Save me, darling, I'm here to love again,
been writing dark poetry
to the lost birds on the wind.
Painting this canvas in ribbons of blue,
while seeking insights and truth
I've drifted away from you.

Tell me, my love, what is it that you see?
When I cast my eyes upward
do you still recognize me?
I'm not the same man that first wore this face,
time has left its impressions
as I've wandered from the race.

The birds on the wind
have witnessed my sins
their shadows dance across night's dreams.
My eyes open wide
from turmoil inside
and I beg you to be redeemed.

Until then, I'll keep writing
to the birds on the wind.

Guide me, sweetheart, for I've lost the path back,
exploring dark recesses
where memories have charred black.
With scars from the yoke of burdens I've known
I've torn off my cold harness
to seek the warmth that you've shown.

Thank you, angel, for your bright guiding light
you still shine like a beacon
as I return from the night.
Drifting and dreaming for many long years,
like a kite without its string
you have freed me of my fears.

The birds on the wind
have witnessed my sins
though they've forgiven me my wrongs.
Cold tears have all dried
as the winds subside
and I hear again their love songs.

I'm now singing love songs
to the birds on the wind...
to the birds on the wind.

The Birds on the Wind

When Ghosts Were Saints

I sat, hidden from sight,

hiding from memories,

observing,

yet something was amiss.

Her eyes still held the glint
of frosted diamonds
from the taiga's frozen night,

but also a pain,

a melancholy mist
that cloaked an emptiness.

Like a champagne flute
whose nectar had spilled
down a thousand
thirsty throats

those sparkles
were just a reflection,

two-dimensional
on the surface
of the vessel.

Lips curled into smiles,
but her eyes revealed
their ghosts.

Echos of laughter
parted their painted petals,
but it was yesterday's joy

and yesterday had become
a lifetime ago,

when the ghosts
were saints and
danced across
my mirror.

A lifetime ago,

or a lifetime too soon.

When Ghosts Were Saints

How scary, love, that war divides
so brothers take up arms to fight.
How scary, love, that war divides
and blood is spilled once words ignite.
Rifles speak a foreign language
that is not learned 'til bullets spent.
Rifles speak a foreign language,
actions portray one's true intent.

Hear the missiles as they chatter,
now their voices warn of trouble.
Hear the missiles as they chatter,
down, the walls fall into rubble.
There! The shouting of the cannons,
screaming tongues with such hellish flame.
There! The shouting of the cannons,
blow the devil back whence he came!

Behind doors the leaders huddle,
talking through intermediaries.
Behind doors the leaders huddle,
boys lay silent in cemeteries!
How scary, love, that war divides
turning the day into the night.
How scary, love, that war divides
while poets whisper out of sight.

The Voices of War (A Conversation)

Ashes In My Hand

The morning sun is lost in mist
as devils dance where dew once kissed
and dying dreams are soon dismissed
like footprints in the sand

A phoenix rises through the air
as if in response to a prayer
I blink again and nothing's there
no warmth upon the land

No rebirth now of hopes gone wrong
or happy chorus to this song
light has faded, the shadows long
only ashes in my hand

Ashes in My Hand

Song of a Karmic Moon

It's late at night, love, this karmic moon's left me sad,
there's a void in the heavens from nightmares I've had.
Girl, I'm longing to hold you, looking for a way,
still, this song we sing gets more desperate each day.

Baby, you know me better than I know myself,
this devil's dance has taken a toll on my health.
Like a sultress, you whisper and set worlds on fire
as bones of past heartaches keep piling higher.

And I love that you love me, God knows that I do!
And I feel in my soul that I love only you.
Then cold winds off these mountains blow through the willows
'til morning meets us with wet tears on our pillows.

Empty daydreams without birdsong ache a bruised heart
with silence closing in we drift further apart.
Will tides rolling across oceans pull us back in
or will this karmic moon create chaos again?

Baby, you've seen the shadows that tempered my steel,
know well the anguish of these dark storm clouds I feel.
Like the devil, you tempt me to walk on the wire
as walls that separate us keep building higher.

And I love that you love me, God knows that I do,
and I feel in my soul that I love only you!
Then cold winds off these mountains blow through the willows
'til morning meets us with wet tears on our pillows.

And I love that you love me and I love you too,
but there's devils and darkness in heavens of blue.

Song of a Karmic Moon

The Hymn of Wild Outlaws (Horsethieves on the Border)

In the days of Butch and Sundance, wild outlaws on the run,
lives depended on fast horses and even faster guns.
Hangman's neckties awaited for evil men who couldn't ride
and under the limbs of cottonwoods, many horsethieves died.

So gather up the ponies, there's forty miles to be rode,
Lucifer will pay our tab for any debts that are owed.
A posse has assembled and is carrying some twine,
we'll spur the hair right off our mounts to get across the line.

There's fresh snow upon the ground, so we cannot hide our tracks,
just point their noses north, boys, and don't you dare to look back.
With luck, we'll make the border and cross at 'ol Whiskey Gap,
but the Mounties might be waiting there, setting up a trap.

Keep a bullet under hammer, there's no hope for missed shots,
the posse's closing in and the devil is getting hot.
The Gap is just ahead, another mile and then we're free,
come on, ol' hoss, ride the wind, that sheriff ain't getting me!

The barking sounds of rifle fire soon echo in my ears,
we made the border crossing, but Mounties confirmed my fears!
Scarlet tunics are hidden behind every single tree
and the redcoat's carbine fire is the last thing that I see!

Sing the hymn of wild outlaws who have gone down in a blaze,
the devil grins and chuckles at all the hell that they raised!
They lived to die and rode to live along the outlaw trail,
each day was a blessing that they avoided death or jail.

The Hymn of Wild Outlaws (Horsethieves on the Border)

I keep dancing with the lightning
as the thunder rolls deep inside,
drinking poison, hints of honey
the devil takes me on a ride.

Oh sweet mercy, sweet salvation,
my lips keep craving for more sin.
Taste the nectar...tastes of heaven,
I feel the need to dance again!

Precious moments lost forever,
memories fading out of sight;
but these embers, Lucifer's fire
burns hot throughout the long black night.

Now there's perfume down the hallway,
down these long corridors of dreams.
I keep dancing with the lightning,
with a demon, or so it seems.

And there's evil in the bottle,
in her body and in my mind.
I keep searching for salvation,
but fires of hell are all I find.

Oh sweet mercy, sweet salvation,
the temptation of unknown highs.
Taste the nectar, tastes of heaven
it will haunt me until I die.

And so I dance with the lightning,
I will weather another storm.
The thunder rolls across my grave
and my mistress, she keeps me warm!

Dancing With The Lightning

If you've ever been astraddle of a cyclone on a tear,
or spurred a buckin' demon till he's plumb lost all of his hair
then you know the kind of trouble that a man can sometimes find
when he's stepping into stirrup on a bronc that's lost his mind!

The dance starts a little shaky as he crow hops a step or two
then he bows his ol' neck around til he's staring straight at you.
You swear you see him winking then a wicked smile parts his lips
and his next jump jars your soul and blows your belt right off your hips!

A squeelin', fartin' orchestra is soon heard beneath your ass
and you're searching for any soft spot amongst the rocks and grass.
Your chokehold on the saddle horn goes against your cowboy pride
but you've gone bouncin' out of stirrup to start this hellish ride.

Now your butt is slapping hard on both the cantle and the skirt
and the pain he's inflicting is really starting to hurt,
but you've never been a quitter, never tossed out a white flag
so you spur him to a run trying to outlast the ol' nag.

Then fate bites you on the rump like you've sat on a curry comb,
you second guess your occupation, why you ever left home?
At this point in the horse race, you soon realize your mistake,
looking down to see you've dropped the reins and lost all means to brake!

Now all the lessons that your daddy taught spring into your head
said "you can't outride the devil son, just praise the Lord instead!"
"When heading into chaos, let the good Lord show you the way."
On the back of the devil himself, you bow your head and pray.

Soon there's frothing from the bit as the monster begins to slow
and while you're gripping with your knees you feel his wind start to go.
There's a chance you may outlast him, so your pride returns again
and this feeling of euphoria begins to dull your pain.

With a windy, wheezing admission, the devil comes to stop
so you collect up your wits and off the lefthand side you drop.
You gather reins and tighten cinch before climbing back aboard
a cowboy doing what you love, so give your thanks to the Lord!

Ridin' The Devil

To Catch A Butterfly

A graceful flight of winged wonder,
like snowflakes in a storm
painted colors of a rainbow
with such a dainty form

Landing lightly on my shoulder
my whispers bend her ear
in hope she tells the Creator
my heartbeat is sincere

I send this butterfly dancing
on winds to heaven's door
awaiting answers to prayers
I wished for long before

Send me love that burns with passion
through eyes that see my soul
send the one who knows my weakness
but helps to make me whole

A gift of peace and contentment
only she can provide
we will dance like the butterfly
together side by side

To Catch A Butterfly

The Leader of this Untamed Band

A symphony played by pounding hooves
over grasslands of western plains.
Some are shod and some run barefoot
a drumbeat coursing through their veins.
And the wild ones, of mustang blood,
fly fast to meet the midnight breeze,
while saddled mounts of seasoned men
take their cues from spurs, bits, and knees.

The leader of this untamed band
knows there's safety toward the west.
Skyward slopes of Ya Ha Tinda
put calloused cowhands to the test.
The blue roan charges up a ridge,
froth forming upon heaving flank,
his herd is hard upon his hooves
as there's none there that doubt his rank.

The riders push to reach the crest
in pursuit of the wildling horde.
With sights set on the steel-blue stud
his bounty their goal and reward.
A thousand paid to man or child
whose rope settled over Zeus's neck.
Though Hades vowed to make it hell
for mortal man to cash that cheque!

On hind legs, the demon rises
calling out to his mares and foals.
'till winds gust like a gauntlet thrown
his challenge rattles cowboys' souls.
He turns his head, then changes tact,
racing back down the hard-gained ground,
toward the men who've pulled up rein,
undecided on where he's bound.

There's some might say that man rules all,
that the beasts must kneel to mankind.
But myths and legends are conceived
when the wild hearts can't be confined!
Blue Zeus is one whose legend grows
with each year that the grasslands green,
for he charged hard, then disappeared,
and like the wind was never seen.

To this day, wild horses roam free
up Ya Ha Tinda's tree-lined slopes,
and when crocus brave spring's cool air,
the cowboys' chests swell thick with hope.
Zeus genetics carry on still,
yearling colts prance step among the mares.
The legend of the devil roan
is seen yet in their blue-hued hairs.

December 17, 2023

The Leader of this Untamed Band

A Dead Man's Name

Every day the bus would take
the boy away so he could make
teachers frown from his mistakes
cause he didn't give a damn.
He was born to out-ride the wind,
show a tornado how to spin --
rodeo was where he'd begin
and prove he was a man.

He hit the road in ninety three
packing light as he traveled free --
made the short go in Calgary,
then won rookie of the year.
The bulls he rode were big and strong
but he showed the world he belonged,
the next year he could do no wrong
in Vegas he had no peer.

World champion by age twenty one,
he whipped the moon and broke the sun;
a man child just out having fun
as he drummed his own beat.
He drove or flew from town to town
light the fuse then he'd burn it down.
Hearts and hooves were his playground,
he'd never known defeat.

As he hit Cheyenne in mid July
crowds would gather as he walked by,
he'd point a finger to the sky...
Number One at this game!
But bulls don't read the daily press,
don't give a care to your success;
they also want to be the best
and beat you just the same.

His first ride was ninety two
there was nothing that bull could do
he spurred until the buzzer blew,
then stepped off to the right.
The grandstands erupted with applause
he had broken gravity laws,
the judges agreed he had no flaws --
day money was his that night.

But the bull would get his revenge
as cowboys talked behind the pens,
a gate unlatched unknown to them,
he stood there faced away.
Eighteen hundred pounds of horns and hate
came crashing through the unlatched gate
bent on granting a dead man's fate
to the man of the day.

As hooves and horns thrashed the ground
the man below them made no sound.
The bull had won the final round
and walked away, head high!
Denim and dirt covered the man,
a life lost in a second's span,
no more gold buckles in God's plan.
A cowboy had to die.

And so it goes in rodeo,
thousands dream of silver and gold
but for each of these a tale is told
of hearts and bodies lost.
A wood cross planted behind the chute
reminds the cowboys of the truth;
to look ahead far beyond their youth --
don't pay the devil's cost.

Don't walk away from friends or foes
or turn your back to devils or bulls.
Take the highs along with the lows --
in stride and with good grace.
Because rodeo is just a game
no matter if it brings you fame
the world forgets a dead man's name
as another takes his place.
 
 

A Dead Man's Name

I came slowly down the stairway,
toy pistol pointing straight ahead.
Such a ruckus had awoke me
from some gunsel dressed up in red.

He was crouching near the chimney,
holding a big ol' sack of stuff.
Looking up he winked at me and
I sensed this hombre could be tough!

I said, "mister, you better scoot,
this here pistol ain't just for show!
I don't know how you got in here
but if'n you're smart you'd best now go!"

Pointing to the star that I wore,
he exclaimed "You're Marshall Dillon!"
I cried, " 'Ol Man, drop that big sack
or there's gonna be some killin'!"

The rascal just smiled back again,
then pointed to his bulbous nose.
With a twinkle, he disappeared,
leaving boxes wrapped up with bows.

From the first, I removed new boots
and just my size, I discovered.
The bigger box contained a trike
and next a red sweater was uncovered!

Pondering the morning's events,
I thought, that gunsel ain't so bad.
He looked kinda familiar and
just a little bit like my dad!

New Cowboy Boots for Marshall Dillon

"It does not require many words to speak the truth" - Chief Joseph


Emotions are the colors that paint an otherwise black and white world. Through these pages its hoped that your day will be painted with a bit more color from my rainbow word-brush.

I was born into a ranching and rodeo family, have lived the life to some degree and while much of my poetry centers around the cowboy lifestyle, I do not consider myself a "Cowboy Poet". I do write about real life - the beauty, the hardships and the laughter.

I am an accountant by trade, and not so redneck as one might stereotype me to be, but I am fiercely proud of my country background and strive to portray the cowboy and others in real life situations and with real life humor and humility.

I have dabbled in poetry for many years. I strive to write on a variety of topics, however, as with most writers, I tend to write on what I know.

I know Nature, and I love to be consumed by her beauty. I know the winds, the mountains and the wide open prairies of home.

I know Cowboys. I was raised by one, grew up idolizing many and have spent enough time on the back of a horse to feel completely connected to the cowboy way of life.

I know Love. First love, lost love, pain and elation.

I know History. I study it, immerse myself in reading it. Particularly the history of the Native Americans.

These are the things that I write on. They are a part of who I am, who I was and what will remain when I am no longer here.

I was influenced at a young age by the writings of Robert Service, Banjo Patterson and Robert Frost, and therefore developed a love for rhyme and rhythm. A lot of my work tends to rhyme, although I do try to write some free verse and prose as well.
 
I am always looking for ways to improve my writing and would appreciate any constructive feedback on my poetry. I promise I won't be offended.

When my time has passed, and my breath has silenced, the mountain winds can carry my ashes over this wonderful land that I call home. I am Canadian by birth, Albertan by choice and a lifelong resident of the Rocky Mountains by destiny.

I hope you enjoy my writing.

Rory

apoeticinjustice

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