Five Poems: Kids and Horses and Mentors

These five poems from my book, When the Horses Come and Go, are part of an experiment. They're all stories, but three work better in prose form. Or maybe not. What do you think?

Photo by Howard R Wheeler on Unsplash

Ranch Banter

Afternoon sun bears hard and dry. Frank and the kids retreat to the porch for sodas and stories. One kid pleads, "Let me rope a calf or two. I been practicing with cones."

Frank regards the boy, a sturdy wannabe in jeans and western shirt, boots barely scuffed. "You mean you ain’t never roped a movin’ target?

The kid shrugs, loops his stiffened rope around his arm and mumbles, "Not yet.'

Frank turns to snuff his smoke, a grin teasing his mustache. "You see that little boy over there?" He points to Cody, his four-year-old son. "He’s got my genes, born and bred to be a cowboy." The lad’s shoulders sag. He can see it coming. Frank winks and nods, "Well , let’s go, but God help ya."

Gary

He sleeps in a tent by the river 
fishes for his breakfast 
rakes the barnyard clean before 
any of the boarders arrive. 
Little girls are always safe 
when left in his care. 
He teaches them to ride, 
how to properly use the spur. 
He greets me today after 
his night on the town. 
Won 600 bucks at craps, 
tipped waiters and barmaids. 
Every cent was spent before 
he left the casino. 
He winks as he tells me this. 
Hell, what else am I gonna do 
with that kinda money?

Photo by name_ gravity on Unsplash

Separation Anxiety

I clutch the coffee cup, lean against the doorframe and watch the line of little girls urging their horses up the hillside. First time Val’s ventured outside the corral on her antsy mare. Gary hums through toothless gums, measures grounds for another pot.
The riders disappear over the ridge, out of my sight. I chew my lip and watch the wind
pick up and stir cottonwood leaves, and feel Gary standing at my side.

He lights a cigarette and grins at me. "Mom, let ‘er go. They’ll be all right." His boots scuff across the wood plank floor.

It’s going to be a long afternoon. I thought of that little girl killed on Val’s old lesson horse. Dragged her against the fence. I always thought that mare looked mean. Abby has the same look in her eye.

Again Gary pats my back and fills my empty cup. "Worryin’ don’t help. Only makes it bad for you. She’ll be back in no time." Gary’s an old, old hand, worked many horses, including Abby. His is the only advice I trust. So far he’s never steered me wrong.
So far.

Relic

He was fuming when I asked
first time I’d ever seen him angry
he tapped the horseshoe louder
then he stood
looking into the distance
shook his head 
then leaned back to his work.

So you want to tape my story
What’s so special, I’m just a cowboy.

His glare pierced an inner part of me
that made me ashamed of a simple request
just to hear him talk...listen to his stories
to keep him...some part of him
the life he leads 
that is so far from mine
close enough to enjoy 
once in awhile.
He snorted again and walked away
mounted his horse and galloped 
across the ranch.

Photo by Grant Davies on Unsplash

The Percheron

Some mornings he wakes up rolled in a ball, pain deep in his groin beyond relief from prescriptions. Still he rises, pulls on jeans, boots, shirt, stands in the doorway, coffee 
and a handful of Bute* for breakfast. He looks over the remains of his spread, makes predictions about work today: shoe horses at Red Rock,maybe fix the latch on that gate. The percheron stomps the dust and waits while he ponders her training.

Twenty years ago, he rode broncs and bulls, seventh best in the world, he told us. Then doctors said cancer. Operated and chemo’ed him down to ninety pounds. When they wanted to cut again, he pulled on jeans, boots, shirt and left the hospital, saying, 
“I’m not goin’ out a gelding!”

He walks out toward the percheron, drapes the leather long reins on her back. She rears and jerks, heaves her massive body against the collar. He skis behind her, cutting furrows with his boot heels. She tosses her giant head, lifts heavy hooves to run. He counters his weight against hers, pulls her back down to a majestic trot for one full lap around the corral. At last, she learns the signals. Soon she’ll be ready for the wagon.
They both breathe hard face to face.

He chews a pinch of Copenhagen, pats her muscled neck as she shies away and sucks deeply from the trough.

*a pain-killer for horses

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