Before most life begins to stir
The music of bit and spur
Would sound and carry on
In the early light before dawn.
Voices floated on the air
Like a melody hung there
Soft Texas drawls
Held in by canyon walls.
The Old Ones readied to ride
Grass ropes coiled at their sides
Split reins in gloved hands
They rode for their own brand.
On strong horses they rode away
Into the foothill mist of day,
I cried in vain for them to wait
As they trotted out the gate.
They turned and I saw their eyes
And knew this was the final goodbye
Dad and Granddaddy riding away
Me pleading for them to stay.
With my heart pounding
I heard their words sounding
And felt the crash in my chest
As mere words pierced my breast.
I woke with deep regret
Soaked with stale sweat
For they had spoken true
And I knew what I must do.
The Old Ones were gone again
The last of clan and kin
Men of horses and stock
My shield and my rock.
Their message was clear
"Go on without fear"
.They had taught me well
And in my heart would dwell.
We still run a cow outfit
And all the old ways still fit
In a different land and time
Taught by the Old Ones of mine.
Before most life begins to stir
The music of bit and spur
Sounds and carries on
In the early light before dawn.
© Deanna Dickinson McCall
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without written permission.
We made a call to town
To have some help sent down
The horses and use were worn out
I even walked like I had gout.
They said they'd send a gal out
She knew what ridin' was about.
We agreed it would be all right
And she'd arrive that night.
After supper I heard a truck come in
And went to check the bunkhouse again.
I was surprised to find her there
It did kinda give me a scare.
Well, she was experienced all right
And I was grateful for the poor light.
She looked so old and poor
Standing slumped in that old door.
Her battered hat had a hole in the crown
And strands of dirty hair hung down
Over a face lined with dust and crud
That water would have turned to mud.
There was a tattered scarf round her neck
Her coat looked like she'd been in a wreck
One sleeve was torn halfway loose
Where feathers floated in search of the goose.
Just as I was about to voice my doubt
I let out a strangled shout
Recognition had come to me
And I tried to gather some dignity.
For all my fears had come true
And there wasn't a thing I could do
But slam that bunkhouse door
And not look in that damn mirror anymore!
© Deanna Dickinson McCall
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without written permission.
Ropes and wood fire, total chaos
abounds
Amid choking dust and deafening bawls
The call of "hot iron" clearly sounds.
There's babies and toddlers confined in truck beds
Three generations gathered to work today
And I still recall what the fourth and fifth said.
I remember Granddad, and my own Dad
As they quickly made their way to a calf
And the old familiar call makes me sad.
I hurry back to grab another iron fast
Only then do I realize the old call
Came from my own lips as it passed.
© Deanna Dickinson McCall
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without written permission.
Feral words that demand freedom
Strain against the trap of my heart
Wild eyed and stomping
They quiver, whirl and falsely start.
They struggle in their confinement
Jostling, circling, they seek escape
Round the perimeters
They somehow find form and shape.
Feral words that demand freedom
Have charged and broken down the gate
Bucking and snorting
They run blindly into their fate.
A great abyss swallows them whole
They run through the bit and its pull
Never to be seen again
Words escaped from a heart too full.
© 2007, Deanna Dickinson McCall
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without written permission.
I listened carefully, listened
to directions
All based on recollections
Of cattle last seen, water and grass green.
His face was lined, lined from a lifetime
Of counting every nickel and dime
Worries and cares, hopes and prayers.
He'd outlived his child, outlived his wife
Seemed to have tired of life
After the stroke, spirit and body broke.
Drought had fallen, fallen heavy on the land
Grass replaced by piles of sand
Tanks lay long dry, under a blazing sky.
We prowled around, prowled for his cows
Swore to ourselves renewed vows
Of helping neighbors, and our free labor.
But, we faced mortality, faced our own years
And sought to appease our fears
Of growing old, and outfits sold.
Cattle were gathered, gathered and sorted
Numbers tallied and reported
We figured the amount, he was given the count.
It would be enough, would buy a place in town
To watch the sun go down
On a quiet street, with memories bittersweet.
His old hand shook, shook as the paper curled
That gave a dollar amount to his world
He took our word, couldn't really see the herd.
That tally he held, held with quiet pride
Was one time we all lied
We'd padded the count, added to the amount.
His cattle were thin, were rough and open
Hadn't calved like we were hopin'
We added a few, ours, and he never knew.
It was our raising, raised to do right
In the old days of black and white
No question of gray, only one right way.
We rode hard, hard and long all day
For something more valued than pay
A time honored code, for this we rode.
© 2008, Deanna Dickinson McCall
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without written permission.
Deanna Dickinson McCall's short
story, "
