JACK BURDETTE
Flagstaff, Arizona
About Jack Burdette
Magenta Sky
Now, the coosie's a might grumpy
and the top hand ain't wearing no grin.
Guess you could say the whole outfit's
sense of humor is growing thin.
High up here in the Hualapais,
the roundups are usually tough.
But, with the weather that we've had,
reckon this spring is more than rough.
Two days of rain that drenched us through
and now the wind is gusting strong.
But, 'round here, for a weather change,
just wait around, it won't take long.
I've rode herd for many outfits,
but, Kingman is the only place,
I've stood in mud up to my knees
and had dust blowing in my face.
The cows are wild and scattered thin,
because there's water everywhere.
Fresh grass is sprouting in the flats
and a small group is mighty rare.
The corral pens are filling slow,
although we've worked for fourteen days.
Of course, you always have mavericks,
but this year, the whole herd is strays.
Seems that's the nature of this life,
either too much water or drought.
Sometimes I ask, is it worth it?
Maybe, I should have stayed down South,
Where the winters ain't quite so cold
and the work would be close to town.
I reckon it's only natural
to let the hardships get you down.
Then, I recall the evening sky,
with the purplish and red background.
It's the one place short of Heaven,
where this wonder can be found.
Where pinks and yellows paint the clouds,
behind the mountain's silhouette.
There's a magic, hard to describe,
in an Arizona sunset.
Then, I look up to the heavens,
aglow with shining star's bouquet
And soon forgotten are the toils,
that seemed immense during the day.
Why I do this tough lonely job?
I no longer need to ask why.
For here, I'm living a free life
in the land of magenta sky.© 2005, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Saguaros in the Snow
In the foothills of the Bradshaw's,
it's not that uncommon a sight,
To see the snow 'bout every year,
drop down and paint the desert white.
But, no matter when I see it,
the high desert in winter gown,
It's an awesome, eerie beauty;
saguaros with a snowy crown.
Up high in the ponderosas,
even down in the pinyon draws,
The snow makes things look natural,
while hiding some of nature's flaws.
When it drifts 'round the junipers,
I think of little Christmas trees
And imagine it's nature's quilt,
to calm and set the world at ease.
Yet, something seems most out of place,
seeing cacti that seem so proud,
To usually thirst in blazing sun,
all hushed 'neath winter's chilly shroud.
Still, though it may be hard to grasp,
a greater thrill, you'll never know,
Than to ride out in the morning
and see saguaros in the snow.
© 2007, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Jack told us, "This poem was inspired by a late storm this past winter that dropped the snow line down to under three thousand feet elevation. This covered a lot of dessert that is usually thought of as being hot and dry. The giant saguaro covered with snow is an unusual and beautiful sight."
The Blacksmith's Shed
It's just an old add-on lean-to,
by the barn on the old home place,
With a hog wire fence around it,
to keep the cows out of his space.
A couple window panes are broke
and the old tin roof is rusted.
The forge's stack is listing bad,
because one guy wire is busted.
The small corral is empty now,
where shoeless ponies used to wait.
Some rimless wheels lean 'gainst the fence
and tumbleweeds have clogged the gate.
The door creaks when I open it
and cobwebs need be brushed aside.
The feeling's like a trip in time,
as I reverently step inside.
Dust dances in the rays of light,
that filter through the clapboard cracks
And illuminate horse collars,
that rest atop some old feed sacks.
There's bits and bridles and horseshoes,
hanging from handmade nails above
And there on the tool strewn workbench,
a pair of long wrist leather gloves.
Now, time has forever silenced,
resounding music that was mine,
The quick rhythm of the hammer,
above the bellows' wheeze and whine.
The striking blows began as thuds,
as hammer shaped the hot horseshoe,
Then rose to sharper clank, clink, clinks,
when black replaced the glowing hue.The hissing when the tongs would plunge,
hot steel into the quenching tank
And the ever piercing squeaking,
when he would turn the jib hoist crank.
But, silently stands the anvil,
atop its weathered oak log base,
A monument to craftsman's pride,
that still lingers in this work place.
I often visit the old shed,
for, oh, the memories it unlocks.
Can still smell the charcoal ashes,
beneath the forge's cold firebox.
His leather apron's on a peg,
and well worn hammer's on the shelf.
Yes, when my granddad passed away,
we buried a part of myself.© 2007, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Dedicated to the
memory of my grandfather
Wily Andrew Burdette
1856—1935Jack told us, "My inspiration for writing this poem comes from memories of my grandfather who died when I was a young boy. I remember visiting the old shed for many years after his death until urban sprawl consumed the old place. My father keep the tools from the blacksmith shop and we used many of the tools together until my father also passed away."
The Loneliest Trail
I think by now, I've rode them all,
pushing cattle for little pay,
From Payson up through Happy Jack
and Heber, out the other way.
We drive them down for the winter
and back again, when snow is gone.
These are the roughest in the West,
the trails that climb the Mogollon.
We're winding out of Sedona,
through Bear Wallow Canyon today.
Merry-Go-Round Rock's just ahead.
Reckon tonight that's where we'll stay.
Late tomorrow, we'll hit the switchbacks,
as we climb the steep rim's south face.
With any luck, in 'bout a week,
we'll top out close to Jim Mund's place.
I think oft, as I ride along,
about that girl in Cottonwood.
She's weighing heavy on my mind,
a heap more than any girl should.
Daughter of a copper miner,
who works the claims up at Jerome.
She's the kind of gal that could make,
this cowboy want to find a home.
I met her at a town social
and asked if I might call on her.
That long black hair and cool green eyes,
gave this cowboy's heart quite a stir.
We seemed to hit it off just great
and I think she's carrying a torch.
Because, she didn't seem to mind,
when I kissed her on her side porch.
I think about the ranch up north,
with snow capped peaks and forests of pine.
The beauty there captures your soul,
yet, its far from the love of mine.
Looking back down the trail we've come,
the Verde Valley looks might good.
'Spose one could settle down there fine,
'though, I ain't saying that I would.
Now, no one made no promises
and don't know if she'll wait 'til fall.
Can't seem to shake this anxiousness,
a feeling like none I recall.
I've rode out on many a trail
and never had much cause to stall.
But, when you ride away from love,
it's the loneliest trail of all.
© 2005, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Jack told us, "There is a Forest Service gravel road that winds down the Mogollon Rim from just south of Munds Park, Arizona to Sedona, Arizona, that was used for cattle drives. Bear Wallow Canyon and Merry-Go-Round Rock are actual land marks along this trail. The poem was inspired by pure imagination of the hardships of conducting a cattle drive in this extremely rugged terrain and then having to do it while heartsick over leaving a new-found love."
This poem is included in our Cowboy Love Poems collection.
Oilcloth and Coal Oil
I remember the old bunkhouse,
where the curtains were made of jute
And can still smell the coal oil lamp
and see the chimney black with soot.Coal oil permeated the space
and dominated other scents.
To most it was a foul odor,
to others, a pleasing incense.
Of course, there were other odors,
associated with cowpokes,
From saddle soap to linseed oil
and tobacco from hand rolled smokes.There was the smell of beans and stew,
simmering on the cookie's stove,
Of leather chaps and sweaty clothes,
and brewing coffee interwove.
But, guess the smell most remembered,
that with lights out would start to creep,
Throughout the room and to the bunks,
coal oil fumes that put me to sleep.Just before the lamp was quieted,
as chimney rose to lowered wick,
One last fragrant swirl of gray smoke,
before the flame gave its last flick,
Standing near the cooking area,
a dining table where we ate,
All covered with pale red oilcloth,
with a surface shinny as slate.
Etched in the glossy tablecloth,
thousands of rings from coffee cups.
It was the gathering place at night,
and for breakfast chuck at sunup.
Who could count the steers that were roped,
or coyotes shot with a carbine
And who could tally the fortunes,
made in tales across its dull sheen.Card games late on Saturday nights
and Sunday chuck, without a doubt,
The simple rituals that we shared,
were what made that table standout.
Those days of cowboying are past,
except for riding in my dreams.
But, some details that I recall,
are fresh as yesterday, it seems.
Of all my bunkhouse memories,
of friends I made and their tall tales,
The ones most vivid in my mind,
are oilcloth's feel and coal oil's smell.
© 2008, Jack Burdette
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Jack told us, "The inspiration for this poem came from vivid memories of the sights and odors that are so distinct in bunk houses, hunting camps, fishing cabins or anywhere that a group of men gathers to eat and sleep."
Read Jack Burdette's
The Nighthawk's Christmas posted with 2007 Christmas poems
and
Angel in the Window posted with 2006 Christmas poems
About Jack Burdette:
I moved to Arizona about forty-two years ago and have always loved it here. My work took me away a couple of times, but I always found my way back. I have settled here in Flagstaff and plan to stay put this time. Although I never worked as a cowboy, I have socialized with quite a few. In fact, I am a professional engineer who designs and builds steel mills. However, my father was in the US Cavalry when they still rode horses and
went on to compete on the rodeo circuit. He also worked as a cowboy and ran a blacksmith shop with his dad. So, I guess I have some cowboy blood by heredity.
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