Poem of the Week
February 14, 2005
by James Barton Adams
Don't know just how it come about,
But me an' him was walkin' out
Along the creek, an' jokin' like
Two silly little kids, when Ike
Got sort o' serious, an' got
So nervous, like, I honest thought
'At mebbe he was sick, but he
Soon knocked the wind from that idee.
He said fur many a draggin' day
He'd been a bracin' up to say
A somethin' that was in his heart
A stickin' like a cactus dart,
But every time he'd try to squeal
He'd git the lockjaw, an' 'd feel
Embarrassed an' as shy o' tongue
'S if he was goin' to be hung.
But now he'd got his nerve in j'int
An' screwed up to a desp'rate p'nt
An' had to talk, or he would just
Swell up with hope deferred an' bust !
He couldn't sleep nor couldn't eat,
An' sot oneasy in his seat
Up on his saddle hoss's back,
Because his heart was out o' whack.
An' then he said: "Jane Annie Duff,
You've bin a mav'rick long enough
A runnin' on the range, an' I
Am goin' to make a honest try
To pitch the matermon'al rope
Around yer heart, an' have a hope
That you will make a willin' stand
An' let me spot you with my brand !
"Just drift into my home corral
An' there won't be no other gal
On all the range 'll have as true
An' solid-hearted man as you.
I've got a bunch o' steers, beside
I've got a ranch, an' if you'll ride
The range o' life with me you'll find
No bogs to aggervate yer mind."
By this time I was trimblin' like
A calf out in a storm, an' Ike
Was rattled, I've an idee, more
Than ever in his life before.
He sort o' choked an' hemmed an' hawed
Like he'd bronchitis, then he drawed
My willin' head ag'in his breast
An'---Well, you've got to guess the rest !
Reprinted from Breezy Western Verse, Denver, 1899
by Cy Warman
She's the shining solid silver
From humanity's rough ore ;
She's the star that beams above us out of reach ;
She's the lasting love-lit lighthouse
That illumes life's lonely shore ;
She's the precious pearl the tide leaves on the beach.
She's the ever-paying pay-streak
In the fissure of the heart ;
She's the summer rose that scents the silent gloom ;
She's the wondrous work of nature,
Like the soul, our better part ;
She's our sunlight from the cradle to the tomb.
Reprinted from Mountain Melodies, Denver, circa 1892.
Creede
&
The Rise and Fall of Creede