What It Is

What It Is


"What is this cowboy poetry?"
the lady asked of me.
"It must be more than stories
Whether rhymed or free."

"What makes it so intriguing,
reels you in and gets you hooked,
it must be something simple."
I jist give a sideways look.

"You're right, ma'am, it's kinda simple
but it's complicated too,
but if you've got time to lend an ear
I'll share some thoughts with you."

You see the written word is simple
But the complicated thing
Is understanding the life behind the words
So I'll tell you what I mean.

It's the greenin' of the grass in spring,
The first frost in the fall,
The dreary doldrums winter morns,
The summer shadows tall.

It's the smell of mornin' coffee
'fore ol' Sol has blinked an eye
and the million twinklin' star aglow
in the pitch black predawn sky.

It's the jingle of a much worn spur
Upon a rundown handmade boot,
The snort of a coldbacked cayuse
And the silent prayer he don't leave you afoot.

It's the catch rope hangin' inside the door
Of a rickety ol' saddle shed
And the wariness of the pony
Who knows jist when to drop his head.

It's the colt you traded for last fall
And started late this spring
That's proved to you he's worth his salt
And you wouldn't trade him for anything.

It's that motley face calf there on the scale,
He don't look half as big as when
You had to flank him solo
Last spring in the brandin' pen.

It's the tangy scent of wood smoke,
The washtub by the wagon wheel,
The patched and worn out cookfly
And all the stories it could tell.

It's a herd of unbroken saddle mounts
Strung out steppin' single file
Through a sage covered Utah mountain pass
For near three quarters and a mile.

It's the old man outside the brandin' pen
Watchin' the goings on
And the look in his eye that says loud and clear
"I'd like to see one more 'fore I'm gone."

It's an old cow sucklin' a newborn calf,
A foal on wobbly legs.
It's a seventeen hour day with nothin' on your stomach
But bitter coffee dregs.

It's the old kack you use to start a young colt,
Holds in for the bad storms you weather.
It's the pride displayed in a new handmade rig
And the creak of the well tooled leather.

It's the antiquated wage he draws
Despite the Hollywood label,
It's puttin' life and limb on the line
To put a tasty beef steak on the table.

It's the Sevier River Valley and the Wasatch Front,
The Muggyown Rim in the spring.
The Canadian River breaks, the Chisos and the Davis
And a thousand other places I've never seen.

It's the labor of love you choose for life
Workin' from can 'til can't.
Maam, I could go on for days 'bout what it is
And probably a lot of things it ain't.

So in short, ma'am, what I'm sayin' is this
Cowboy poetry ain't jist in the words you read,
The poetry of the cowboy
Is in the life he leads.

© Jack "Trey" Allen