~~Cow Creation~~

God must have a sense of humor, or they'd be no excuse,
for creating some oddball herbivores, "exhibit A," -- the Moose!
But we need not stray to foreign lands for some exotic breed,
To show His sense of humor, - a cow's all that we need.

"Just how did He get the concept," I've often asked myself.
"I bet he made 'er from odds and ends He had settin' on a shelf?"
My neighbor Jim welds up "lawn art", from old spare barnyard parts,"
He usually does it when he's drunk an' works in fits and starts.

"I kinda see it in my head," says Jim, "before I ever strike an arc."
Yeah right thought I, "I'd have visions too if I drank that much Cutty Sark."
But I digress and wander, - back to the subject that is at hand.
Was makin' cows just an afterthought, - or something that was planned?

Was it a sky-wide competition, or was it just a prank?
I heard God farmed out the job, to a Notre Dame think tank.
They sought out the brightest, who were promptly commandeered.
The assignment was perfection, - the goalpost set at weird!

Folks trying for the contract tossed out a bucket load of hype.
Then they formed a cow committee, to work out the prototype.
This could have been the start of "pork barrel" politics.
It may have been the premiere gig for the "Dixie Chicks".

"We'll build 'er on a Bison chassis, about three quarter scale,"
"And get Earl Sheib an' his paint gun to add facade detail."

A somewhat gay gastroligist was called to furnish the inside.
An organic biologist to assure she'd be tasty "chicken fried".

"Four milk dispensers," the dairymen shouted, without a reason given.
"Four stomachs," said the Alfalfa farmer, - a snicker ran through heaven.
"How can ya justify such sillyness?" - "Don't you know we're on the clock?"
"We need to get this thing animated before Noah leaves the dock?"

"We've got to put on some top grade siding to stand up to the weather."
Says one, "I vote for corduroy," - - by a vote they went with leather.
"We can save by using surplus parts, an' guano from some bats."
"We got a supply of unused brains from fresh dead democrats."

Then come the day, the model was about to be displayed.
They had a potluck dinner and a big "Cow Day" parade.
The keynote speaker was none other than old Sigmund Freud.
"Ve made dis ting, so even da idits cout be all employet!"

"Cus da boss hat a grup ov mens, dat didn't vont a "nine to five","
"De jus vanted to ride da harse arount, so how vud de survive?"
"He'll be happy,"
the Honcho noted, "we've managed to engineer."
"A beast so dumb an' ornery that even cowboys will have a career."

© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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~~The Choice~~


That foal that's born and reared in ease, in sterile barns without disease.
Never harnessed to a plow, nor saddled up to chase a cow.

Taught only where to drink and eat, soft stall straw beneath his feet.
Schooled merely in this casual way, when left alone - will surely stray.

Or if he's trained by fear and whip, beaten when he makes a slip,
if errant steps find cruel reward, controlled by fear, with braided cord.

Then when the sharpened rowel is gone, no longer bound by bit and brawn.
Having only learned by fear and force, he'll never be a trusted horse.

As with the mount, so too his master, if either would learn to avoid disaster.
To be of worth they must be taught, else their existence will be for naught.

For choices in either's mortality, make of them what they will be.
Both need a guide to hold the rein, a master who sets on higher plane.

Although the horse has little say to whom he belongs or must obey, --
and may in his role of servant sweat, as beast of burden or rich man's pet.

Men have that gift of agency, to make the choice of what they'll be.
To choose to whom they will submit, or if indeed, they'll simply quit.

As much as what we learn on earth, the method taught is of equal worth.
For if we're forced we may rebel, and too easy learned we'll not excel.

The bit is needed to be sure, to steer away from false allure.
For left unbridled, man or mount, will likely be of no account.

Man can aspire to noble height, he has that chance, he has that right.
To choose his course, - his destiny, to be a beggar or grand Marquis.

But he can sell away his chance, then like a puppet forced to dance.
He can tangle up in flaxen cords, opt for counterfeit rewards.

So men, judge well to whom you heed. You have a choice unlike the steed.
To take the role of ease and rest, never facing life's great test.

Or worse, - the path of serf and master, which leads to doom and sure disaster.
So, pick neither whip nor easy track, - and a loving Lord will lead you back..













I know this ain't real "cowboy poetry", but rather a bit of spiritual poetry written with a western flair.
This is one of those that come when you spend time in a funeral service and are reminded of your mortality.

© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


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~~WRONG NUMBER!~~

The weather was burnin', an' my old windmill stopped turnin',
Just gave one last gasp and then died.
But the drinker was full, and if I'd just keep my cool,
I could fix up that there thing if I tried.
   (I'ze a bona fide rancher, you see!)

I worked full out until dark, still had not pumped a quart,
the sucker rod could have got bent.
Or perhaps it was plugged, or just needed de-bugged,
Or maybe the bearings were spent.
   (Ok, so I ain't handy with tools.)

It was oozin' some goo, that got all over my shoe,
made a sound like a dog with the mange.
Kinda a deep down like groan, like a muffled cyclone,
an' smelled like my old kitchen range.
   (Shades of science fiction, I thought.)

So I unsheathed my cell phone, and tho' I had not a dial tone,
hit some digits an' then pushed "send".
Hoped my recollection would make the proper connection,
if not, I'd make a new friend.
   (That is "Billy Myers drilling" number ain't it?)

He'd closed up shop I could tell, went right to his voice mail,
my conversing was garbled and faint.
Over my raspy old phone, ---"speak after the tone."
so I quickly relayed my complaint.
   ("Hello, can you hear me now?")

Should have been a clue that when I was through,
Thought I heard, - "we'll have the doctor call back".
But I'ze just plum' burnt out, went home the short route.
bone weary climbed into the sack.
   (I'd let a professional take over.)

I thought it was Ma Bell, I'ze still too groggy to tell.
Hadn't had my morning caffeine.
Before my pants had been donned, so's I could respond,
the call had gone on to the machine.
   (Ain't modern technology great?)

I'd had a twist in my wires, I'd not got hold of old Myers,
But some feller named Doctor Ravelle.
"Your connection was weak, and your dilemna unique."
"I'll need a lot more detail."
   (This was some "new age" windmill doctor guy.)

"Though I couldn't quite hear, you said "a bad gear?"
"I'll research that a bit."
"And you'll need to explain, about that "bent vane",
just where does that part fit?"
   (This ain't no windmill guy???)

"My colleague concurred that the sound that you heard,
all things considered, was mild."
"And if what we suspect pans out correct,
your casing may need to be tiled."
   (Sounds like space shuttle jargon.)

"If it's just an object got stuck, you may be in luck,
simply use some petroleum jelly".
"But if it's something that's bent, or made a small dent,
an' with that goo a comin' out smelly."-----
- - - -
"Then it may be decay."
- (WELL NO KIDDIN' JOSE'!)
"It'll need a bit of repair!"
"Take some gauze, - a bit roll, and plug up the hole,
and just set tight till I get there."
   (GAUZE? -- SET TIGHT? -- I'm callin' Myers!)

"The case has some intrigue, I'm bringin' a colleague,
be warned, he's a bit of a cynic."
I checked my caller ID., got plum' weak in the knee.
It read Midtown Proctology Clinic!!!!

(alternate ending - you decide!!)
"Your case has some intrigue, I'm bringin' a colleague,
we'll work 'er pro-bono he insists."

Well, the price was okay, but I fainted dead away,---
         when he said-------
"We'll be famous proctologists!!"


© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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~~Vern 'n Virgil~~


They'ze within a nickel, they'd finish I think soon.
At dawn is when they started, now it was well past noon.

The object was an' ol' milk cow that Virgil had for sale.
"Two bits a pound", Vern offered, she's nothin' but a shell."

But Virg' was stuck on thirty, so a deal may not be made.
His wife brought beans an' melon an' some ice cold lemonade.

They sat there in the milkin' shed, the heat was real intense.
That ol' bag's tongue was hangin' out, she's leanin' on the fence.

Vern spoke of her defects an' Virg' sang her acclaim.
Truth became the victim, seems these fellers had no shame!

Them two old boys at loggerheads, they both wuz holdin' firm.
But milkin' time was drawin' nigh, an' Virg began to squirm.

The sun had sunk behind the peaks' when Vern stood up to leave.
"Run 'er on the scales my friend, you've beat me I believe".

"Tell me Vern, Virg' queried when she'ze weighed an' paid.
"Why didn't you buy her early on, -- why all the serenade?"

Vern put away his checkbook, grinned an' then he said.
"I got ta buy 'er by the pound an' sell 'er by the head."

The answer failed to ring a bell. "But why'd you wait all day?"
"Well, I enjoy yer company Virg', - an' just loved yer wife's buffet."

"I glanced in yer water trough, that ol' hide had naught to drink."
"So I kept the trade a goin' to make up that nickel on the shrink."


My dad was Vern Hatch, a cattle trader who knew the art of the trade.
I used to enjoy watching my dad trade cattle with the local folks.
One guy he bought from at times was Virgil Bushman, a local melon farmer and dairyman.
(Dad always said Virgil hated the thought of leaving any profit in a cow.)
(This one won runner-up in a world wide "Poet Lauriete" contest on "cowboypoetry.com".)

© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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~~Pedro's Menu!~~


At first it sounded far away like a stampede in the making.
Then slowly raised in tempo, the ground commenced to shaking.

Like that sucking sound the plunger makes when cleaning out the drain.
This may be what Nostradamus saw in his twenty fourth quatrain.

A sulfur scent was on the breeze, it killed my neighbors lawn.
Like a cross between real bad BO, and a service station John.

Norad went into Defcon four, the alert was raised to RED.
The switchboard clogged at 9-1-1, -- I think my dog is dead!

Birds were falling from the sky, the leaves dropped from the trees.
And though the sun was darkened, it went up 'bout ten degrees.

Folks checked out the book of Daniel as their fears began to grow.
Turned to Revelations, then to Joshua at Jerico.

Was this the promised "end times"? The signs all seemed to jive.
Perhaps a BLACK HOLE had collapsed! Would anyone survive?

Church going folks were confessing to anyone who'd lend an ear.
Baptists shouting hallelujah, perhaps the end was growing near.

And still the sound continued, like some grand demonic derge.
Or like an old Bass Tuba, or a Moose that has the urge.

Great waves of smell crashed on shore, it smelled like Farley's goat.
Had the world ate fresh alfalfa and caught a case of bloat?

Or could it be Al Qaeda, we've been told they're pretty rank.
Someone call the Guard out, - have them bring a Sherman tank!

Well I figgered I should tell them, but then why mess up the show?
Then finally I decided that they just ought to know.

"Calm down folks, no need to worry, nor to call in the Marines".
"It's down at Pedro's café, they're serving last weeks beans"!

© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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~~Gardening!~~


"You got to plant a garden Pa, the grocery bill is just too high"!
All in all I'd rather have a sharp stick poked into my eye.
Or have a flock of elephant tiptoe up and down my spine,
than partake of horticulture, - I'm a cowboy by design.

"It ain't a gonna happen Ma.." Then she threatened a divorce.
"I'll never grow a garden, -- you can bug me till you're hoarse!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
--So I found this little patch of ground that I could work on shares.
I bought a Roto Tiller, got some seeds and other wares.

Some bug bait for the hoppers, and some nasty Green Light spray.
Powder for the broccoli and some lime to break the clay.
To fund the whole shebang, we took out a second on our dwelling.
Ma figgered we could pay it back with the produce we'd be selling.

I plowed and tilled and planted, then come the irrigation turn.
"Three AM, No way!" I said, and then I began to burn.
I'd worked all day a clearing weeds with my new Troy Built.
Clearing furrows , dusting bugs and treating melons for the wilt.

"I ain't gonna work no graveyard shift!" I'ze purt near to explode.
"I'll stop this nonsense now, this is where the rubber meets the road."
"I'm going to stand as firm as Davy Crockett at the Alamo."
"Now listen careful wifey dear, the answer flat, is -- "NO"!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
--So I sets my clock for two AM to fix the head gate in the ditch.
I woke up feeling like a fresh shoed horse that still had on the twitch.
Starting then I worked my plot with such grand anticipation.
I fought the corn worms at first silk, the squash bug infestation.

I nursed my babies through the doldrums, with super human power.
Recited rhymes to the fledgling cukes and sang to the cauliflower.
Assured my carrots they were perfect and zucchini without flaw.
Regaled my little cabbage heads with tales of fresh made slaw.

And then with summer ending it was time to tally up the take.
Divide the bucks into the booty and see, - how much did we make?
The Crows and bugs took their share first,-the landlord had his stack.
I loaded up my summers work in an old used gunny sack.

If I figgered right, - and I'ze real careful to add, subtract and such.
I doubt if you'd believe that produce could really cost that much!
My parsley will soon be selling on the New York Stock Exchange.
And to buy a radish will take much more than your pocket change.

Corn, - ten bucks a dozen, turnips each cost a dollar bill.
Tomatoes selling by the gram, and I put lettuce in my will.
So now I plowed up that plot of ground and put up a little shrine.
To remind me not to garden even though my wife may whine.

Well, it's spring again, the buds appear, the wife's nagging had begun.
But something in my tone convinced her my gardening days were done.
For now my "inner agriculture" has found a new direction.
You'll find me doing gardening at the Safeway produce section.

© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

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Oh well, you get the idea.........





I doubt you'll find much in the way of cowboy poetry that is any better than the stuff that a friend of mine from Snowflake, Arizona puts together. His name is Rolf Flake and he has been writing good rhymes for half a century. Rolf is a real honest to goodness cowman and his stuff comes from real life as well as the occasional fantasy. I'd recommend his new book to anyone wanting to read some good stuff that will help get the taste of mine out of your mouth. His new book is called "Cloud Watchers", and if you are interested, drop me a line and I'll put you onto it.



"Keep astride of the tree, both feet in the stirrups, and far enough back of the horn to maintain your masculinity"...

(You cowgirls figger it out yourselves)



~POETRY LINKS~

If you like country stuff and cowboy poetry,
you'll love the pages at the
BAR-D RANCH


They were kind enough to include me on their pages!

---THEN THERE'S THE REAL KING---
MR. BAXTER BLACK !!


His stuff ain't free, but it's worth the price. If you ever have a chance to catch him in person, I'll guarantee some of the best entertainment you've ever enjoyed! Baxter is also a nice feller who'll take a minute out of his busy schedule to visit and encourage.
He's kinda the "poet hero" of most of us wanna be's..

1-800-654-2550
(928) 586-1077



headcowboy@baxterblack.com
Coyote Cowboy Company · P.O. Box 2190 · Benson, Arizona 85602


Tell him you found them from my website if you think of it.