrktT4It4OHRwrEg25L4uFhf4f3gyY31R8vYb9MM5R2rrQJ5J0BQArYI7jwthtPBBfnsxR3_ph44avuwJ15_RRaZlc9vbndurVEm4TnOhffeD7IZ0GZfJPN-Hih/s400/Morning+After+Rain+CD+Cover.png" /></a><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://www.cowboypoetry.com/rickhuffreviews6.htm#pk">Morning After Rain</a></span></strong> </div><div>Reviewed by Rick Huff<br /><br />Here’s as honest an interpreter of original works as you’re apt to find! Utah Cowboy Poet Paul Kern has once again managed to project that subtle energy in his low-key approach.<br /><br />I don’t recall another time a poetry CD’s title track was a mere :52 seconds long, but Kern gets the job done with it. He writes with a clear and careful economy of words to evoke his images, and he does it in perfect meter. All the tracks are worth a close listen, but for those who require them some picks include that title track “Morning After Rain,” “If He Nickers At Yer Comin’,” “I’ll Just Have To Pay Myself,” “The Last Horse Trade,” “Nary A Track,” “A Trajectory Off Course” and “So Long, Lee.” Particularly effective is the musical support on the album from Clive Romney (guitar) and Tom Hewitson (also on guitar, harmonica and mandolin).<br /><br />Fourteen tracks total.<br /><br />The CD is available for $10.00 by clicking <a href="http://kunaki.com/MSales.asp?PublisherId=113415">here</a> with his previous fine release Rimrock.<br /><br /><br /><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 396px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 381px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208156110297049074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGJ-4NesOCsAArMfLfwehytS4kPK0_ajY6UgPuguylqsiIlFfIm5YpmvhSo10kYOIiIBG7RzsWVoQ0gHJ_MAQ-jf3PvDrE3Xx9uZ70Xq5uEFnzOmutluhyphenhyphenZkrIxSRfPdz8LGsS9m0Vdav/s320/Rimrockcd+Cover+Front+copy.jpg" width="398" height="317" /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.blogger.com/www.cowboypoetry.com/rickhuffreviews.htm#pk"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Rimrock (Where Memories Rhyme)</strong><br /></span></a>Reviewed by Rick Huff<br /><br />Paul Kern subtitles his CD Rimrock with one of his lines "Where Memories Rhyme," then goes on to further define the collection as "Hopelessly Romantic Cowboy Poetry!" I'd call it more "hopeful and art-filled!"This CD is the recorded companion to Kern's book of the same title. The crafting of these verses shows Kern to be wonderfully in command of what he wants to say, and his low key but involved delivery draws you in so you care about the message.<br /><br />More poets and reciters would do well to take notes on the Jay Sniders, the Joel Nelsons and the Paul Kerns...and, yes, in drawing the comparison I am indeed placing his work on this CD in those ranks (as well as revealing a bias of mine against "theatrical" delivery of Cowboy Poetry)! He understands in recording he's not addressing an auditorium.<br /><br />Kern's words frequently present lingering thoughts and lessons that transcend the workaday cowboy life. "From a horse camp with its rhythm of chores, you learn the needs of others come before yours" is a good example. His poem "As I Bridle In The Morning" and others are rich with observations. "On Smokey Before I Go" is one of the best I've encountered depicting an old cowboy's last ride. Particularly effective music pads from Shaun Harris Studios used throughout enhance this product.<br /><br />The CD ($10.00) can be ordered online and paid with a credit card by clicking with your mouse right <a href="http://kunaki.com/MSales.asp?PublisherId=113415">here.</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-66436569278261119202010-06-16T12:06:00.003-06:002011-09-19T09:43:16.885-06:00As Evening Sets on the Yellowstone<span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern </span><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:arial;">For miles you hear the rising howl,<br />It sends down a fleshy shiver,<br />Wolves are coming off the prowl,<br />Over there across</span> the river.<br /><br />It starts off hauntingly slow,<br />Then mounts up to the sky,<br />The pack all joins in down below,<br />‘Til the howling pitch is high.<br /><br />It hits you first with forlorn notes,<br />Drawn out in a minor key,<br />A dominant fifth from two silver coats,<br />Accompanies eerily.<br /><br />A she-wolf joins in all alone,<br />Throat thrashing at the sky,<br />Letting fly a syncopated groan,<br />As evening drifts on by.<br /><br />The primal whine is wild and high,<br />A call from another age,<br />They alone know the how and why,<br />As it echoes through the sage.<br /><br />It starts off hauntingly slow,<br />With a piercing mournful moan,<br />The pack all joins in high and low,<br />As evening sets on the Yellowstone. </span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-2588127127124700912010-06-16T11:52:00.005-06:002011-08-11T12:59:05.299-06:00My Last Visit with an Old Cowboy Friend<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:130%;">So Long Lee</span>
<br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;">By Paul Kern
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<br />Lee, wake up – he was nappin’ in the fall,
<br />Say who? It’s me Lee, you know – Paul.
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<br />Hell, I reckon I’ll be 100 next January 8th.
<br />Just a few more months now, d’ya think He’ll wait?
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<br />My mother doesn’t even know me now,
<br />I’ve been away too long.
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<br />She lives here in town you know,
<br />I’d like to see her, but she don’t know me now.
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<br />Where’s your Dad? I’ve been waitin’ for his call.
<br />He passed away Lee, passed away last fall.
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<br />You know we was friends and had done it all,
<br />Best friend I ever had – You say he’s gone now Paul?
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<br />The Good Lord has a way of calling us back,
<br />So yer Daddy’s gone now, did you just say that?
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<br />Yea - cancer Lee, last fall in Colorado,
<br />My Dad died in my arms, cancer too so long ago.
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<br />Hey Lee, remember your buckskin paint?
<br />Sure you do, remember when he wouldn’t wait?
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<br />I have him in the trailer out front – want to see?
<br />You bet I do – get that walker here in front of me.
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<br />Help me up a bit – a little starched up you see,
<br />Stiffed up in these remanufactured knees.
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<br />Hold the door now there - I’m good to go,
<br />Hold my arm now, don’t let my walker roll.
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<br />Well hello Indy – my what a good horse you was,
<br />You know Paul, horses are in my blood.
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<br />Lee, I’ll help you on if you’d like.
<br />Not now but another day I might.
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<br />Best get back inside, I’ll be late for grub,
<br />Damn – it’s good to see you.
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<br />Thanks for comin’ and come back again.
<br />You know - I’ve been blessed to have good friends.
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<br />Me too Lee. So long - So long Lee.</span> </span></span>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-31053670068172572352010-04-26T07:42:00.000-06:002010-04-20T13:25:58.075-06:00When Emerald Strikes the Clover<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqIEyBqeIAsDVHJFpmZwi6xYHfRooK2lNcTN0hEpCB9oR5ugOOlZZyuoXb0hBjkCVgVvsoz6d5XmbTjnzqHEpwegUnk8mKtvJjb7Symiheocgyf2idkCUNkLXcagODcS9Ue2Z8SsH1oht/s1600-h/hay2008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216185462407540754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqIEyBqeIAsDVHJFpmZwi6xYHfRooK2lNcTN0hEpCB9oR5ugOOlZZyuoXb0hBjkCVgVvsoz6d5XmbTjnzqHEpwegUnk8mKtvJjb7Symiheocgyf2idkCUNkLXcagODcS9Ue2Z8SsH1oht/s320/hay2008.JPG" border="0" /></a>It is haying season in the west. Last winter many people simply ran out of hay and livestock went hungry for a while. Not only was it generally unavailable, if you could find it the prices were doubled. Several neighbors ended up paying $10.00 a bale for mediocre hay. We had enough hay of our own production for our needs, so the shortage did not affect us. The season has changed and we have swung into action on the Quarter Circle K. Our first crop is in and the second is on its way (Photo is of one of our fields).<br /><br />Last winter I wrote poem called “When Emerald Strikes the Clover” which was a wistful anticipation of the coming of Spring. What I never mentioned in that poem was that when the alfalfa (clover) grows, the work begins – starting with the repair of haying equipment. I have recently completely rebuilt my hay mower and wanted to share a tip on sickle bar riveting that someone, someplace may find useful. Once that’s done, I’ll add the poem.<br /><br />Whether you are using a swather or a sickle bar mower to cut hay, both work on the same principle. They each have a long cutting knife that cuts a swath from five to thirteen feet wide. (A swather is a combination implement that not only cuts, but conditions and rakes the cut hay into windrows in a single pass.) The cutting motion is based on a scissor-like action between the stationary rock guards and the blade comprised of two-inch triangularly shaped knife sections individually riveted onto a bar (two rivets each) which is either activated by the tractor PTO (power take off) or the swather itself, if it is a self propelled model.<br /><br />At any rate – here is the tip. During the mowing operation one of the knife sections is bound to break a rivet and will need to be re-riveted. Breakage may due to hitting a rock in the field or through normal wear. The remaining rivet of the two will need to be removed. To do this, use a clinch cutter that we use in horse shoeing. This tool has a sharp punch on one end and a metal cutting blade on the other end and is made to be struck with a hammer to cut off the clinches of old horseshoes to facilitate their removal. Clinch cutters work just as well to cut sickle bar rivets. Grind the punch end down to the exact diameter of the rivet hole for rivet stem removal. When a section needs to be removed, cut the head of the rivet with the cutting blade end of the clinch cutter by holding it in place and striking firmly with a hammer. The head will pop off. Then take the ground end of the clinch cutter and tap out the remaining stem of the rivet. To replace the section, hold the section and the rivet in place using two hammers – one on the bottom of the rivet acting as a mini-anvil and the other used above to forge-set the rivet head. I am sure that all of this sounds totally Greek to those that have never needed to do this, but for that have, we are talking the same language. I know that there are other ways of doing this, but this works pretty slick and I hope it helps someone out there. If it does, send me an email. I have a bunch of other tricks up my sleeve as well when working with sickle bar mowers.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><strong>When Emerald Strikes the Clover</strong> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:85%;">by Paul Kern</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The haystack now is melting down,<br />I see the hoar frost flee,<br />The wind cuts short her howling moan,<br />Dark days are blowing over.<br />A snowbird sings and so will I –<br />When emerald strikes the clover.<br /><br />It's calving time and lambing too,<br />They struggle to breathe free,<br />Most will live but some just won't,<br />Cold days are nearly over.<br />Just hang on for a few more weeks -<br />Till emerald strikes the clover.<br /><br />The horses stand in mud unshod,<br />Their coats hang long and shaggy,<br />Winter moustache on my bronco's lip,<br />The shoer is driving over.<br />They'll be ready again for work -<br />When emerald strikes the clover.<br /><br />Springtime fills most every step,<br />These muddy boots will take,<br />Don't mind too much the windy cold,<br />But am glad when it's all over.<br />I live for days when life ebbs back -<br />And emerald strikes the clover.<br /><br />The haystack now has melted down,<br />And frost takes to the wing,<br />Breezes wafting light and slow,<br />Blue skies have taken over.<br />A songbird sings and so do I -<br />When emerald strikes the clover.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA08UrhGrP_eWmGtsLnhvbIaxvyndGtmijY1Rb1a8SBJUQCroXI51wpwAKqjCjISIf6nltG4n4xZXIe1OXes-JY_wjXZlupPRZG4QzY6piI8q3zv-fUeBdA1mrvKR7JkFMGvVLwzGNZVqW/s1600-h/sicklebar.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216189598194776306" style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA08UrhGrP_eWmGtsLnhvbIaxvyndGtmijY1Rb1a8SBJUQCroXI51wpwAKqjCjISIf6nltG4n4xZXIe1OXes-JY_wjXZlupPRZG4QzY6piI8q3zv-fUeBdA1mrvKR7JkFMGvVLwzGNZVqW/s320/sicklebar.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color:#ffffcc;"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#ffffcc;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color:#ffffcc;"></span><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;<br />var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-49248069905810037962010-04-15T13:57:00.000-06:002010-04-20T13:25:02.063-06:00A Morning After Rain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4TEPFbI8nPLEzomBReg9SGGKBHsXxv7UZwQv36BOF-verfMvKLbBadOl_STCkDNyR9ZfBtlydAXhhMy2dowh-ieUEr2BDYM60Psrc9VAJIvow6AFA51J813XbuVjAWsCfWoJ4NHdCECd7/s1600-h/DSCI1511.JPG"><img style="CLEAR: both; FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4TEPFbI8nPLEzomBReg9SGGKBHsXxv7UZwQv36BOF-verfMvKLbBadOl_STCkDNyR9ZfBtlydAXhhMy2dowh-ieUEr2BDYM60Psrc9VAJIvow6AFA51J813XbuVjAWsCfWoJ4NHdCECd7/s400/DSCI1511.JPG" border="0" /></a>Wintertime in January and February can get pretty tiresome in the intermountain west. Though we enjoy the four seasons and have plenty enough to do - horse-drawn sleighing, skiing, snowmobiling and the inevitable indoor home repair projects, it is nice to occasionally cast a glance to the springtime. I wrote this short poem last spring as I had been out to my hayfields early in the morning and came away just striken with the simple beauty of the alfalfa plants glistening in the sunlight that morning after rain - somehow, it just all seemed right and good. The photo is of that same hayfield, but after the first cutting. You'll notice that we do hay the old fashioned way (sans bales) and with pitchfork in hand.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>A Morning After Rain</strong><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">I didn’t know alfalfa could be so pretty,<br />When the plants are just half grown,<br />But it was that morning after rain,<br />When shadows left a dewy kiss,<br />And I whispered as I caught my breath -<br /><br />I live for days like this. </span></span><br /><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-23090323059308855202010-04-08T22:18:00.000-06:002010-04-20T13:26:50.347-06:00A Little South of Dixie<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRh0OHnV9pPK_y176H1-2GlGB6rblzXc3umysJ7U1o1jHMkbL3gFIWc4zOHh4BECbgqY4VMahg_Kb6Qff73_UUUelsJNipr6URkqU4K-9S25darZlPYWa9QgPBUA-qsP_hC52cUccE_dv1/s1600-h/Salmon+River.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176935709382520562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRh0OHnV9pPK_y176H1-2GlGB6rblzXc3umysJ7U1o1jHMkbL3gFIWc4zOHh4BECbgqY4VMahg_Kb6Qff73_UUUelsJNipr6URkqU4K-9S25darZlPYWa9QgPBUA-qsP_hC52cUccE_dv1/s320/Salmon+River.jpg" border="0" /></a>I spent the summer of 1972 as a whitewater river guide on Idaho’s Salmon River – the fabled River of No Return. We escorted our guests and clients through high-water rapids in one-man fiberglass kayaks. We would work in pairs, so that when one of our guests went overboard, one would chase the person and tow him to safety while the other would go after the wayward boat and pull it through the whitewater to shore. We would then regroup, wring out and get back in. Our guests left the trip with a lifetime of wonderful memories. Seldom was there a dull moment – though there were frustrating ones from time to time. For instance I once pulled a woman out of a whirlpool eddy that was strong enough to suck off her canvas sneakers. I felt lucky to have been able to pull her to safety through some tricky currents without going under myself. When we reached the shore, she offered no word of thanks, just a demand that I go back in and retrieve her shoes. Well, I didn’t and she was an unhappy camper from then on.<br /><div align="left"><br />The Salmon River gets under your skin. This is the river that detoured Lewis and Clark. This is the river that cuts through a series of mountainous canyons so rocky and so steep that there are no parallel roads for most of its length. This is the river of incredible perseverance and power as it carves its way to finally join the Snake, the Columbia and the Pacific Ocean. It is a metaphor to me about overcoming the day-to-day struggles of life. Although it has been quite some years since I last dried out from its waters, it still has a hold on me in my quiet moments. I can almost hear at times the crash and roar of Pine Creek rapids as the waters push on to the sea. I can almost feel at times the wet sand of the river bottom between my toes as I turn my face to the west in the late afternoon sun. My mind’s eye can still see the glance of sunlight on the greenish black water capped with white. The call of the river is a call to arms – to overcome and defeat whatever obstacles are placed in your way. The reward at the end of the course more than warrants the struggle.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">In this poem, Dixie is a small hamlet in central Idaho deep in the heart of the Salmon River mountains. The photo is of road's end at Shoup. This is the second poem I have written about the Salmon River. The first was <a href="http://paulkern.blogspot.com/2007/02/back-to-river-of-no-return.html">Back to the River of No Return.<br /><br /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;color:#000000;"><strong>A Little South of Dixie</strong></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">A little south of Dixie,<br />There’s a river flowing west,<br />With hoary foam and white caps,<br />Dripping from her breast.<br /><br />It’s takes a lot of river,<br />To forge a pathway to the sea,<br />Where no unhallowed human hand,<br />Has dammed her – she’s still free.<br /><br />Through chiseled granite canyons,<br />That old river still flows west,<br />And my mind there often wanders,<br />To ride again upon her crest.<br /><br />I used to cuss the current,<br />So wild and swift and free,<br />‘Til night dreams came a calling,<br />They are calling now to me.<br /><br />Unhindered westward on she flows,<br />And casts her primal trance,<br />The unruly river is a lively gal,<br />That calls me forth to dance.<br /><br />To dance a dance unhobbled,<br />Under starry western skies,<br />Where crashing waves through a precipice,<br />Give hope to weary eyes.<br /><br />Through granite walls of stony glance,<br />And canyons of despair,<br />The river keeps on moving,<br />As she lashes at the air.<br /><br />It takes a lot of river,<br />To forge onward to the sea,<br />Through dark and narrow wilderness,<br />She calls and beacons me.<br /><br />And speaks of oceans,<br />Calm and wide that lap each foreign shore,<br />And tells the tale of victory,<br />Above the crashing roar.<br /><br />A little south of Dixie,<br />There’s a river flowing west, </span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Her waters rage to a peaceful land,<br />And I shall ride upon her crest.<br /></span></span><br /></span><br /><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><!-- Start of StatCounter Code --><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div><p></p><!-- End of StatCounter Code --><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;<br />var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-49208961754842058452010-03-19T15:34:00.000-06:002010-04-20T13:23:44.700-06:00Mornin' on the Desert<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUWspRDYMI-Vo_peaQSRVT6AnzkWFsCONDZk47GPHWUl6PanFdtea5viOnWqzyk03Iqyol0dDZzIXb3y_0yk9YCwhK_k_f4dm8afaJ0paTnC6VZoXM9xj89MNyZUc3ARV5DsCRHtfpvx4/s1600-h/Cabin+Picture+from+Millcreek+Ward[1].jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315015590069456562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 700px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 550px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUWspRDYMI-Vo_peaQSRVT6AnzkWFsCONDZk47GPHWUl6PanFdtea5viOnWqzyk03Iqyol0dDZzIXb3y_0yk9YCwhK_k_f4dm8afaJ0paTnC6VZoXM9xj89MNyZUc3ARV5DsCRHtfpvx4/s400/Cabin+Picture+from+Millcreek+Ward%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />This old family photo, dating from just after the turn of the century shows a cabin in the Millcreek area of the Salt Lake Valley near the old family farm at 3900 S. and 400 E. Today this area is heavily urbanized and paved over with endless miles of concrete and asphalt. The woman standing in the door is noted as a Mrs. Butler, 91 years old and that with one tooth she can still eat beefsteak and Indian corn. Looking closely at the photo, the flower garden stands out as well as the solid brick chimney of the small wooden cabin. In a way it reminds me of the poem often recited by Jerry Brooks -<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>Mornin' on the Desert</strong> </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;">by Kathrine Fall Pettey<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">Mornin' on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free,<br />And it's ours, jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.<br />No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breathe,<br />Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and seethe.<br /><br />Mornin' on the desert, and the air is like a wine,<br />And it seems like all creation has been made for me and mine.<br />No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor's miles away,<br />And a little 'dobe shanty that belongs to me and May.<br /><br />Lonesome? Not a minute: Why I've got these mountains here,<br />That was put here just to please me, with their blush and frown and cheer.<br />They're waiting when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot,<br />An' we jest go campin' in 'em with a pan and coffee pot.<br /><br />Mornin' on the desert-- I can smell the sagebrush smoke.<br />I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke.<br />Ain't it jest a pity that wherever man may live,<br />He tears up so much that's beautiful that the good God has to give?<br /><br />"Sagebrush ain't so pretty?" Well, all eyes don't see the same,<br />have you ever seen the moonlight turn it to a silvery flame?<br />An' that greasewood thicket yonder -- well, it smells jest awful sweet,<br />When the night wind has been shakin' it -- for its smell is hard to beat.<br /><br />Lonesome? Well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in a town.<br />But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown.<br />All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin' free.<br />An' it's ours jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.<br /></span></span><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a> <div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-24362145279178010452010-01-29T13:29:00.000-07:002010-04-20T13:24:28.689-06:00Five Bells Fell Silent at Alcalá<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhChKVhGnoW2XyO2Eak1lBDGTBRHSB9B-wO9EEUbq5taPeoIwRlDqQuhcZqE8vbuUvZ585n9uegCTc28yy79yooFp42_HhWgnvqzoI84qQThyphenhyphenoqkk67W_yR6itVYHhQgSu8_v9YF65hga/s1600-h/800px-San-diego-mission-chuch[1].jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297187091788032178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 323px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhChKVhGnoW2XyO2Eak1lBDGTBRHSB9B-wO9EEUbq5taPeoIwRlDqQuhcZqE8vbuUvZ585n9uegCTc28yy79yooFp42_HhWgnvqzoI84qQThyphenhyphenoqkk67W_yR6itVYHhQgSu8_v9YF65hga/s400/800px-San-diego-mission-chuch%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a>A little more than a year ago I was making frequent visits to both the Blackfoot Indian Reservation in south eastern Idaho and the Windriver Reservation just north of Lander, Wyoming. I became quite well acquainted with many of the reservation Indians and spent hours in conversation with them. I had the chance to travel around the reservations and got to know the general lay of the land of both. Having grown up in Idaho, it was always a source of pride that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacagawea">Sacajewa</a>, a Shoshone was from my home state. What I learned during my time among the Shoshone on two reservations was that she was ultimately buried in the cemetary on the Windriver Reservation. I have visited her grave on several occasions and though some dispute its authenticity, I do not. It is located near to the monument to her son <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Baptiste_Charbonneau">Jean Baptiste Charbonneau</a>, who was the papoose born at the beginning of the expedition led by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_and_Clark_Expedition">Lewis and Clark</a> known as the "Corps of Discovery." Sacajewa carried her infant child all the way to the Pacific shore near the mouth of the Columbia River, where she picked up a sand dollar as a souvenir (later given to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washakie">Chief Washakie</a> and proudly worn in photos - follow link to see).<br /><br />During Jean Baptiste's adult life, he was chosen to guide the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mormon_Battalion">Mormon Battalion</a> to the Pacific coast at San Diego, where they ultimately arrived at or near the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Diego_de_Alcalá">Mision San Diego de Alcalá</a> 164 years ago today on January 29, 1847 (Alcalá means "the castle" in Spanish, taken from Arabic). The papoose engraven on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacagawea_dollar">Sacajewa dollar</a> made it to the pacific shores of our country at least twice - once during the Jeffersonian age of discovery and again during the age of Manifest Destiny that pushed our borders to the Pacific Ocean.<br /><br />So - that is a long and involved introduction to this short but complex poem; without which it wouldn't make much sense. I visited the Mision de Alcalá as a small boy and remain impressed with its ancient grandeur - which changed jurisdiction from Mexican to American. The arrival of Sacajewa's son signaled the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.<br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Five Bells Fell Silent at Alcalá</strong></span><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">Five bells fell silent at Alcalá,<br />And silenced their ancient ring,<br />When Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,<br />Walked to the sea that mid-winter morning of spring.<br /><br />This peaceful strand of destiny,<br />He’d been there and had seen it before,<br />Now Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,<br />With a battalion of men in rags that that they wore,<br />Stood silent as they gazed at the sea.<br /><br />Five bells fell silent at Alcalá,<br />And silenced their ancient ring.<br />When Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,<br />Walked the shores of America that mid-winter morning of spring.</span></span><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-14923923510673280912009-12-15T12:01:00.000-07:002009-12-17T11:43:06.920-07:00My Blue Eyed Bay (Christmas Version)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipvvP713YHDVTG3ahnJQMJ0vn03VuSG4SRu8SM7AtOVTi_D4R_FTBeHMk2th1iCGaAZknKP1g4R_lAvcfUklEqDjiVhTNmgTptead70qkjXpbJepCCpIpomQ6nhggVX7_wZtkf99z9aWpj/s1600-h/rimrockcdcover3.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280096387472569618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 650px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 460px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipvvP713YHDVTG3ahnJQMJ0vn03VuSG4SRu8SM7AtOVTi_D4R_FTBeHMk2th1iCGaAZknKP1g4R_lAvcfUklEqDjiVhTNmgTptead70qkjXpbJepCCpIpomQ6nhggVX7_wZtkf99z9aWpj/s400/rimrockcdcover3.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">My Blue Eyed Bay<br /></span></strong><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">We did some horse tradin' just after the molt,<br />Kirby got old Dan and me - an unbroke colt,<br />When I first handled him he lingered to stay,<br />This was a real good sign for the blue eyed bay.<br /><br /><br />Still only a yearlin' he wasn't much use,<br />I just wanted a horse that'd had no abuse,<br />To get one I'd have to break him my way,<br />We'd get along fine, me and this blue eyed bay.<br /><br />Months of workin' him and sackin' him out,<br />One step at a time each day left no doubt,<br />He was a good one and had a good place to stay,<br />I was startin' out fine with my blue eyed bay.<br /><br />It took five bouts of buckin' 'fore I hit dirt,<br />When he finally threw me just my pride was hurt,<br />That was the last time he'd toss a rider away,<br />It all came together for my blue eyed bay.<br /><br />Months passed, he grew and he learned each gait,<br />But to lope with a rider he preferred to wait,<br />It would come out in time but in his own way,<br />He was movin' out fast now - my blue eyed bay.<br /><br />He loped first on the trail on an uphill swell,<br />That November mornin' it was clear as a bell,<br />There was more to come I could easily say,<br />I'd be gettin' there soon with my blue eyed bay.<br /><br />A horse worth ownin' has to give satisfaction,<br />A good head, soft eye and a whole lot of action,<br />You can get all this if you're willing to pay,,<br />Most horses keep a' givin' like my blue eyed bay.<br /><br />One holiday mornin' in the soft arena dirt,<br />A loose rein, no spurs and no need for a quirt,<br />He picked up his leads and loped circles each way,<br />This, a true gift from my blue eyed bay.<br /><br />Now in that same spirit at this special time of year,<br />True gifts are those given in love without fear,<br />They come from the heart and in their own way,<br />So, Merry Christmas - from me and my blue eyed bay! </span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-77573039912762243802009-12-12T10:21:00.000-07:002009-12-17T11:42:38.664-07:00A Cowboy Country Christmas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIWi57XwHeNCb6XAdiZPA80Pfq-PB0RqJK3UJT9ue3HkHNxt5CEeLOTQWMIAnyjge6W1NdAD5yAHiZdwkxu2dympXchB9UPHKaGHIUg7EWR_4X9nj8PORP3MBw9nwHck4wH6h3ClznFa3/s1600-h/dec+2007+image.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268284867857734562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIWi57XwHeNCb6XAdiZPA80Pfq-PB0RqJK3UJT9ue3HkHNxt5CEeLOTQWMIAnyjge6W1NdAD5yAHiZdwkxu2dympXchB9UPHKaGHIUg7EWR_4X9nj8PORP3MBw9nwHck4wH6h3ClznFa3/s320/dec+2007+image.jpg" border="0" /></a>The world is in turmoil. Our country is waging two wars. My niece's husband is in Afghanistan. We pray for the safety of our troops and trust the right will prevail. At this time of celebration of the birth of our Savior, it is only fitting to remember not only his birth, but also that he gave his life for each one of us. There are others that are sacrificing their all on our behalf. May we not forget their valor. An poignant example of what our boys are doing in Afghanistan can be read <a href="http://www.thiscouldgetinteresting.com/2008/11/the-heroes-of-wanat-and-the-defense-of-op-topside.html">here.</a> In the midst of the battle, let us not loose hope - <em>May winds of war stop howlin’, May flames of hate burn out, May our lanterns lighten up the dark - Mid bitter storms of doubt. </em><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><strong>A Cowboy Country Christmas</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It’s a cowboy Christmas evenin’,<br />Cain’t hardly hear a sound,<br />It’s quiet by the old wood stove -<br />There’s no fightin’ on the ground.<br /><br />There sure is some there overseas,<br />We trust it’s for the right,<br />But still you feel it deep inside -<br />Our kids have gone to fight.<br /><br />The wind’s a pickin’ up some,<br />The fire it throws a spark,<br />The coal oil lantern flickers bright -<br />As it illuminates the dark.<br /><br />Some things will never change,<br />They’ve always been this way,<br />Red hot flames will all burn out -<br />Their coals will cool to gray.<br /><br />On a country Christmas mornin’,<br />With horse drawn sleighs and such,<br />A fresh cut pine and turkey plate -<br />We’ll invoke the Healer’s touch.<br /><br />May winds of war stop howlin’,<br />May flames of hate burn out,<br />May our lanterns lighten up the dark -<br />Mid bitter storms of doubt.<br /><br />It’s a cowboy country Christmas,<br />Why, there’s singin’ comes alive!<br />The wrong shall fail, the right prevail -<br />Where faith and grit survive.<br /></span></span><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a> <div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;<br />var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-42159177656269968802009-12-07T10:30:00.000-07:002009-12-17T11:43:39.352-07:00Prayer Comes Easy in a Barn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCjIUxpMgdN3i3SPQHsGLvmXFszPXk8UK28KRMmbEI41uirNTPUJbkib-rAAYJy9WNRduIw3XTtAvQLe-GVI681PIiq6cMPbthg4g2qXYJBkyc5pn9dP97AbWgo66cZZ29ikSHofLmMO6/s1600-h/winterbarn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268283767335071698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCjIUxpMgdN3i3SPQHsGLvmXFszPXk8UK28KRMmbEI41uirNTPUJbkib-rAAYJy9WNRduIw3XTtAvQLe-GVI681PIiq6cMPbthg4g2qXYJBkyc5pn9dP97AbWgo66cZZ29ikSHofLmMO6/s320/winterbarn.jpg" border="0" /></a>My children and I built a pole barn from the ground up through the hot winds of a Utah summer. Little by little we were able to provide shelter from the elements and create a place of protection for our animals. I’ll always remember the December morning I went out to feed and found a homeless man shivering in the hay. I gave him a ride into town and tried to help him reconnect with what little support system he had. Some weeks later after I had fed and watered the horses, the sunrise broke over the summits of the Wasatch Range. The snow was crisp and so cold it creaked under foot. My mind went back to Jeff the homeless man. For centuries man has taken refuge in a barn. For centuries they have been the salt of the earth. This poem is an attempt to express the feelings that came over me that December morning.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><strong>Prayer Comes Easy in a Barn</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#000000;">by Paul Kern</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#000000;">When sunlight bathes the winter morn,<br />All creation is reborn.<br />The horses watered, fed and warm,<br />Prayer comes easy in a barn.<br /><br />When Mary’s babe his eyes did open,<br />He saw the sheep, the goats, and oxen.<br />In a feeder filled with fresh cut hay,<br />He first began His earthly stay.<br /><br />It was cold without, but the warmth within,<br />Came from the love of his Next-of-kin.<br />He was not kept from the noble beast;<br />Nor from the shuffle of its cloven feet.<br /><br />Simple folk there went and in awe they stood,<br />Unbathed, unschooled, unread, but good.<br />To welcome in this newborn king,<br />Amid the livestock and the steam.<br /><br />The sounds and smells of earthy creatures<br />Caressed the child as gentle fingers.<br />Mary his mother gave birth that day,<br />To a shepherd for all who’ve lost their way.<br /><br />It all began in a humble barn,<br />With the animals, our King was born.<br />There’s something special that I find,<br />With the hay and beasts – a peace of mind.<br /><br />When sunlight bathes the winter morn,<br />All creation is reborn.<br />The horses watered, fed and warm,<br />Prayer comes easy in a barn.</span><br /><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a> <div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-86745416473022428562009-12-04T10:35:00.000-07:002009-12-17T11:44:06.746-07:00The Christmas Celebration of Helen Dutton<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEVnOBsZQlAruTjE3uRuc2nuWvA1cg-FmOJS2goiaqep0BOaB3d9nL3ApSoUiq_fMwdK-e0ujSNbrlt7803U5cwidBSdXlORiTvGlIJ273eZLT8qsvRibbDFYQgN1j9N3NQ8-CJhfaqxw/s1600-h/helen+dutton2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276021325994115122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEVnOBsZQlAruTjE3uRuc2nuWvA1cg-FmOJS2goiaqep0BOaB3d9nL3ApSoUiq_fMwdK-e0ujSNbrlt7803U5cwidBSdXlORiTvGlIJ273eZLT8qsvRibbDFYQgN1j9N3NQ8-CJhfaqxw/s320/helen+dutton2.jpg" border="0" /></a> This is the way it went during a mid-winter Sunday School class in Idaho Falls in the mid-sixties. Families that attended church together made up an assortment of farmers, ranchers, local small businessmen and employees of the National Reactor Testing Station located west of town. Some families had steady incomes - many did not. For more than a few, hard scrabble times were the norm. I remember once a good friend - from such a family telling me that it was tough being poor. You started out with used stuff and then when it broke down there wasn't enough money to have it repaired and so the cycle went - usually downward. I have had conversations with people not from Idaho who tell me, once they learn I grew up there that they have never seen that kind of poverty before. Though, times have improved in the ensuing years, my early associations with kids who sprang from the salt of the earth have given me a degree of compassion for those less fortunate than myself.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Christmas Celebration of Helen Dutton<br /></span></strong><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000000;">Christmas had come as quick as it went,<br />Cold was breezin' through the hot air vent.<br />Us rowdy kids didn't much give a care,<br />For what the teacher was sayin' there.<br /><br />It was cold outside and the snow was high,<br />It squeaked underfoot as you walked by.<br />Your breath would freeze inside your throat,<br />Arctic wind nipped at your old winter coat.<br /><br />Like colts in the mornin' of an early snow,<br />We were buckin' up and wouldn't let go.<br />And then she did it without makin' a fuss -<br />She asked what we'd all got - for Christmas.<br /><br />Well, Mike he got a new pair of chaps,<br />A Stetson, new boots and a pistol with caps.<br />And Butch by golly got a bunch of new shirts,<br />Some games and a monster toy called Lurch.<br /><br />Lanona, the quiet girl, if I correctly recall,<br />Got a blue gingham dress and a Barbie doll.<br />And Rayelle the redhead got somethin' too,<br />A three-speed bike that was fancy and new.<br /><br />From kid to kid the teacher went round,<br />We listened good to what the others had found,<br />Under the Christmas tree - when all of a sudden,<br />She turned and asked that little Helen Dutton.<br /><br />The Dutton's lived in a tarpaper shack,<br />On a ramshackle farm they rented out back,<br />And well out of sight on a rutted dirt road.<br />No one should go there - or so we'd been told.<br /><br />Well, Helen brightened up just a speck,<br />And we did too, hey what the heck -<br />Maybe she'd had a celebration too -<br />Good, that's what families normally do.<br /><br />Helen Dutton hadn't washed in a while,<br />But when she broke into this great big smile,<br />Could it be she was ready to tell us all -<br />About some new clothes, new shoes or a doll?<br /><br />Or maybe about a holiday feast with her Dad,<br />With turkey and ham when he wasn't all mad.<br />Or maybe a box of oranges and treats and candy,<br />Or the party they'd had - that'd sure be dandy!<br /><br />Now it was time for Helen to take the floor,<br />There'd been none of what was said before.<br />But she smiled softly as she began to talk -<br />She'd got a colorin' book and two pieces of chalk.<br /><br />That's it? That's all? What about the toys?<br />And sugar plums for good girls and boys?<br />Not there. Just a crooked smile and tangled hair.<br />Helen had a few more words to share.<br /><br />This girl with threadbare clothes and a dirty face,<br />Would teach us somethin' 'bout dignity and grace.<br />Little Helen Dutton went on to say -<br />"Toys don't count much - 'least not on Christmas day.<br /><br />"Mamma was home and the fire was warm,<br />And Daddy'd came in from working the farm,<br />He put up a sagebrush for our Christmas tree,<br />And we all got excited my sisters and me!"<br /><br />After a meal of oatmeal and a horehound stick,<br />Helen reached under the sagebrush and went to pick,<br />The present with the colorin' book and chalk.<br />Then Mamma picked her up and gave her a rock.<br /><br />She whispered somethin' as she cradled her tight,<br />Like Mary musta' done that first Christmas night.<br />Those quiet words of Helen Dutton just won't go away -<br />"Toys don't count much - 'least not on Christmas day."<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><script ype="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /></span></span><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></span></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-70370382534002527792009-12-01T13:55:00.004-07:002009-12-17T20:34:27.221-07:00The Rush of the One-Horse Sleigh<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWSp6hoLtId3d14TwCsSuCfJWlwIUKiqtYlWQQBTNgJy11aeYQjf-jxQO34tqTcuL1elpwzDu-FLasJnay_k8Kbhf4g1MiVtbs9VlJYdHEEeAS5qr4J5K_ap5Y9KFBajXDl_TPrIz0_I4V/s1600-h/Rush.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280867296333555714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 295px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWSp6hoLtId3d14TwCsSuCfJWlwIUKiqtYlWQQBTNgJy11aeYQjf-jxQO34tqTcuL1elpwzDu-FLasJnay_k8Kbhf4g1MiVtbs9VlJYdHEEeAS5qr4J5K_ap5Y9KFBajXDl_TPrIz0_I4V/s400/Rush.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></strong></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></strong></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></strong></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></strong></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">The Rush of the One-Horse Sleigh</span></strong><br /></div></span><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:78%;color:#000000;">by Paul Kern<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#000000;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">They try to get me to, but I can’t convert,<br />To a motorized sled - now what would it hurt?<br />It’s not that I object to that kinda’ fun,<br />Making curves an’ all on a downhill run.<br /><br />But what I really prefer is a different kinda’ ride,<br />In a one-horse sleigh with my bride at my side.<br />There are few thrills that can compare,<br />To thundering hooves kicking snow in the air.<br /><br />I call out his name with a touch of the whip,<br />We charge off in an instant and hope we don’t tip.<br />Snuggled up warm in a buffalo robe,<br />Ears covered in fur right down to the lobe.<br /><br />With gloved fingers ever so light on the reins,<br />A swish of the tail and a flying lead change,<br />Spraying fresh snow from a high stepping steed,<br />A turn to the right he again changes lead.<br /><br />The creak of the harness and the groan of the sleigh,<br />Are all notes of the music of a cold wintry day,<br />Sleigh bells ring out as we flash through the snow,<br />We dash away now with cheeks all aglow.<br /><br />The hours rush by in the wink of an eye,<br />The horse is tired now and, well so am I,<br />It’s hard to have a better day than this,<br />I reach over to steal a mid winters kiss.<br /><br />For years we’ve all sung the songs of the sleigh,<br />There must be a reason for those carols to stay,<br />It’s a whole lot more than – the horse knows the way.<br />Must be the ride and the rush of the one-horse sleigh.</span></span> </span></div><div><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /></span></div><p align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /></span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEb2SVCsbrkVJ2oGXy8JjzE8eGBoeplr4KVV8AIkQtT0YpQSmKb0AT-7Cpx5XdTDXUpyjhklleQkhJYDBYlzzrv7J1-9pOYMYrOz3kN5Y3PrdM3Hubh832Ypz9OscNKZms5YjrnE2LQbr/s1600-h/daniels_summit_lodge.jpg"></a><div><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div><br /><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><!-- Start of StatCounter Code --><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><!-- End of StatCounter Code --></div><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-62326021699652325202009-12-01T10:24:00.000-07:002009-12-17T11:44:41.814-07:00Bring Er' Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPpVqcHwXtO0mh3uApnz2DzJ96h4dRUhIOJKz59HQNVsuZGpJ2dMRCI-XktPT15zR8mnqweGr1i8D3PvwJjz0XM06bsnbwAQ9sNiEVwgFkQ5mV3z2NYFN6uRDq0BQfGXqN9stT9Ok8Ypwz/s1600-h/chirstmas2001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272279857860998498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 370px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 243px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPpVqcHwXtO0mh3uApnz2DzJ96h4dRUhIOJKz59HQNVsuZGpJ2dMRCI-XktPT15zR8mnqweGr1i8D3PvwJjz0XM06bsnbwAQ9sNiEVwgFkQ5mV3z2NYFN6uRDq0BQfGXqN9stT9Ok8Ypwz/s320/chirstmas2001.jpg" border="0" /></a>Christmases past and Christmases present roll into Christmases future. I view these old photos with a little nostalgia - the older one below the poem was taken around 1978 with my parents Reese and Rae, sister Holly and brother Ralph. (I sported a long moustache for more than ten years.) The one to the left was taken in 2001 with my own family as well as horses Dan and Aspen who both have long since departed. The one thing both pictures have in common is an evergreen Christmas tree. I like to feel, especially now that the green color - even in the middle of winter is a sign of eternal life and renewal, which is after all the purpose of Christ's birth.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><strong>Bring ‘Er Home</strong><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">by Paul Kern</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Along about December,<br />On a western mountain slope,<br />When the snow is deep an’ crusted,<br />An’ yer head is full of hope.<br /><br />When each breath crystallizes,<br />An’ clings a moment to the air,<br />Then falls upon yer horse’s mane,<br />An’ hangs - jest like a curtain there.<br /><br />Night breezes shuffle southward,<br />The sky is clear and cold,<br />Ya’ pick a star an’ tell yerself,<br />An old story you were told.<br /><br />Of a baby in a lowly barn,<br />Well – I reckon jest a shed,<br />For unto you is born this day. . .<br />Those words dangle in yer head.<br /><br />An’ live jest like an evergreen,<br />On that frigid mountain slope.<br />So ya’ cut a pine that’ll do ya’,<br />An’ dally tie it with yer rope.<br /><br />The sun will soon start climbin’,<br />The mornin’ star has jest blinked out,<br />That tree yer draggin’ on yer horse,<br />Recalls what He’s about.<br /><br />It’s jest a little evergreen,<br />To spread some Christmas cheer,<br />So bring ‘er home to remember Him,<br />As we celebrate this year!<br /></span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEKM6V_Dc4Wh0WgLujz7h-AxdHMtJwld8OfjqXDQDDBolx09_zT7lqNdlulDUbLh4LNPZ01i7Rk4CX-S3flp7lXjMnKfP-jE2M1tiH4JRZPsfIIpLTLW6x-xty7btP42dCgkjReGNe0Bh/s1600-h/Cutting+Trees+at+the+Cabin[1].jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272280650380962658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEKM6V_Dc4Wh0WgLujz7h-AxdHMtJwld8OfjqXDQDDBolx09_zT7lqNdlulDUbLh4LNPZ01i7Rk4CX-S3flp7lXjMnKfP-jE2M1tiH4JRZPsfIIpLTLW6x-xty7btP42dCgkjReGNe0Bh/s320/Cutting+Trees+at+the+Cabin%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"></script><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a> <div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-9632933658243450792009-09-02T14:02:00.010-06:002009-09-04T08:07:31.605-06:00This God Forsaken Land<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXMiZoiX0oV898SVCYDL4NF2KGW4vNdaMYGKXID-Dtx6xt7RHuV-yBvCRZbPyJmGWbnep3zBsPLXOfBHntO0KLpdJ8F2vnb3EFNhREb9Xje9NmOGr9Fso98kc99NNoVTy8cG4dU44O48F/s1600-h/Spanish+Peaks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376971782012780050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 288px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXMiZoiX0oV898SVCYDL4NF2KGW4vNdaMYGKXID-Dtx6xt7RHuV-yBvCRZbPyJmGWbnep3zBsPLXOfBHntO0KLpdJ8F2vnb3EFNhREb9Xje9NmOGr9Fso98kc99NNoVTy8cG4dU44O48F/s400/Spanish+Peaks.jpg" border="0" /></a>Summer has now passed and the days are getting shorter and darker. Though I regret the passage of time, I have taken good advantage of these past three months. After the spring round-up in Grantsville and a mid-June trip with Kathie, Erika my daughter, my mother, sister and brother-in-law to Cornwall and Somerset, England the summer began in earnest. I managed to squeeze in as much back-country riding as possible based out of our cabin and small ranch in Idaho just minutes from the continental divide and Montana. Together with family and friends, we laid down wagon tracks or hoof prints or both in Utah, a good part of Yellowstone National Park, the Lee Metcalf Wilderness Area and adjoining National Forests - from the petrified forests of the Gallatin to the Spanish Peaks overlooking Big Sky and Moonlight Basin to the magnificent alpine Hilgard Basin and beyond. We joined a wagon train to commemorate the sesquicentennial of Gunnison, Utah, danced the night away at the Victorian Ball in Virginia City, where I was asked to recite a little poetry and finished off August with our traditional “Evening in the American West” show where I mixed it up for a large audience with the cowboy trio “Latigo.” While in Virginia City, I came across the following poem. I liked it and thought I would include it here. Montana is indeed a special place.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>This God-Forsaken Land</strong><br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This God-Forsaken Land, they call it,<br />As they gaze with pitying eye,<br />Nothing here but sagebrush,<br />And a vast expanse of sky.<br /><br />We don’t know how you take it,<br />Those city folks declare,<br />And how do you make a living?<br />Or do you live on air?<br /><br />They wonder at the twinkle in our eye,<br />And the smiles we try to hide,<br />For in all this lonely windswept land,<br />They can see no cause for pride.<br /><br />But we could tell them of our ranches,<br />Where great herds of cattle roam,<br />And of the flocks of bleating woolies,<br />That claim Montana as their own.<br /><br />We could show them our oil wells,<br />That pour forth liquid gold,<br />And in those places they call “barren,”<br />There are deep, rich veins of coal.<br /><br />They may not see our fertile ranches,<br />With their fields of hay ad grain,<br />But nestled there among the hills,<br />We have them just the same.<br /><br />This “Loneliness” they talk about,<br />To us is God’s own peace;<br />There’s so much of beauty all around,<br />That our thanks shall never cease.<br /><br />Our streams are filled with rainbow trout,<br />We’ve antelope, elk and deer,<br />We’re a mile up nearer heaven,<br />And the air is pure and clear.<br /><br />Our sunsets glow with color,<br />And in the pearly dawn of morn,<br />The pungent scent of sage drifts down,<br />On a breeze that’s mountain born.<br /><br />We don’t know much of city life,<br />Or where they seek God there,<br />But we do know in Montana,<br />That we find him everywhere.<br /><br />So to them we’ll leave the cities,<br />Where the living is so grand,<br />And we’ll stay in Montana,<br />In our God-Beloved Land.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(poster for sale in the Virginia – Madison Country Historical Museum, autor not cited)</span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"></span></span><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><br /><p align="left"></p><br /><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-58929960989139998902009-06-26T10:55:00.015-06:002009-06-26T11:32:59.005-06:00On the Rosebud<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBtITsFxSFBRuC8soJY4CYtmFMBKMSRLs0swv71QrHd0S0DnxU3QdkgtbBNBzKEYxZAMDeO4Cc6naHgL4RnhORkALxsYyfpEHsPW_Vj-CaCTjsHQxKm0mSlv_6j9hKN_nXhCrngkHoDVfv/s1600-h/Custer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351686359134276018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 275px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBtITsFxSFBRuC8soJY4CYtmFMBKMSRLs0swv71QrHd0S0DnxU3QdkgtbBNBzKEYxZAMDeO4Cc6naHgL4RnhORkALxsYyfpEHsPW_Vj-CaCTjsHQxKm0mSlv_6j9hKN_nXhCrngkHoDVfv/s400/Custer.jpg" border="0" /></a>It has been 133 years today since the Battle of the Little Big Horn. A visit to the battlefield is a sobering experience - even today. News of the combined Indian victory spread in all directions among the Indian tribes by a combination of smoke signals and riders and did so much quicker than among the whites. The effect was electrifying among the native population and may even have emboldened the Nez Perce to resist the encroachments of the U.S.government a little more than would have normally been the case one year later in Idaho and Montana. I remember as a boy re-enacting the battle with my brothers and neighor kids - long before the anniversary of Custer's Last Stand and hit the century mark.<br /><br />The Battle of the Little Bighorn — also known as Custer's Last Stand and, in the parlance of the Native Americans involved, the Battle of Greasy Grass Creek was an armed engagement between a Lakota–Northern Cheyenne combined force and the 7th Cavalry Regiment of the United States Army. It occurred on June 25 and June 26, 1876 near the Little Bighorn River in the eastern Montana Territory, near what is now Crow Agency, Montana.<br /><br />The battle was the most famous action of the Great Sioux War of 1876-77 and was a remarkable victory for the Lakota and Northern Cheyenne, led by Sitting Bull. The U.S. Seventh Cavalry, including a column of 700 men led by George Armstrong Custer, was defeated. Five of the Seventh's companies were annihilated and Custer himself was killed as were two of his brothers, a nephew, and a brother-in-law. <em>(Wikipedia)</em><br /><br />The author of this poem, William O. Taylor rode with Custer and Reno and was one of the few survivors of the battle. His haunting lines make reference to popular songs of the day that were sung the night before the carnage. The calvary followed Rosebud Creek in their approach to the area of the Little Bighorn river.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;">On the Rosebud<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">William O. Taylor</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">It was June on the banks of the Rosebud,<br />“The Seventh” in bivouac lay,<br />Hard and fast on the trail of the hostiles,<br />We had ridden that long summer day.<br /><br />And now in a bluff hidden shelter,<br />We had stopped for a time to take breath,<br />Knowing well ere the sun set the morrow,<br />We should ride in the shadow of death.<br /><br />For our scouts, all excited and restless,<br />Had returned bringing with them a clue,<br />That beyond the Divide, in a valley,<br />Lay the camps of the war gathered Sioux.<br /><br />And all who followed our Custer,<br />Knew well that a stranger to fear,<br />He would strike, be the odds ere so many,<br />As soon as their camps did appear.<br /><br />As the twilight grew deeper and darkened,<br />And all was so quiet and fair,<br />An Officer group near the river<br />With songs woke the still night air,<br /><br />“Little Footsteps Soft and Gentle,”<br />“The Goodbye at the Door,”<br />While “Maxwelton Braes are Bonnie,”<br />Comes to me o’er and o’er,<br /><br />Songs of home and the fireside,<br />Songs of love tender and sweet,<br />And the last one, was it meant for a prayer,<br />Sent up from the great mercy seat?<br /><br />“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,<br />Praise him all creatures here below,<br />Praise him above ye Heavenly Host,<br />Praise Father, Son ad Holy Ghost.”<br /><br />Good-night, “Good-night” and parting thus,<br />Each sought his soldier bed,<br />A blanket spread upon the ground,<br />The bright stars overhead.<br /><br />And the next day, on the Bighorn,<br />Midst savage shout and cry,<br />And the sun was slowly sinking,<br />They “laid them down to die.”<br /><br />Years have passed, and the bones of the singers,<br />Are mingled in the dust of the plain,<br />Yet often at twilight I fancy,<br />I hear once more that refrain,<br /><br />“I’d lay me down to die.”<br /><br />And green, ever green in my memory,<br />Are the songs I heard that night,<br />By our Officers sung on the Rosebud,<br />In the twilight before the fight.</span></span><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><br /></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-23035252496716424332009-05-01T10:28:00.013-06:002009-05-03T10:14:49.576-06:00The Creak of the Leather<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEquexPNxYN91yS2Ux2H9v7nlRLI_Y2k6HWhoXhceEENaGEyqmHGubvPrYfvBmRiXPj3l7eLacdDC4avRg2LfQV79mAdcujTNIdo6B7XvfLTx1m9zRGGR7OwHNOC1daVo5Mta0Xole7g_x/s1600-h/Peter+and+Indy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331629393531586210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 358px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEquexPNxYN91yS2Ux2H9v7nlRLI_Y2k6HWhoXhceEENaGEyqmHGubvPrYfvBmRiXPj3l7eLacdDC4avRg2LfQV79mAdcujTNIdo6B7XvfLTx1m9zRGGR7OwHNOC1daVo5Mta0Xole7g_x/s400/Peter+and+Indy.jpg" border="0" /></a>The west desert of Utah holds many treasures and secrets of the old west. Recently a group of friends rode out through the cedars near Vernon and watched a band of mustangs (wild horses) as the stallion pushed and directed his group of mares - sometimes towards them and sometimes away. Another friend, together with his brother and father have a large cattle operation just outside of Vernon. In one setting, you can see both cattle and wild horses. A couple of weeks ago, my son Peter and I rode out in the same general area along the Pony Express trail near one of the old way stations and one of the very few watering holes along the way to and from Nevada - Simpson Springs. There we encountered another band of mustangs of about the same configuration as well as cattle roaming the badlands. We had lunch in a draw where "the air was so quiet and dead" that it seemed we were actutally reliving the old classic poem by Bruce Kiskaddon - "The Creak of the Leather." I recited it to Peter as we were resting under the cedars with horses dozing nearby in the sun - hobbled and just waiting for us to get back on. I got to thinking that I should add this poem here. I hope you enjoy it. Peter and Indy are pictured in the photo.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>The Creak of the Leather</strong></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:78%;">by Bruce Kiskaddon<br /></span><br />It's likely that you can remember<br />A corral at the foot of a hill<br />Some mornin' along in December<br />When the air was so cold and so still.<br />When the frost lay as light as a feather<br />And the stars had jest blinked out and gone.<br />Remember the creak of the leather<br />As you saddled your hoss in the dawn.<br /><br />When the glow of the sunset had faded<br />And you reached the corral after night<br />On a hoss that was weary and jaded<br />And so hungry yore belt wasn't tight.<br />You felt about ready to weaken<br />You knowed you had been a long way<br />But the old saddle still kep a creakin'<br />Like it did at the start of the day.<br /><br />Perhaps you can mind when yore saddle<br />Was standin' up high at the back<br />And you started a whale of a battle<br />When you got the old pony untracked.<br />How you and the hoss stuck together<br />Is a thing you caint hardly explain<br />And the rattle and creak of the leather<br />As it met with the jar and the strain.<br /><br />You have been on a stand in the cedars<br />When the air was so quiet and dead<br />Not even some flies and mosquitoes<br />To buzz and make noise 'round yore head.<br />You watched for wild hosses or cattle<br />When the place was as silent as death<br />But you heard the soft creak of the saddle<br />Every time the hoss took a breath.<br /><br />And when the round up was workin'<br />All day you had been ridin' hard<br />There wasn't a chance of your shirkin'<br />You was pulled for the second guard<br />A sad homesick feelin' come sneakin'<br />As you sung to the cows and the moon<br />And you heard the old saddle a creakin'<br />Along to the sound of the tune.<br /><br />There was times when the sun was shore blazin'<br />On a perishin' hot summer day<br />Mirages would keep you a gazin'<br />And the dust devils danced far away<br />You cussed at the thirst and the weather<br />You rode at a slow joggin' trot<br />And you noticed somehow that the leather<br />Creaks different when once it gets hot.<br /><br />When yore old and yore eyes have grown hollow<br />And your hair has a tinge of the snow<br />But there's always the memories that follow<br />From the trails of the dim long ago.<br />There are things that will haunt you forever<br />You notice that strange as it seems<br />One sound, the soft creak of the leather,<br />Weaves into your memories and dreams. </span><br /></span></span><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script></span><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a> <br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-42929525539930179302009-04-16T13:18:00.010-06:002009-04-17T08:12:16.981-06:00America the Beautiful<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvIoWLrUir6xpTEwIL2mE5yERlg2wf0wzkmOCVHi8RpnKkxymPuNMu1_DVJlmcDzferCdMG9tvGAKXfpon9s8GIcnnUyh9u1zUNQv3mx6ZaCvj5B4LJx-hSrm6IEtOSm2XCwRyL4QD9LX/s1600-h/TenCommandmentsAustinStateCapitol.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325377795115488274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 251px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvIoWLrUir6xpTEwIL2mE5yERlg2wf0wzkmOCVHi8RpnKkxymPuNMu1_DVJlmcDzferCdMG9tvGAKXfpon9s8GIcnnUyh9u1zUNQv3mx6ZaCvj5B4LJx-hSrm6IEtOSm2XCwRyL4QD9LX/s400/TenCommandmentsAustinStateCapitol.jpg" border="0" /></a> A good friend, Ken Stevens, of the western performing group Latigo, forwarded this poem to me the other day. I found myself in agreement with its message and decided to post it here. I did a little background check on it through "Urban Legends" and found the following:<br /><br />Comments: Circulating online since 1997 (at which time its author was listed as "Anonymous"), the above poem — this particular version of it, at any rate — has more recently been attributed to Alabama's notorious Judge Roy Moore. Since it has been vetted by presumably reliable sources, I have listed it here as authentic (see authorship update below).<br /><br />Judge Moore vaulted to national prominence several years ago when, as Alabama's Chief Justice, he installed a 5,000-pound monument emblazoned with the Ten Commandments in the state's Supreme Court building. His defiance of a federal court order to remove it on grounds that it violated the Constitutional principle of separation of church and state led to Moore's suspension in 2003.<br /><br />He is also a self-styled poet. In his 2005 book, So Help Me God: The Ten Commandments, Judicial Tyranny, and the Battle for Religious Freedom, Moore evinces a lifelong love of poetry and mentions several of his own efforts, including "Our American Birthright," an inspirational ditty quite similar in style and theme to "America the Beautiful."<br /><br />Among the sources citing Roy Moore as the author of the poem are The American Spectator, the Associated Press, and WorldNetDaily.com.<br /><br />UPDATE: The poem was 'partly' written by Moore<br />In a February 6, 2006 email from the headquarters of Judge Roy Moore's Foundation for Moral Law in Montgomery, Alabama, the organization's secretary Heather Moore wrote: "Part of the poem was anonymous and part was written by the Chief Justice. There are several different versions being circulated [and] this is but one."<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong>America the Beautiful</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">by Roy Moore</span><br /><br />America the beautiful,<br />or so you used to be.<br />Land of the Pilgrims' pride;<br />I'm glad they'll never see.<br /><br />Babies piled in dumpsters,<br />Abortion on demand,<br />Oh, sweet land of liberty;<br />your house is on the sand.<br /><br />Our children wander aimlessly<br />poisoned by cocaine<br />choosing to indulge their lusts,<br />when God has said abstain<br /><br />From sea to shining sea,<br />our Nation turns away<br />From the teaching of God's love<br />and a need to always pray<br /><br />We've kept God in our<br />temples, how callous we have grown.<br />When earth is but His footstool,<br />and Heaven is His throne.<br /><br />We've voted in a government<br />that's rotting at the core,<br />Appointing Godless Judges;<br />who throw reason out the door,<br /><br />Too soft to place a killer<br />in a well deserved tomb,<br />But brave enough to kill a baby<br />before he leaves the womb.<br /><br />You think that God's not<br />angry, that our land's a moral slum?<br />How much longer will He wait<br />before His judgment comes?<br /><br />How are we to face our God,<br />from Whom we cannot hide?<br />What then is left for us to do,<br />but stem this evil tide?<br /><br />If we who are His children,<br />will humbly turn and pray;<br />Seek His holy face<br />and mend our evil way:<br /><br />Then God will hear from Heaven;<br />and forgive us of our sins,<br />He'll heal our sickly land<br />and those who live within.<br /><br />But, America the Beautiful,<br />If you don't - then you will see,<br />A sad but Holy God<br />withdraw His hand from Thee..<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-26983167810940952532009-03-25T08:34:00.015-06:002012-08-23T13:44:05.771-06:00The Monkey's Viewpoint<a href="http://franklinidaho.org/Pics/fort%20map.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://franklinidaho.org/Pics/fort%20map.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 600px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 600px;" /></a> I came across the following account (written around 1923) of Indian fighting, pioneer courtship and a polygamous trial held in Idaho Falls in an old scrapbook in the section tabbed "Family and Friends". Pasted next to the yellowing pages of this part of early history of Franklin - the first white settlement in Idaho, was this poem which appeared on the back of a business card from the Totem Cafe in West Yellowstone, Montana. Evidently someone saw a connection of sorts between the poem and the events described from the pioneering era of southern Idaho. Franklin is just down the road from Preston and Whitney, Idaho.<br />
<br />
<div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial;"><strong>The Monkey’s Viewpoint</strong></span><br />
by Helena Salzman<br />
copyright Lowell Salzman. <br />
Used by Permission</div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: black;">Three monkeys sat in a coconut tree,<br />Discussing things as they’re said to be.<br />Said one to the others, “Now listen, you two,<br />There’s a certain rumor that can’t be true –<br />That man descended from our noble race.<br />The very idea is a big disgrace.<br /><br />“No monkey ever deserted his wife,<br />Starved her babies and ruined her life,<br />And you’ve never known a mother monk,<br />To leave her babies with others to bunk.<br />Or to pass them on from one another<br />‘Till they scarcely know who is their mother.<br /><br />“And another thing, you’ll never see,<br />A monk build a fence ‘round a coconut tree,<br />And let the coconuts go to waste,<br />Forbidding all other monks to taste.<br />Why, if I’d put a fence around a tree,<br />Starvation would force you to steal from me.<br /><br />“Here’s another thing a monk won’t do –<br />Get out at night and get on a stew.<br />Or use a gun or a club or a knife,<br />To take some other monkey’s life.<br />Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss,<br />But brothers, he didn’t descend from us!”</span> </span><br />
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<br />
IDAHO PIONEER WOMAN TELLS 0F EARLY DAY INDIAN FIGHTING<br />
By Davis McEntire<br />
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In the fall of 1863, settlers in southern Idaho and northern Utah were up in arms over the numerous depredations of the Indians. The red men, aroused by seeing their lands being constantly usurped by the invading settlers, were making a last defiant effort to drive the white men from their territory. They were not numerous enough and Fort Douglas was too close to dare engage in a pitched battle, but their ends they hoped to accomplish by guerrilla warfare, by thefts, kidnappings, surprise night attacks, the occasional scalping of a lone white man, and by a thousand and one other petty, irritating annoyances. No one felt secure except in the fort for savages lurked in every ravine, hollow, and clumps of brush, occasionally they would ride into the villages and profiting by the •white man's principle that "it is cheaper to feed them than to fight them" would spend the day begging, quarreling and drinking.<br />
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This state of affairs continued until the settlers found it almost unendurable. But the Indians had not committed any acts of violence so there was no excuse upon which they could call out the soldiers. But the savages grew bolder, their depredations grew increasingly frequent and severe. Relates Mrs. Mary A. Hull, an eighty five year old resident of Whitney, Idaho, then a young married woman in Franklin:<br />
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"A large party of Indians came into Franklin, early one afternoon when we were all busy threshing and made their camp on the creek bottom below the village. Then of course they began their usual course of begging and pilfering. Nearly everybody was assisting on the threshing machine and so could not watch them carefully, but I happened to be in my cabin at the time and from a back window saw two squaws sneak into our granary, seize two small sacks of wheat and run for their camp. Grain was a precious commodity in those days, so grabbing a pitchfork I ran in pursuit. I gained rapidly on them as they were heavily loaded and what would have happened had I overtaken them is hard to imagine. But I never reached the thieves; instead I turned and ran for my life, for other things were happening with amazing rapidity. A drunken Indian on horseback, came riding from the saloon, encountered a white woman on his way and attempted to run over her. Failing in this he swung a heavy stick and began beating her savagely about the head and shoulders. She screamed, ran, and fell and instantly every man in the village was rushing toward them with upraised clubs and pitchforks. The woman staggered to her feet, he struck her again, but by this time the men had arrived and were striving to thrust the Indian from his horse with their forks. He swung his club, knocked several to the ground and would have made his escape but just then a man ran up with a revolver in his hand, he shook it viciously at the red man and ordered him to dismount but hesitated to shoot. A man by name of Benjamin Chadwick, my brother, jerked it from his grasp, and fired. The Indian fell from the saddle without a word and lay motionless on the ground. Then the war cry was started and Indians came yelling from all directions. I heard the shot; saw the Indian fall, and terror speeding my steps, fled for safety.<br />
<br />
"The Indians collected in a body, a few rods from the white men and many were the ugly words and black looks that passed among them. A pitched battle seemed imminent and as the two groups stood eyeing each other, the sir seemed suddenly charged with suspense and danger. A word and the savages would have hurled themselves upon us. It was the Indian chief who relieved the situation. Even as the white men were looking for places of fortification, he rode out from, his band and spoke.<br />
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"White man kill Indian", he said, “who is he” We want ‘um. No one spoke but all looked about for Chadwick, but he was no longer there. Sensing that his life was in danger, and knowing that there were those who would give him up rather than plunge the village into battle, he had quietly taken leave. ‘Ben’ was no coward but he was far from being a fool. "He's not here, Indian" replied one of the white men, "you've missed him, he's beat it." But the Indian was unconvinced. “We no care, where he go," he replied, "but we wantum white man. White man kill Indian, Indians kill white man". Simple and crude yet it was the only justice they knew. A dead Indian was a dead Indian reasoned they, and he had been killed by a white man, therefore the only way to right the wrong was to kill a white man--any white man.<br />
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"No, Indian", again replied the white leader, "Chadwick did it, you go get him but we'll not give you any other white man". Much parley followed but in the end the Indians retreated to their camp far from satisfied. That evening a delegation of three white men of which my husband, Robert M. Hull, was one, was sent to the Indian camp to carry the pipe of peace and to make negotiations if possible. But the aggrieved Indians proved treacherous and attacked the three men as soon as they entered the camp. Two succeeded in escaping but my husband was held captive. They bound him to a tree and all night long they tortured him, forcing him to yell for Bishop Peter Maughn of Logan, whom the red men wished to treat with.<br />
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Taking a lighted pine splinter, an Indian would thrust it into the white man's flesh, saying "Bishop, Bishop", and Hull would cry in agony, "Oh Bishop, Bishop, Bishop, oh Bishop". This, thought the savages, was great sport, it was even better than killing a man, so all that night they kept it up. Every conceivable torture which the Indians could devise they practiced on the unfortunate white man. Burning sticks were applied to the soles of his feet, lighted splinters were thrust into his legs and arms and the savages laughed with delight to hear the flesh sizzle. Salt was rubbed into his blisters, slow fires were built close by him, and as a special treat to the women and children, squaws and papooses were allowed to spit in his face. It was an experience that Hull never forgot.<br />
<br />
"The next morning Bishop Maughn arrived from Logan and with him came an interpreter. With his aid the delegations of white men and Indians conferred for several hours. The Indians agreed to release my husband on payment of a large indemnity and the promise that if ever Chadwick did come back to the village, he was to be immediately surrendered. With this the Indians seemed satisfied but they killed a man on Bear River without the slightest provocation, which brought on the famous battle of Battle of Battle Creek, between the Indians and the government soldiers under Colonel P. E. Connor.<br />
<br />
"Years later in 1891, Robert Hull was in a camp on the Blackfoot river a number of miles north of Pocatello, when an Indian rode up on horseback and without a word of warning shot him downward through the left shoulder, killing him and also his young nephew who stood close by.<br />
<br />
"In Franklin", continued Mrs. Hull a bit huskily, for the recounting of her husband's tragic death had brought tears to her eyes, "we all lived inside the stockade. Every family had its own log cabin and it was built facing the inside of the fort. Of course both cabins and stockade were built of great, solid logs, properly flattened on the sides so that they fitted close together, and any chinks or holes were plastered up with mud so that no light could shine through the walls to indicate the whereabouts of the occupants. Armed sentries, whom we called 'minute men' were posted at each corner of the square fort and they maintained a vigilant watch at every moment of the night.<br />
<br />
By day a signal and lookout post was kept up on the top of Mt. Picket now known as the Little Mountain, which towers directly above the little village of Franklin. From the top of the peak one can see all Cache Valley spread out before him and two men kept watch there from daylight till dark. If any Indians were in the vicinity they would send the word down by flag signals and by the same system they would inform the villagers -whether the movements of the red men seemed friendly or hostile. For many years this practice was kept up and never was Franklin the victim of a surprise attack. Pitched battles also were very infrequent but nevertheless the Indians continued to exact their toll of lives until in the seventies. The first man ever buried in the village met his death at the hands of the Indians. Reed was his name and he was deliberately murdered by a band of braves whom he tried to argue with. On another occasion two men, Andrew Morrison and Bill Howell were in the canyon getting out a load of wood when the Indians charged down upon them, volleying arrows. Both men fled leaving their outfit at the mercy of the braves but an arrow overtook Morrison and dropped him in his tracks. Howell ran on uninjured into the village and told his story. A party of riflemen immediately went back to get his corpse before the Indians or wild animals should mutilate it, but to their astonishment he was still living with three arrows in his body. They brought him back to Franklin where he soon regained his health and strength. One of the arrowheads however, remained stuck fast in his side. It was too close to his heart to permit of cutting it out so there it stayed throughout the remaining twenty years of his life."<br />
<br />
Mary Hull smiled a trifle apologetically. "I fear that I am telling you too much of the strife, and hardships of pioneering", she said, "I do not wish to give the impression that we pioneers knew nothing but battle, blood, and hardship, for such is not the case. On the contrary we were fairly light hearted on the whole for there were many young people among us and youth is always gay. True, we did not have automobiles nor dance halls, nor cinema palaces, but we had other things and we enjoyed them. Our amusements were hiking, berry picking, parties, and occasionally the bishop allowed us to convert the church house into a dance hall and we would dance merrily, many of us barefooted to the music of some scraping old fiddle. Our favorite dances were the Virginia Reel, French Four, Plain Quadrille, Horseless Four and Scotch Reel, such innovations as Waltzes and Foxtrots were unknown.<br />
<br />
"Courtship also was a much different matter than it is nowadays. If a young man felt himself getting giddy he would ask the girl's parents permission for him to 'keep company’ with their daughter. Even then his courtship was carried on at a distance so to speak. The pairing off, the intimacies which young people find so entertaining today were entirely unknown to us. We went in groups, & bunches, we called it, to our parties, and early in the evening we returned, also in bunches. Most of us were strictly orthodox in our morals and behavior and any one who was not was looked upon with plain disfavor, I remember one incident in particular". She chuckled.<br />
"I don't know whether I should tell it or not", she laughed, "but it was the most ludicrous thing I have ever seen in my whole life.<br />
<br />
"A certain young man came into our village and speedily proved himself not a desirable character. No one knew where he came from and no one knew where he was going or what his business was in Franklin, but we all knew that he was different from the rest of us and different in an undesirable way and that prejudiced us against him. He did everything which we thought a young man shouldn’t do, from flirting with the girls, to smoking, swearing, and drinking. He was a veritable thorn in the flesh of Franklin's young people. At last ten girls, of whom I was one, held a secret meeting in the schoolhouse and decided that the unwelcome one must go and we formulated a plan whereby he was to be got rid of.<br />
<br />
Two days later one of our number who was chosen to be the bait, asked the young fellow to meet her at a designated place, at ten o'clock in the evening. He came on scenting high adventure. He got it. As the unsuspecting undesirable reached the trysting place, ten big, husky, corn fed, country girls leaped out of the shrubbery, armed with a long rope, we seized the unfortunate victim and bore him to the ground. He kicked, screamed, blasphemed, and fought in a most wrathful and ungentlemanly like manner, but in spite of his struggles we bound him hand and foot, and dragging him to the nearest post, lashed him securely to it. All that night we listened, chuckling in our beds to his exasperated screams and yells, and I suppose he'd have been there yet had not some villager, along toward morning, craving a little sleep, gone down, and untied the poor wretch. The next day he packed his worldly all and left Franklin for good. We never saw him again".<br />
<br />
Mary Hull's experiences throw an interesting light on pioneer travel. She says:<br />
"All travel was by oxen, horse and buggy, or horseback and of course it was exceedingly slow when compared with the airplanes, automobiles, and passenger trains which we have today. Long trips were rare and touring for pleasure was a thing unheard of. The longest trip I ever took was in 1860 when with some friends I drove from Franklin to Idaho Falls to attend the trial of my husband who was facing a charge of polygamy before the federal court. The journey consumed three days of steady traveling by horse and blackboard. My husband was found guilty and fined six hundred dollars which he paid without a whimper, but he refused to renounce either of his wives and lived with them both until the day of his death in 'ninety one.<br />
<br />
"That was my first trip into the Snake River Valley and though I have visited it many times since I shall never forget how it looked then. My first impression was of an enormous flat plain and the most desert like stretch of country I have ever seen. As far as the eye could see the land stretched away in one unbroken terrain, covered with sage, buckbrush and flying sand. I thought it at the time one of the most desolate, most barren places I had ever set eyes upon.<br />
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<script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-38085983223291762492009-03-17T08:27:00.011-06:002010-11-25T20:50:58.182-07:00Can't Lose for Gaining<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMD9Aa2jpPXij1fhrRWsd7xypJtpIUc2kKyghRUbBUOTIXSGiQEIZ1BMRQcBM2E2pGWb6F2ldnNsvcD0kNlJvfX_r4_KF4t2BEb_oCFGqheBRr1ByVmPpSRHDzMv1hBwQ6fmi3UMn7n5Rq/s1600-h/Mountainside+Picnic[1].jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314163405133012194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 550px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 373px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMD9Aa2jpPXij1fhrRWsd7xypJtpIUc2kKyghRUbBUOTIXSGiQEIZ1BMRQcBM2E2pGWb6F2ldnNsvcD0kNlJvfX_r4_KF4t2BEb_oCFGqheBRr1ByVmPpSRHDzMv1hBwQ6fmi3UMn7n5Rq/s400/Mountainside+Picnic%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a>I found this poem and photo in some old papers from my grandfather Elmer Madsen. He insisted that we call him Elmer and not "grandpa" saying that that made it sound too old - even though he was born in 1889. This photo is of him with a bevy of girlfriends on a picnic circa 1910 most likely in one of the canyons east of Salt Lake City. If you open the photo and enlarge it, you will notice the smiles and laughs captured by the camera - quite a beguiling shot from one hundred years ago. At any rate - enjoy the picnic and then the poem.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Can't Gain for Losing</span><br /></strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#000000;">by Fanny Gudmundsen Brunt</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">I carefully counted calories,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">As at the table I sat,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">And visioned my figure willowy,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">With thirty-five pouns less fat.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">I ate my hot rolls butterless,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">My baked potato dry - -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Non-fattening milk my beverage,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">And I passed up the rich cake and pie.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">My clothes seemed a llittle looser,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">And my spiritis fairly flew - -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Soon I'd be wearing a thirty-six,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Instead of a forty-two.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">But then came the time of testing,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Where fat women rise or fall - -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Finding lush leavings on grandchildren's plates,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">To scrape in the Dis-pos-al.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Wasting was always so sinful,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">To children of my generation,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">So a bite of this, or a spoonful of that,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">I ate just for con-ser-va-tion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">This morning I got on the scales to weigh,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">And the numbers went zooming by,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">To that same old hundred and eighty - -</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;">Oh rates! Pass the strawberry pie!</span><br /><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a> <div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-46650010943011695852009-03-13T13:07:00.009-06:002009-05-04T11:46:22.453-06:00A Canyon Adventure 1917<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1gdWs0WipA39mDsDUU4WMGNaD53d9DbFmq_YsPa93gzIVXG2dlY3DcHnZJiZYy81wtINFTkrjqqIVJzyS8aGkOWSgKIeOPyzOvDh3UZqLjGvr7d9IR_hsLdPFnpfUNO1BsMlCuEZ1tql/s1600-h/Shipley+Album+Page+12+Amy+Shipley+on+White+Horse+with+her+friend+Floss%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 500px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1gdWs0WipA39mDsDUU4WMGNaD53d9DbFmq_YsPa93gzIVXG2dlY3DcHnZJiZYy81wtINFTkrjqqIVJzyS8aGkOWSgKIeOPyzOvDh3UZqLjGvr7d9IR_hsLdPFnpfUNO1BsMlCuEZ1tql/s400/Shipley+Album+Page+12+Amy+Shipley+on+White+Horse+with+her+friend+Floss%5B2%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312751284011629986" /></a>This little story is from the personal history of my grandmother Amy Smith Shipley Kern. The photo is of Amy and Dirk(right)and her friend Florence(left)and is the one mentioned below. <br /><br />I should relate here that a lot of my outdoor activity during the First World War was riding my favorite pony that we called Dirk. He was very gentle but had good life and I could do many things with him. My girl friend with whom I usually went riding and I would run races, but the horses got so used to running together that neither one would go much ahead of the other.<br /><br />One day my girl friend Florence Welch, and I decided to take quite an extended trip, first up East Canyon running east of Avon to the old LaPlatt Mine. Here we stopped and ate our lunch, returning we decided to try Dry Canyon. I think it was called that. At any rate it run south from Avon. After riding for some time we met two young fellows who were stranded with a broken down motorcycle. We stopped and talked to them and were told that they had stopped back up the canyon a number of miles having motor trouble and on leaving they left their camera and asked us to please go back and get it.<br /><br />Our time was our own and not having any good reason not to help them, we said we would go. They said they hadn’t had any dinner so we gave them the lunch that we didn’t eat while up East Canyon and we had more than we could eat. We rode several miles back to where they had been and found the camera at the place they described. By this time we had traveled as far as we had intended so with the Kodak we returned. When we got to the boys they were still trying to get the motorcycle to run.<br /><br />They expressed their gratefulness to us and took our pictures on our horses and promised to send us each one when they got them developed. We left them working on their machine and arrived home having had an interesting and somewhat of an eventful canyon trip.<br /><br />Amy Shipley - Paradise, Utah<script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script></span><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-8430338290745227842009-02-20T09:53:00.025-07:002009-05-04T11:46:35.480-06:00The Last Horse Trade<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSne0cOB8khAEdw6Hc3P9iu1oeVAeh3lrDgZ-8IEPHykdbXV3ld-q5dg_f-JGNLvLGldMtcyX10RzTfI02chbBuOyM6kVkW-jhU2-BmMgj4mmYtFGvV-PKmES8F7WXjUoDxLamFkqUn-2/s1600-h/Indy,Paul,Target.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304986229300694626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSne0cOB8khAEdw6Hc3P9iu1oeVAeh3lrDgZ-8IEPHykdbXV3ld-q5dg_f-JGNLvLGldMtcyX10RzTfI02chbBuOyM6kVkW-jhU2-BmMgj4mmYtFGvV-PKmES8F7WXjUoDxLamFkqUn-2/s400/Indy,Paul,Target.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;color:#000000;"><strong>The Last Horse Trade</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:85%;">by Paul Kern<br /></span><br />I was blessed to have had a Dad who taught me to ride,<br />And across the Utah desert and through the Colorado snow,<br />He taught me to love the mounts we rode.<br />Together we left tracks across the mountain west,<br />From the Windriver Range to the Tetons,<br />Through Montana and deep in the mountains of Idaho.<br /><br />And those horses we’d ride - why there was Slippers and Prince,<br />And – quick before they slip away –<br />There's Tarsh and Ladd, Latigo, Indy, Spotted Eagle, Smokey and Buck,<br />And storming through the sage come Jenny and Missy,<br />Toby and Duke, Dan and Aspen the palomino, Rory the paint.<br />And Target - my blue-eyed bay.<br /><br />A lifetime worth living is metered out slowly,<br />By the wear on your saddle, good horses and a few head of cattle.<br />It was just last November I drove Dad’s rig home,<br />A day or two after the service,<br />When we gathered to recount, retell and relive a life well lived,<br />I had his truck and trailer - his horse and his well worn saddle.<br /><br />Since I’ve had his horse Indy in my own herd,<br />He’s fattened up some and filled out his hide,<br />He’s got a barn, good feed and I do care for that horse,<br />Since Dad’s gone now and he just can’t.<br />But maybe there’s something he can do and I hope he does,<br />There where he rides beyond the great divide.<br /><br />You see – I lost my Target three weeks ago today,<br />In a sudden wreck of crimson snow,<br />Left rear hock, compound break and rip,<br />So fast, so horrid, so hopeless,<br />Such wreckage,<br />Such sorrow,<br />I had to let him go.<br /><br />So by some twist of fate I have Dad’s horse,<br />And I like to believe that he has mine.<br />Target always did have that fire in his belly,<br />I can almost see them both right now,<br />Charging through the canyons and hills of that celestial range,<br />And though worlds apart – horses are still the tie that binds.<br /><br />So now, time moves on and scars the wounds,<br />Of such great loss and the price we’ve paid,<br />For wandering through this muddy vale of tears,<br />On horses - such good horses - all throughout the years . . .<br />So - when it comes my turn to reach up through that misty veil,<br />I’ll grasp Dad’s hand, we’ll hug and square the deal - on this,<br /><br />The last horse trade.</span></span></div><script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script></span><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-18478838568161545012009-02-15T09:39:00.009-07:002009-05-04T11:46:53.159-06:00A Little Perspective on Losing Target<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4pyqcE_C99nyXUNBiLMaG8ak02lpy5bRgd5JmHCEgYW0p1bbWOyqmuf3kGlzHTRnGMfqV5awhPXk6Dzpx98FavgSU2CziAtix9jok3kuoHPVbHypUNhdGMfbUnHD527ogFG1DtOgCJ7W4/s1600-h/Alfred+Driving+Thresher.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303068395276848610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 292px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4pyqcE_C99nyXUNBiLMaG8ak02lpy5bRgd5JmHCEgYW0p1bbWOyqmuf3kGlzHTRnGMfqV5awhPXk6Dzpx98FavgSU2CziAtix9jok3kuoHPVbHypUNhdGMfbUnHD527ogFG1DtOgCJ7W4/s400/Alfred+Driving+Thresher.jpg" border="0" /></a>The following narrative is taken from my great-aunt Ida Kern Schaub's personal history. Her lines have given me some perspective on the loss of my prized saddle horse Target. Our vet once said that there are not enough numbers to count the ways a horse can hurt himself. I would add there are not enough words to describe the shock and disbelief at losing a horse in his prime. Aunt Ida's writing has helped me through this past couple of weeks. In the photo above, my grandfather Alfred Kern is driving the span of horses mentioned below that was struck by lightning. The work being performed is in a wheat field. Notice that the horses are pushing, not pulling the header that my grandfather is driving.<br /><br />From Ida Schaubs' Personal History:<br /><br />It was before my high school days or so that our family experienced what could have been a great tragedy. As I was on my way home from school one evening, I met Lucille Ballif and she said, "Ida, do you know what happened to your brother? He got struck by lightning." I started to cry and ran the two miles home as fast as I could.<br /><br />Upon my arrival home I found Alf in bed. Mother and Father, of course, were very much upset. It was in the spring of the year. Alf had been taken out of high school to go out to the dry farm to do the spring work, which consisted of plowing the land and preparing it for the planting of spring grain. All work on farms in those days was done with horses. Tractors hadn't been thought of. Alf was plowing with three head of horses this particular day, when a squall of wind and hail came up. Alf stopped the plowing, took his overcoat and sheltered himself beneath the horses. They were so gentle and knew their master so well. As the storm cleared, Alf got up and looked skyward to see if the clouds had passed, and that is the last he remembered until hours later, according to his watch. His first feeling was that he was in bed just awakening from his sleep. Then he realized that he was numb and couldn't move or swallow. Gradually his senses came back and he realized where he was and that all three horses were dead and that his head was just an inch or two away from the plow shears, and that he felt sick and sore. He managed to get up and hobble over to a neighbor, Jack Bosworth, who then brought him home. They found that the lightning had struck the top of his head and just as a streak of lightning there was a burned streak down the side of Alf's face, singeing his hair, eyebrows and lashes, passing down his left shoulder on to his left arm and glanced off at the elbow. Had the lightning gone down his chest, it would have been instant death, or had his head hit the sharp plow shears, it would also have proven fatal. We were all so very thankful to our Father in Heaven for sparing his life at this time.<br /><br />The foregoing experience seemed to trigger a year of unusual happenings and accidents with the horses and animals that Father owned. It was thrashing time and Dad brought home from the thrasher a very beautiful mare we called Pearl. She had pneumonia. We called the vet. He prescribed treatment every two hours of mustard plasters and medicine forced down her throat with a long syringe, so Mother and I did the doctoring because Father had to go back to the dry farm. Every two hours Mother and I went to work night and day, trying to save Pearl, but she died after a week or so. Then there was old Jock, a long-legged clumsy critter who was tied to a plow for the night, on a side hill by the barnyard. Who tied Jock to this place no one seemed to confess. Anyway, morning found him dead. As he slept he slid down hill and the rope around his neck choked him to death. That summer we had a lovely little colt about six months old. He contracted distemper and Mother and I tried to nurse him back to health, but he died.<br /><br />Old Chub, our old faithful horse whom we all loved and who had given the farm so much service, got so lame with what they called "ring bones"" (which I now realize must have been arthritis, because my fingers today remind me of Old Chub's feet), that he could hardly walk anymore, so Father had to shoot him. We all felt so sad about Chub. Coally, a black buggy horse, who used to take us flying in the buggy, really was a has-been racehorse when Dad bought him. He really was a high-spirited and high-strung piece of horseflesh, but a fine buggy horse. Going to Church we'd pass all of our neighbors on the road. Well, that winter, Coally was performing in the barnyard, slipped on the ice, broke his leg, and he had to be shot. We all missed our fast buggy rides.<br /><br />Father had a fine span of horses that he had replaced for the three the lightning had killed. Alf was working with them at home in Preston, preparing the ground where we planted our vegetable garden. As the horses crossed an irrigation ditch, the harrow they were pulling flipped up out of control. One of the sharp teeth of the harrow struck one horse in one of his hind legs, penetrating deep into the knee joint. Father and the family doctored him for weeks, but they finally had to shoot him. This was a terrible blow to Dad, but I recall hearing him say to Mother one day as they were in the kitchen, "Well Mother, as long as the trouble stays in the barnyard, I won't complain." I really didn't get the full impact of his statement at that time, but I have thought about it many times since.<br /><br />These foregoing instances practically wiped out all of Father's horses. He didn't have enough to run the farm work with. His good neighbors and friends came to his rescue and gathered up a collection so Dad could purchase some fine new horses.<script type="text/javascript">_uacct = "UA-1253728-1";urchinTracker();</script><br /><br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7078793075371794088.post-53206415989691071812009-02-06T08:52:00.010-07:002009-05-04T11:47:09.447-06:00Classy Bar Link (Target) 2002 - 2009<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWIbRrHEdyfGuttMH30Bfb1uMD-CMFW5QD2O3j5BGDfbA09n0gNmEiA_WhGbUBzze4XRMkb6NnooVVKivJ0Sqzs6nDIUzTdUBwUec87eO-i6gLGrfo8kvODqlon0RZ-tIW7j0r0o1Tw1yW/s1600-h/Targetobit.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299713267372286354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWIbRrHEdyfGuttMH30Bfb1uMD-CMFW5QD2O3j5BGDfbA09n0gNmEiA_WhGbUBzze4XRMkb6NnooVVKivJ0Sqzs6nDIUzTdUBwUec87eO-i6gLGrfo8kvODqlon0RZ-tIW7j0r0o1Tw1yW/s400/Targetobit.jpg" border="0" /></a> It has taken me the better part of a week to gain my composure after the tragic loss of my prized horse Target. Target was involved in a freak driving accident last Saturday, January 30, that damaged his left rear leg to the point where he had to be put down. It was without question one of the saddest days of my life. I had owned Target since he was a yearling, broke him, trained him and became his fast friend. Seldom has there been such shared affection between man and horse. I feel such pain over this loss, it is hard to describe. Target was noble in life and noble beyond belief to his very last breath. Together we rode through the wilderness of Idaho, Montana, Utah and Wyoming. Together we faced down grizzly bears. Together we herded cattle and buffalo. Together we raced Arabians and won.<br /><br />Target was the subject of and inspiration for many of my poems over the years; <em>A Trajectory of Course, Aroma Therapy, As I Bridle in the Morning, I Like 'em Fat and Sassy, If He Nicker's at Yer Comin' and My Blue Eyed Bay</em>. He was frequently mentioned on CowboyPoetry.com. His image became the logo for my podcast that appears on iTunes and elsewhere on the web. He was also featured on the cover of my CD "Rimrock:Where Memories Rhyme."<br /><br />In a way it seems like I have just done some unexpected horse trading with my father who passed away at the end of October. At his passing, I took over the care of his bucksin paint horse Indian Chief. Now, at the passing of Target, I am hoping that Dad will look after him on the other side.<br /></span><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="free hit counter script" src="http://c21.statcounter.com/counter.php?sc_project=2248621&java=0&security=334e9540&invisible=0" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"></div><p align="left"></p><script type="text/javascript">var bt_counter_type=1;var bt_project_id=3008;</script><div class="blogger-post-footer">Cowboy Poetry, Paul Kern</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0