AL MEHL
Boulder, Colorado
About Al Mehl

 

 

 

Cowboy Pottery

A cowboy...  is like pottery.
(At least by end of day:
His boot prints on the carpet
Leave a trail of thin red clay.)

A cowboy is like pottery:
A spinnin' mound of mud;
That's just soil that's mixed with water,
He's just flesh that's mixed with blood.

A cowboy's built like pottery,
And the method's none too purty;
See, to build yourself a cowboy,
You're gonna get those two hands dirty,

'Cause a cowboy is like earthenware:
He's mostly made of dirt.
And just some time and water
Will usually fix him when he's hurt.

Like pottery, he's hard to clean,
Sometimes you have to rope him in.
(Though I've seen a few who clean up good,
Kinda like fine porcelain!)

And when he goes to break a horse,
Those flanks his boots keep pokin',
Just like pottery, sometimes
The cowboy will get broken.

A cowboy's usually strong,
And on a horse, he's even agile.
But heat him, under pressure,
Just like pott'ry, he'll turn fragile.

Just send him out to mend some fence,
And wrap him in barbed wire,
And cook him in the mid-day sun
Until he's hot as fire;

Then bring him home at end of day
And cool him in the shade,
And watch his eyes "glaze" over
As he sips a lemonade,

Then tips his hat...  and falls asleep.
His manners best be pardoned,
But rest him over night, in time
You'll find...  the cowboy's hardened.

Now send him out into the rain,
You'll find... he's waterproof.
And ask about his grief or pain,
You'll find he's now aloof.

And now, instead of sensitive,
He's got a thicker skin.
And if he ever had emotions,
Now they're locked down deep within.

And through the years, he'll hold that form,
His edges chipped and battered;
Or, if the bronco drops him hard,
You might could find him shattered;

But once that cowboy's hardened
You will never see the day
That he's newly soft and flexible...
Like that younger mound of clay.

© 2003, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Al told us, "In this age of new technology, even cowboy poets are learning to use computers. So when it was time to open a new file for some of my poems, my imperfect typing skills caused me to label the folder 'Cowboy Potery' instead of 'Cowboy Poetry.' The idea of writing a poem with the accidental title 'Cowboy Pottery' followed. A few months later, I premiered the poem at Old West Days in Valentine Nebraska.  Needless to say, the audience wasn't sure how to respond when I donned a potter's apron and brought out a potter's wheel and a big lump of clay, then thanked them all for inviting me to the Cowboy Pottery Festival.  Good friend Marty Blocker played the straight man, as I acted surprised to learn that the event was a poetry festival, not a pottery festival.  The poem followed Marty's playful reprimand, and the poem's title has since become the title of my first poetry CD, Cowboy Pottery."

 

 

Fence Posts Made of Stone

In the heart of central Kansas,
Near my daddy's boyhood home,
There are miles and miles of fences
Where the posts. are made of stone.

In the middle of the Great Plains,
Where a tree could scarce be found,
Men carved out limestone pillars,
And they sunk them in the ground.

Now, when the prairie wind comes blowin',
Those posts don't seem to care,
As the wires strung between them
Dance like jump ropes in the air.

And standin' at attention,
Their shoulders never tire,
As they hold, to either side of them,
Those strands of old barbed wire.

Those posts have stood a hundred years,
They'll stand a thousand more.
And when the wires rust away,
Folks might wonder what they're for.

But like soldiers in formation,
Dressed in limestone grays and whites,
They do more than form a boundary;
They salute a way of life.

They line a road paved with persistence,
Not just a homestead, but a dream
About a family's subsistence.
Those fence posts paint a scene:

It's a wagon, loaded down with stone;
A Morgan fights the reins;
A young man, wet with sweat,
Is buildin' fence out on the plains.

So when it seems I've had a hard day,
As I haul myself back home,
Well, I just imagine Grandpa
Settin' fence posts...   made of stone.

© 2005, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Al told us: When I was a small child, my family would drive from our Colorado home to visit the grandparents in Abilene, Kansas.  While there, I would climb and play on the old stock yard fences, remnants of the great cattle drives that took place nearly a century before.  As a boy, I'm sure I noticed (but never paid much attention to) the stone fence posts so unique to central Kansas. At the time, I didn't think twice about the origins of the stone posts, or the fact that nineteenth-century homesteaders in Kansas quickly discovered that there weren't any trees from which to fashion wooden fence posts.  Only a half century later did I remember those stone fence posts, watching the neat rows of tiny historical monuments fly by at 70 miles per hour, as my son and I traveled across Kansas on the interstate highway.  With son James at the wheel, I pulled out a pencil and a scrap of paper, and the poem "Fence Posts Made of Stone" was finished before we crossed the state line.

 

The Great Depression

From my Daddy, I've learned more than I can say.  (But less than he
intended.)


Back in junior high, while tryin' to complete a his'try lesson
There at home, I asked my dad if he recalled the Great Depression.
Now my dad was usually helpful, but he answered, "Mostly, no,"
Sayin', "I was awfully young back then.I have one mem'ry, though:

Let's see, I was just a boy, 'bout five years old... no, maybe four.
When a family with three children come a-knockin' at our door.
Now, our home was in the country, we were far from any town,
As for daytime visitors, they purt much never came around.
But right there stood five thin people.  And they looked like skin and bones.
In a single carpetbag, the dad had purt much all they owned.

With her outstretched arms, the mother held the children by her side;
And the daddy stood behind them.  I could sense his fading pride.
Now "depression" is a word from economics, and a mood;
See, a man gets feelin' low, with first no job, and then no food.

All their clothes were lookin' threadbare, and their shoes, some holes were showin'.
No idea where they'd come from, where on earth they might be goin'.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am," the man said, slipped his hat down off his head,
"It ain't right for me to ask, but...could the children have some bread?"

He was askin' for our food!  It seemed to me this man was crazy.
Just a good-for-nothin' unemployed freeloader.  He was lazy,
Just a bum!  Heck, we were strugglin'. I guess "poor's" the word I mean.
Or you might say we were "dirt poor," but that's not bad as it seems.

See, by "dirt poor," what I mean is that we owned a piece of land.
On that little patch of dirt, we made a livin' with our hands.
Through the bounty of a harvest, we'd put food upon the table,
And my mom was 'bout to show me that we'd share, when we were able.

"Yes, indeed," my mama said, "Well, yes, of course, please do come in."
And she served each child a bread slice from the battered kitchen tin.
It was then, to my amazement, that those children filled their bellies
With those slices of dry bread, without no butter or no jelly!

Eatin' bread without no jelly?  Couldn't 'magine such a thing!
And so I whispered to my mama, and I asked if I could bring
A jar of jelly to the children, and her smile got big and bright,
And she spoke to all the guests, "My friends, what say we do this right?"

Then I ran to set the table with three different kinds of jam!
Mama peeled a couple cucumbers, and sliced some salted ham,
And I picked a bag of snap peas, and we scrubbed a dozen carrots.
All the children washed their hands, and then we all sat down to share it.

Then that family bowed their heads.  The mama cried into her sleeve.
And the daddy prayed, "Dear Lord, please bless this food we now receive."
Then we had ourselves a feast!  That mem'ry's clear through years gone by.
Think I learned about the spirit of Thanksgiving... that July.

Son, those are my only memories about the Great Depression,"
Said my dad, and then he added, "But it sure taught me one lesson:
Were we poor, or were we rich?  Now, there's a fine distinction there;
I'd define it not by what you have... instead, by what you share."

© 2004, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Al told us: This poem is just about as close to a true story as you will find in cowboy poetry. Just like the opening line says, it was a junior high school assignment (some 40 years ago) that prompted me to ask my father what he remembered about the Great Depression. And the story in the poem is pretty much what I heard from my father in response. Even one or two details that seemed convenient in completing the rhyming sequence turned out to be more true than I realized at the time.  Recently, I enjoyed the great pleasure of reciting the poem on stage in front of dear old dad himself, now 78 years old and stronger than an ox. He has been the inspiration for this poem along with several others. The poem is dedicated to my father, Clint Mehl, and to the memory of the Mehl family getting through those tough times in the heart of central Kansas.

The first photo below was featured in our weekly Picture the West feature, and Al shared additional photos.

Al comments on this photo and the others, below: Times were hard in the early 1930's.  There certainly wasn't enough spending money to buy fancy toys from the local department store.  But on the Mehl family farm near Abilene, Kansas, the kids could always pull out the homemade sled and create some winter fun on the snow.  In this photo, a very young Clint Mehl, my father, stands atop the sled pulled by his older sister, Elva.

Clint as a young boy, the shadow figure of his mother (referenced in the poem as well), and the family hog (also referenced in the poem when they served some "salted ham").

Young Clint holding a chicken.

Baby Clint sitting up tall in a baby walker of the era, circa 1930.

 

The Great Divide

Great Grandpa Mehl was born in West Virginia, 1849.
The old log home where he was born sat on the Mason Dixon Line.

Now if the baby'd been a girl, they would've dressed her up in pink,
But when they saw it was a boy, they maybe had to pause and think.

Of course, you'd usually dress a boy in blue, but this boy, hard to say;
Would he wear blue just like the Union men, or maybe Rebel gray?

And, later, Gramps was born in Kansas; it was 1881,
A couple years before the Texas cattle drives were fin'lly done.

It was a complicated birth, left him a palsy in one arm,
So, though he might have been a cowboy, now he'd have to learn to farm.

And then my dad was born near Ab'lene, of a doctor's helpin' hand.
Would this boy someday move to town, or maybe stay to work the land?

Would he be learnin' 'bout the thresher and the old style bailin' hooks,
Or maybe learnin' from a schoolmarm, and a library of books?

Me, I was born in Wichita, and though my daddy's life was gritty,
Would I ever know the land, or would I live in some big city?

Would I walk a new direction, or trod 'long in daddy's boots?
Would I be turnin' 'way from his'try, or be searchin' for my roots?

See, at the time of procreation, it's as if a coin is tossed,
And only one road can be taken; somethin's gained, but somethin's lost.

Each brand new baby comes into this world upon a shiftin' tide,
And every birth is like a raindrop...fallin' on the Great Divide.

© 2007, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Al Mehl comments: Recently, I encouraged my father to recount the stories of his family's experiences homesteading in central Kansas. I was particularly intrigued when he reported the year of his father's birth to me. This man (my grandfather) Fred Mehl, was born during the glory years of the American cowboy, and born in the vicinity of the town that marked the northern terminus of the Chisholm Trail, Abilene, Kansas. I could only imagine that young boy, growing up and dreaming of life as a cowboy, a life he could reach out and touch. As a child, he was living close enough to these original cowboys to taste the life about which most of us today might only fantasize. And yet, instead of becoming a cowboy, the young man grew up to be a farmer. The poem grew from an exploration of the unseen forces which might have been guiding not only this man's fate, but the fates of generations who came be! fore and after him as well. I now live at the foot of the mighty Rocky Mountains, about as far east of the Continental Divide as my father lives west, and so the metaphor of each new generation being balanced atop the Great Divide became palpable as the poem was drawing to a conclusion.

  

Above: Al Mehl's great grandfather, Henry Mehl and his grandfather, Fred Mehl.  Below: The home built by Fred Mehl outside of Abilene, Kansas. 

 

 

The Mav'rick

Beside this fire, I’ll tell a story ‘bout a Texas longhorn steer,

And by the time I’m done, I ‘spect you’ll come to taste a trace of fear,

 

Because this longhorn isn’t like the cattle you’ve pushed down the trail;

And just the thought of seein’ him’s enough to turn most cowboys pale.

 

Now, I’ve been told that he looks old.  As for his color, hard to say;

You see he’s marked with black, and tan, and rust, and roan, and charcoal gray.

 

He measures wide across the shoulder, and he stands ‘bout fourteen hand,

And seems his eyes look even older.  And he doesn’t sport a brand,

 

You see, they say that he’s a mav’rick from the herds of Pancho Villa.

And he lives off sage and mesquite, and the leaves of manzanilla.

 

Wanderin’ up from Northern Mexico, he crossed the Rio Grande,

And then he crossed the Devil Ridge, and then the desert of white sand,

 

And fin'lly crossed the Southern Rockies, where the lower peaks allow.

He wears a marking like a crucifix across his leathered brow.

 

It seems he ran the Mason grassfire, and that’s how his hooves got burned,

And some folks say he gored a cowboy, and that’s how one horn got turned. 

 

Well, now, he’s got to be a ghost, because they say he never ages;

Men have seen him walk through fence rails and the bars of makeshift cages.

 

I can see my story frightens, and it really isn’t meant ta,

But they say that he’s still out there… in the desert near Kayenta.

 

They say if you see the Mav’rick, you will never be the same,

And you might newly be possessed of powers you cannot explain.

 

And it’s been said that if you see him, you will never take a wife,

And that the horn you gaze on first just might predict your afterlife;

 

You see, it seems one horn is pointed up, toward heaven, so they tell,

And, well, the other horn is twisted ‘round, and pointed down… toward hell.

 

Now, as for if I’ve ever seen him, I’m not sure that I can say,

Although I s’ppose I ought to tell you ’bout one fateful August day.

 

Rode out alone, beyond the butte, there were some strays I’d hoped to find,

And, well, the mid-day desert sun can maybe trick a cowboy’s mind.

 

You see, my eyes were feelin’ heavy, but my heart was racin’ fast,

And when I crossed a steep arroyo, maybe heard those strays at last…

 

And there he was!  Just like a vision, as I dropped in from the gap,

That longhorn standin’ by a crik that never showed on any map.

 

The Mav’rick stared at me, our eyes were locked; my pony turned his head,

And from the scent, the pony seemed to sense, this longhorn must be dead.

 

Then maybe time stood still; my breathin’ stopped; that Mav’rick stood his mark.

And I did not show up in camp again ‘til couple hours past dark,

 

And I could not remember nothin’!  And they asked if I’s insane.

And as for how I made it back to camp, I never could explain.

 

And that old trail boss called me “loco,” and the cowboys shook their heads,

And then a couple laughed at me while crawlin’ back into their beds.

 

But me, I knew that somethin’ happened in that August desert sun;

See, somethin’ there was lost forever.  But then somethin’ else was won…

 

‘Cause when I go to throw a loop now, well, you know I never miss.

And lately, under me, a wild bronc turns as gentle as a kiss.

 

And if I ride a moonless night, it seems my pony never falters.

And you know, of course, I never took a bride up to the altar.

 

Guess I’ll finish up my story, now the fire is just an ember.

And which horn did I see first, you ask? 

 

Damned if I remember.

© 2007, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Al comments: In October of 2006, I had the honor of performing at the Durango Cowboy Poetry Gathering in southwestern Colorado.  Each year in Durango, a piece of western fine art is recognized, and a poster of the artwork is made available as part of the festivities.  Cowboy poets in attendance are encouraged to write a poem about the poster for a special one hour session of poetry.  In 2006, a painting titled "And There He Was" by Tom Lea was presented.   Set in the desert southwest in the shadow of a great red sandstone butte, the scene pictured a cowboy on horseback in the foreground, staring across a tiny stream at a longhorn steer just a stone's throw away.  My own poem gradually began emerging through a description of the scene in the painting.  But when I decided to include the rhyming words "manzanilla" and "Pancho Villa," I suddenly realized that the longhorn must be a ghost.  From that revelation, the poem took shape, and eventually became my first-ever ghost-story poem.  

 

 

Room With a View

From a cedar timbered line shack built a hundred years ago,

Through a smoky pane of glass, I gaze upon a field of snow.

Trapped inside the rough-sawn framing of that wood-planked window trim,

Antique glass becomes a canvas for the masterpiece within.

 

In the foreground runs a barb'd wire fence, the points have dulled with age,

Three embroidered lines, like still-fresh ink upon a brand new page.

Marking time like measured music 'cross the lines that someone wrote,

Ancient gnarly wooden fenceposts sweat the tar of creosote.

 

Two old magpies on the upper wire, content to strike a pose,

Their long tails swept back to balance 'top the fulcrum of their toes,

Like a pair of high-wire artists, frozen there as if to rest,

Starchy shirts under the jackets of an evening's formal dress.

 

In the billowed cotton mid-ground, cloaked in hoods of sooty stain,

Geese from Canada push 'round their tapered beaks for bits of grain.

And their creamy feathered breasts take on the color of a fog,

While their mottled backs and wings appear as bark upon a log.

 

In the background, at a distance, gathered tightly in the fold,

'Bout a hundred head, black baldies, markin' time out in the cold.

And each coal dust silhouette sports bleaching 'round the nose and eyes,

Like the shimmer of a crescent moon against a midnight sky.

 

Overlapping clouds diffuse the light, a muted solar glow;

Crystal sparks drop gently from an air that's 'bout too cold to snow.

At the far side of the pasture, the horizon's lost from sight;

There's no scale for judgin' distance, sky and ground both look alike.

 

Every day, I see the beauty of this life to which I'm bound,

Scattered fractured rays of color from a prism finely ground.

God's creation is a marvel, and his palette's quite a sight,

But it seems today that God's content...to work in black and white.

© 2008, Al Mehl
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 Al comments: Our Boulder, Colorado home isn't exactly a line shack, and our picture window isn't exactly an old smoky pane of glass, but this poem pretty much describes the view from our family room in the winter. One cold January day, I was intrigued by the alignment of the magpies sitting atop the wire fence in the foreground, the Canada geese milling around not far behind, and a collection of black baldies in the distance. Combined on this particular day with the stark silhouettes of leafless trees, the overcast sky, and the snow-covered pasture, the pastoral scene was remarkable for the sheer absence of all color. Just as an old black-and-white movie takes us back in time to the days of our childhood, the view that morning seemed to capture the spirit of times gone by.
 

 

 

 

I'd Rather Be

I’m told there’s a home for old cowboys

On the outskirts of north Abilene.

At the top of the stairs, he sits in a chair,

In the dim light of burnt kerosene.

 

And it’s there that he stares from a window

At a pasture that once was a trail.

It’s clear, when he’s asked, that he lives in the past,

As his heart and his memories fail.

 

But it’s told that he rode with the Goodnights,

And they say that he once rodeo-ed.

Life’s pretty full when you’re mountin’ the bull,

But now he can’t even mount the commode.

 

          He’s thinkin’, “I’d rather be well than ill,

          But I’d rather be ill than old,

          I’d rather be old than dead, I fear…

          But I’d rather be dead than here.”

 

They say there’s a place for old horses. 

(Not a barn, but a broken-down shack.)

Half-blind or lame, they’ll offer ‘em grain,

And a place they can walk ‘round the back.

 

Pacing the fence, a gray stallion,

With a limp and a sway in his back.

How could he hold an old cowboy,

When he can’t even carry the tack?

 

But they say that he ran with wild mustangs

Under a Montana sky.

Now he’s haunted, at last, by the years that have passed;

You can tell by the look in his eye.

 

          He’s thinking, “I’d rather be well than ill,

          But I’d rather be ill than old,

          I’d rather be old than dead, I fear…

          But I’d rather be dead than here.”

 

One night the old man climbed down the stairway,

And pushed his way out the front screen.

Then somehow that horse appeared by the porch,

As if it were all in a dream.

 

Somehow the cowboy tossed up a saddle,

And reached out to pull the cinch tight.

Then drawn by the ghosts of old cattle,

They together rode into the night,

 

          Singin’, “I’d rather be well than ill,

          But I’d rather be ill than old,

          I’d rather be old than dead, I suppose.

          (Dead’s just a bad way to wear some fresh clothes.)

          I’d rather be old than dead, I fear.”

          Then together… they rode out of here.

© 2008, Al Mehl
These lyrics poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Al told us about the song's inspiration, "One Saturday morning, I woke up achy from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. No cough, no fever, no upset stomach, just achy all over. It lasted all day, and Sunday was no better. Late that Sunday evening, I turned to my wife and lamented, 'Hon, I sure hope I’m sick. Because if I’m not sick…I just got old.' The song 'I’d Rather Be…' followed, and has become a real crowd pleaser. Seems that the travails of growing old are a universal theme."

The song is the title track to Al "Doc" Mehl's I’d Rather Be… CD.

 

 

What is Cowboy Poetry?

OK, friends, I’ve been readin’ this column about Cowboy Poetry just like you, catchin’ each update as they appear, and thinkin’ about my own personal definition of Cowboy Poetry.  Now I’m kinda new to this whole cowboy poetry thing, but I’ve wrote a poem or two, and I’ve even been accused of bein’ a cowboy poet, so I guess it’s time I took a crack at it. 

 

And I’m gonna do it with the help of one of my poems, titled “Ode to Rhymin,” all sliced up to fit with my ideas.

 

Cowboy Poetry?

 

First, I guess it’s worth sayin’ that Cowboy Poetry is…  well, it’s “poetry,” for Pete's sake.   Heck, we all figured that out in grade school.  It’s just meaningful groups of words held together by a rhyme at the end of each line.  Oh, sure, I’ve read the New Yorker magazine.  I’ve seen those ramblin’ word collections with fancy indentations and skipped lines and jumbled typesetting without a single upper-case letter that don’t have any rhyme at all, and they somehow still call it “poetry.”  As for me, I’m goin’ back to the basics:

 

 

          I guess I’m just old fashioned, a throw back into time,

          But when you’re writin’ poetry…  I’m thinkin’ it should rhyme.

 

          See, poetry these days is filled with somethin’ called “free verse.”

          Just wanderin’ lines with absent rhymes, and phrases I find terse.

 

          But poems are really so much more, and rhyme’s their shinin’ glory.

          Take the couplets out, ‘bout all that’s left is just a story.

 

 

Now, that’s a good starting place. 

 

But lots of words rhyme. / You see it all the time.  /  Just because the words sound the same,  /  that don’t mean they came  /  together in a way to make a real  /  poem.  At least that’s the way I feel.

 

You see, just havin’ plenty of rhymin’ words does not mean you have created a poem.  Far from it.  The words need to flow and march, and sing together in a way that’s lilting and predictable and easy to follow, like the clip-clop of your pony’s hooves on the hard pan.  

 

They call it meter.  And folks who study it and teach poetry to others have given it lots more fancy names, like “iambic” and “pentameter.”  But for me, it’s just kinda knowin’ that it sounds right when the words all keep time in a steady predictable way:

 

 

          And meter, that’s important too:  The pace you set when talkin’

          Should kinda mark the time, just like the steps you take when walkin’.

 

 

Now, if I had to choose which was more important, rhyme or meter, well, it’s kind of an unfair choice.  They’re both important.  But I suppose when you speak a poem in front of an audience, you can pause a little, or double up the syllables once in a while, and usually make even a poem with imperfect meter sound pretty good.   But you can’t very well hide it if the words at the end of each line don’t rhyme just right:

 

 

          But rhymin’, see, that’s critical, ‘cause rhymin’ holds the ear.

          And if the rhyme ain’t perfect, well, it ought to be darned near.

 

 

OK, poems should rhyme, at least mostly I’d say.  And Cowboy Poetry ain’t no exception.  But why?  Why is the rhyme so dang important?  And why have human beings (Cowboys and otherwise) been writin’ down words that rhyme for thousands of years?

 

 

          I guess I used to think that all the rhymin’ was a game,

          ‘Cause it’s fun to tell a story usin’ words that sound the same.

 

          But over time, I find that rhymin’ might be somethin’ more.

          And here’s the hidden secret ‘bout what rhymin’s really for:

 

          See, long ago, when poems began, folks couldn’t read or write.

          But everyone could listen, memorize, and then recite.

 

          Yes, long before the printin’ press, when writin’ was a myst’ry,

          Your knowledge could be transferred through a spoken oral hist’ry.

 

          So that, rich or poor, high or low, no matter what your station,

          Your stories could be passed on to another generation.

 

 

Pass it on to another generation!  That’s the secret about rhymin’.   And the Cowboy story is a story worth passin’ on, don’t ya think?   Oh sure, men and women have tended livestock on this good earth for thousands of years.  But somethin’ happened in the late nineteenth century here in North America that was a whole new story, and people have been livin’ the life and tellin’ the story ever since.   From the great Texas trail drives, to the spirit of the rodeo, to the modern day rancher, it’s a heritage worth preserving, and we do it in books and movies and songs, and, best yet, in Cowboy Poetry.  And, of course, every time we recite from the classics of Cowboy Poetry, and speak again the words of those Cowboy authors, we re-paint the picture for our children and our grandchildren:

 

 

          And if it’s somethin’ mem’rable about your life and time,

          You preserve it for the future when you lock it in a rhyme.

 

          Cause when that story’s told, long after you’ve passed into night,

          Well, if the words still rhyme, they’ll know they got it mostly right.

 

 

But that still ain’t the whole story.  ‘Cause it’s just not our nature to be simply a bunch of reciters.  Folks who have the gumption to get up in front of a crowd aren’t likely to speak only the rhymin’ words of others without throwin’ in a few poems of their own.   From our interest in the history, and our love of the lifestyle, each of us soon becomes both a writer and a reciter.   And with each generation, the oral history is massaged and changed, at the same time both improved and diluted.   Should we value less the poem written by the cowboy who spends as many hours in a pick-up truck as he does atop a horse, or wears old beat up athletic shoes almost as often as he wears cowboy boots?  Is it still cowboy poetry?  Well, of course it is. 

 

It’s an oral history, by golly.  It’s the spoken word bein’ given a life of it’s own.  And if we don’t allow each generation to add just a bit of it’s own experience to the common voice, then it will all die a quiet, somber death and be lost forever. 

 

Should we forbid the Native American to sing the songs of his people and dance the dances of his tribe just because he now lives in a dwelling of brick and mortar instead of a tepee?   His story is measured in thousands of years rather than hundreds.  Wouldn’t we wish as much for the story of the American Cowboy?

 

And if the Cowboy song or the Cowboy poem captures the spirit of the lives that came before, then perhaps it matters less whether the singer or speaker is still wearin’ the same boots and livin’ the same life.  An oral history is an evolution; it’s an amalgam of old stories and new sentiment.  And because of that, the oral history will endure, long after the Cowboy life itself has changed, ever so gradually, to the point of being no longer recognizable. 

 

 

          So when you pass from this good earth, you might just leave your mark,

          If rhymin’ words of your own voice still echo in the dark.

 

          The poem is just your story.  But now it’s clear to me

          That rhymin’ words will guarantee you…  immortality!

© 2005, Al Mehl
This article may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

Read Al Mehl's

Someday in our Art Spur project

and

High Water Mark in our Art Spur Project

and

Ol' Muley in our Art Spur Project

and

 Star of  Wonder in our 2007 Christmas Art Spur project

and

The Brand New Year posted with other 2007 Christmas poems

and

At His Own Pace in our 2007 Cowboy Poetry Week Art Spur project

and

A Cuttin' Horse in our 2006 Christmas Art Spur project

and

No Room at the Inn posted with 2006 Christmas poems

and

Headin' Home in our Art Spur project

 

 

  About Al Mehl:

Hailing from Boulder, Colorado, Al “Doc” Mehl traces his family roots to central Kansas, where his grandfather raised six children on the family homestead.  With one foot in the past and one in the present, Al weaves the history and the mystery of the West into his original poetry and music.  He has performed in cowboy poetry festivals from Denver to Durango, from El Paso to Cheyenne.  His debut music CD is titled “Asphalt Cowboy,” and his second music CD, titled “I’d Rather Be…” was released in 2008.  Al has also published a CD of original poetry titled “Cowboy Pottery.”  Poet Doris Daley describes his work as “refreshing, original, witty, and loaded with clever wordplay about contemporary cowboy life.”  Musician Juni Fisher adds, “Just when you think his fries have been left out of his Happy Meal, he whacks you over the head with a verse that leaves you stunned.”  And, in the words of Rick Huff, as published in The Western Way magazine, “there’s a unique mind at work here that may be one of a kind in the Western Music arena.”

 

I'd Rather Be

 

original music by Al “Doc” Mehl

includes:

The Ladies’ Man
Paniolo
I’d Rather Be…
Sweet Barbara Wire
Wet Dog
Brand New Leather
Can’t Do Without
Twenty Pounds Over
Leavin’ Montan’
Startin’ Today
Would I Were a Cowboy
Love is Like…
Happy Trail Mix

 

 

 

Cowboy Pottery

original poetry by Al Mehl

includes:

Cowboy Pottery
Fence Posts Made of Stone
I Ain't No Cowboy
The Good Old Days
Water
Houdini
The Great Depression
Bad News Travels Fast
The Rabbit Hunt
Silent Night
Canning
Have Dominion Over
The Cowboy Genes
My Daddy Went to College

   

Asphalt Cowboy


original music by Al Mehl

includes:


Asphalt Cowboy
Jupiter and Mars
Reel Cowboy
You’re Not From ’Round Here
Knee Deep in Religion
The Blackened Blues
That Hat
I’m Rodeo
Bring Me a Bud
The Man Who’s Leavin’ Town
I Think of You
Stupid Dog
Welcome to the Whine Bar
Almost Cowboy
Here’s to the Red, White…I’m Blue
There’s Two Cowboys
Good Enough
 

 

Ordering

Who says progress isn’t good?  Here at the Al “Doc” Mehl Mercantile, ordering a CD recording of your favorite cowboy poetry or original contemporary western music couldn’t be easier.  Now you can choose from the old fashioned send-a-check-by-snail-mail method, or the new-fangled-order-on-the-internet method.  What a country!

 

The tried-and-true old fashioned way to order your CD:

 

Just send a check for 15 dollars, plus 3 dollars postage and handling (that’s 18 dollars total for those of you without a calculator) to:   

 

            Al “Doc” Mehl

            5656 Cascade Place

            Boulder, CO   80303

 

Specify which CD recording you would like:

 

            Cowboy Pottery  – 14 original cowboy poems, with guitar interludes.

            Asphalt Cowboy  – 17 tracks of original contemporary western music.

            I’d Rather Be…  – 13 tracks of upbeat leave-you-smilin’ western music.

 

Order any two or more, and the postage is on us, just 15 dollars each for your total cost!

 

The new, hard-to-believe-it’s-this-easy internet method of ordering your CD:

 

To listen to every track of Al “Doc” Mehl’s recordings, and to place an order using a credit card, just crank up the old computer and visit:

 

www.cdbaby.com

 

There you can type in the open box and search for “Al Mehl” to find all of his recordings.  Or, to save a few keystrokes, try going straight to the CD that interests you:

 

www.cdbaby.com/cd/almehl    -  for Asphalt Cowboy (music)

www.cdbaby.com/cd/almehl2  -  for Cowboy Pottery (poetry)

www.cdbaby.com/cd/almehl3  -  for I’d Rather Be… (music)

 

It’s never too early to start shoppin’ for the holidays.  So get your order in today and avoid the rush!

 

Need more information?   Just drop a line to Al “Doc” Mehl at theasphaltcowboy@comcast.net.