Cowboy is his
name.
There's a
hundred years of history and a
hundred
before that, all gathered in the
thinking
going on beneath his hat. And
back behind
his eyeballs and pumping
through his
veins, is the ghost of every
cowboy who
ever held the reins.
Every coil in
his lasso has been thrown a
million
times., his quiet concentrations been
distilled
through ancient minds. Its evolution
working when
the silver scratches hide, and a
ghostly
cowboy chorus fills his head and says
"lets
ride "
The famous
and the rowdy the savage and
the sane, the
bluebloods and the hot bloods,
and the
corriente strain, all knew his mothers
or was it his
daddys kin? Till he's nearly
purely cowboy
born to ride and bred to win.
He's got
buffalo Bill Cody and midnight
jiggers boss,
and all of the brave blue solders
that General
Custer lost. The ghost of
Pancho Villa,
Sitting Bull and Jessie
James, all
gatherd by his camfire keeping
score and
taking names.
Theres every
Royal Mountie that ever
got his man.
And every day work cowboy that
ever made a
hand. Each man that rode before him
yup every
mothers son. Is in his corner rootin when
he nodes to
make his run.
And standing
in the catch pen or off in chute
number 9 is
the off spring of a mountain thats
come down
from olden time. A volcano waiting
quiet till
they climb upon his back, rumblin like
the engine of
a freight train on its track.
A cross
between a she bear and a bad four wheel
drive. with
the fury of a eagle as it makes its
power dive. A
snake thats lost is caution or a badger
gone berserk,
Hes a screaming stomping clawing
rabid mad dog
piece of work.
From the
rollers in his nostral to the foam on
his lips,
from the hooves as hard as granite to the
horns with
dagger tips. From the flat black staring
shark eyes
thats the mirror of his soul, comes the
challenge to
each cowboy like the devil calling roll.
In the
seconds that tick slowly till he climbs upon
his back,
each rider faces down the fear that makes
his mouth go
slack. And cuts his guts to ribbon
and gives his
tongue a coat He swallows back the
panic gorge
thats risen in his throat.
The smell of
hot blue copper fills the air around his
head, then a
single solid shiver shakes away the
doubt and
dread. The cold flame burns within him
till his
skins as cold as ice, and the dues he paid to get
here are
worth every sacrifice.
All the miles
spent sleepy driving all the money
down the
drain, all the "If I's" and the nearlys
all the
bandages and pain, all the female tears left
drying all
the fear and the fight, are just a small
down payment
on the ride he makes tonight.
And his
partner in this madness that the cowboy
call's a
game, is a ton of bucking thunder bent on
proving why
he came. But the cowboy never wavers
he intends to
do his best. and of that widow maker
he expects of
him no less.
Theres a
solemn silent moment that every rider
knows, when
the time stoped on a heart beat and
the earth its
self was froze. Then all the ancient
instints
fills the space between his ears, till the
whispers of
his phantoms are the only thing he
hears.
When you get
down to the cuttin and the leather
touches hide,
and theres nothing left to think about
he nods and
says "Lets Ride!" Then frozen
for an
instant against the open gate, his hist'ry
turned to
flesh and blood, a warrior incarnate.
And while
they pose like statures in that flicker
of an eye,
theres somthing almost sacred you can
see it if you
try its guts love and glory-one mortals
chance at
fame. His legacy is rodeo
A Cowboy Is
His Name!
Poem by
Bazter Black
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