WESTERN RHYMES: EPITAPHIAL

PONY TRACKS

Pony Tracks, the man is gone

Pony Tracks the legend won't be long

Selling him off piece by piece

With every sudden whim or caprice

Heirs without cares or income

Just living on the crumbs

Selling souvenirs of his life

His saddle, his chaps, his knife

On e-bay, to the highest bidder

Desperations to consider

Memories and trinkets on-line

A legend for cowboy and equine

They sell his collection without apology

And turn him in to nothing but novelty

But we've seen it all before

With the famed and their lore

Descendant generations won't work

Spending inheritances on a quirk

Soon it's gone and they can't get along

Trustafarians in the wrong

Some say the west died with barbed wire

Some say it was the day Earp died

But I say it lived on in Pony Tracks

He was to us, what a file is to an axe

He kept us sharp and polished

With humor and knowledge

On the page or in the narrows

On a ride with the Desert Caballeros

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A WYOMING WEDDING - A WYOMING WIDOW

A bride and groom on a honeymoon

In Cheyenne, Wyoming on a cold Spring noon

Not the first and not the last to do the deed

But the deed was not to last long by speed

The speed of an unseen gun show

Far away when news was slow

The bride did finally weep

Five months wed, now dead and buried deep

A Wyoming wedding where wed Agnes to Bill

A card game in the gold country of the Black Hills

He left his bride to seek financial support

And never returned from a trip cut short

A dead man's hand, they said at the poker game

Then someone mentioned Jack McCall's name

A no-good, no account according to Hoyle

Shot and killed Wild Bill before his blood could boil

Poor lonely Agnes, wed and widowed in just five months'

Left all alone on the windy Cheyenne fronts

Of international fame, now widowed twice

Agnes Lake Hickok, marriage cut short by a gunman twice.

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R.I.P. CBS RADIO

From Ed Sullivan to Walter Cronkite to Sam Spade
From Gang Busters to Gunsmoke to Campana Serenade
Mystery Theatre, House Party and World News Roundup
Palooka, Durante, Skelton, and Ripley's Believe It Or Not

Coast to coast entertainment in your front room
News on the hour and singers who croon
Costumes with flair and magic in the air
Kids sit on the floor 'cause there ain't no more chairs

CBS Radio, born in the middle of Prohibition
The last of the big three to uphold the tradition
We'll sing her farewell song and play the Taps
We'll lay her down beneath the ground and watch history collapse

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

WARM SNOW

The summer I turned six

I spent with Cindy and Debbie

A plastic ocean and horses made of sticks

Chocolate milk from a cricket named Jiminy

White sands that looked like snow

Girls scampering up and over the hill

But I was afraid to go

Shivering like I already had a chill

I'd never been to a beach or even a playground with sand

But I knew what snow was, trust me

Dressed in shorts and sandals and no gloves on my hands

Who wants to play like this in cold country?

I'd never heard of warm snow before

And I'd never seen that flavor of sand

No wonder I was hesitant and unsure

It's hard for a northern boy to understand

Little Debbie was the first one over the hill

"See how brave she is," said her mother

"She's not afraid, you'll have fun, I know you will"

Finally they convinced me with one logic after another

I soon forgot what snow was all about

Cindy, Debbie and I with sand pails

We romped and played and wore ourselves out

When they called us back, we moved like snails

Memories etched in my mind so long ago

Time sails on without us while we wait for the ships

Cindy, Debbie and I had fun in the warm snow

The summer I turned six

In memory of:

Cynthia Jean Kenneally, 1953-2024

and

Debra Kenneally Telles, 1956-2025

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FLOWERS ARE BETTER THAN BULLETS

Flowers are better in all weather

Bullets fired are undesired

Reasons excused or abused

Four lives halted in the heather

Flowers don't kill, but bullets will

Rights wronged, wrongs never righted

Students unsteady, Guard ever-ready

Four dead, never to tread on the hill

Innocence lost, four paid the cost

Freedom died, parents cried

The nation divided, nevermore united

Lives squashed, a Kent State Holocaust

Forever gone, time marches on

Memories fade, brightness to shade

Battles never won, only done

More war, more horror, pawns in a new dawn

For Sandra and Bill, resting ever-still

The war is over, you were heard

For Jeffrey and Allison, though your days are done

Your voices rang loud, and always will

JAN'S GUITAR

(For Janice Claire Sigler 1954-1964)

This little guitar was held in a young girl's hands
It sang to her the happy songs she held dear
And comforted her in times that were sad
This little guitar with notes so bright and clear

This little guitar didn't cost so very much
But it brought more joy than anyone could conceive
"Yes Jesus Loves Me," "This Little Light of Mine" and such
This little guitar that helped a young girl believe

This little guitar that fit her young hands so fine
Lessons learned to help her beyond the music domain
Patience, understanding, perserverance to help a young girl shine
This little guitar made of such soft woodgrain

This little guitar was a friend, treasured by a pretty young girl
A pretty young girl who played it for way too short of a time
A pretty young girl who wasn't able to stay in this world
This little guitar with memories so divine

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

THE ROADMAP

It was Doug, Phil, Louis and I
Doug and Phil were both the intellectual kind
Louis would do anything to get high
I was just a follower, but I wasn't blind

Creativity was Doug's specialization
Phil was philosophical
Louis was screwy - inhaling bus exhaust for fixation
I just wanted to be comical

Doug and I worked after school at the filling station
Phil worked, when he wanted, on his uncle's house
Louis panhandled or sold drugs per the occasion

Always in constant fear we'd end up in Vietnam or Laos

Louis was the first to ramble
Then, you know, I flew away
Phil followed the gamble
And only Doug was left to stay

Teenaged lads, friends by circumstance

Divided by wanderlust and graduation
Time waits not for any sort of happenstance
Age brings more distance and separation

Louis owns the unknown in our equation
Phil's story is a closed, but unfinished book
Doug's journey ended in medical frustration
Now, only I can cheat death and be the rook

And so I drink a toast to you, the friends of my youth
And the memories of our shared yesterday
Treading our way in a world without truth
I'm still following, so leave a roadmap to help me find my way

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MORE DEAD THAN ALIVE

Elmer McCurdy was pretty dirty

Ragged and rough and flirty

Gaunt and ghostly, mostly

From care done grossly

On display from day to day

His fame came to late to pay

Killed while on the run

Killed by a sheriff's gun

His body, never claimed

Therefore he remained

In the funeral home

Just a nickle to view his bones

From town to town

And up and down

The countryside he traveled

More dead than alive as he unraveled

Waxed and painted to look more real

Elmer McCurdy underwent an ordeal

For years and decades he was shown

As a side-show freak unknown

Now he's burried beneath the sod

With cement to prevent more fraud

He covered more territory dead

Than what the newspapers said

What I say is absolute and that's the truth

Elmer McCurdy, a scoundral since youth

Famous not for what he did do,

But rather for what he did't do

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

THE PATH THAT ELMER TOOK

The path I chose didn't lead where I thought.

I done wrong, I know, but I don't deserve what I got.

I drank alot while I was alive, so I was already dead,

But when the sheriff shot me my blood still ran red.

Now the tales they tell about me are mostly true.

The ones they say where I used explosives and blew -

Up the safes and used too much or too little,

Well, that's not atall what makes me so brittle.

Why did no one claim my body and bury me on boothill?

I wasn't the property of the funeral home but they had a bill.

The money they made more than paid for services rendered,

But, to sell me off for more should have been surrendered.

Where is the money that everyone made?

Am I not owed some compensation for my trade?

I was a slave with no will of my own and no voice.

I was circused around the country but not by my choice.

I was never hung for the crimes I committed while I was living,

But still hung none-the-less for eternity without forgiving.

Oh, the things I have seen if I could only speak,

The things I could tell you about the rich and the meek.

Those who came to gawk and caress - touching without finesse,

And those who ignored the inhumanity from reading stories in the press.

Oh, if I could, I'd wirte a book more interesting than Bonney or the OK.

We could make a movie about me hanging in the rafters out in L.A.

Yes, it's me, Elmer McCurdy, more dead than alive, telling this tale.

It's all true but there is more that no one will ever know, unless I fail.

When you come across to the other side, just look me up and you will know,

Just where the path leads, the one that I didn't choose. Where I didn't go.

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LITTLE PEOPLE OF WYOMING

We were the little people of the plains

We weren't so little until the giants came

O're the prairies and the hills we went roaming

We, the little people of Wyoming

When the bigger people came to invade

We hid high up in the dark mountain caves

Fierce, we were, but forced by necessity

Survival forced us to fight incessantly

Long before you knew of Santa Ana

We left the area for Montana

The frozen Dakota winters were tough

It was there, that we learned to ride rough

When the warm spring rains began their downpour

We learned to go faster and rush more

When Meriwether searched Nebraska

Wyoming mountains became our last stand

The end of the plains, is what we called it

Where mountains reach to the sky when it's lit

Where the creator hangs lights in the sky

Every night, so we can see to get by

But giant people never stopped coming

Huge feet, on the earth, pounding and drumming

Some were like us, with similar customs

But no, never the white one, he just comes

Because we're so very small and fragile

Our gods made us powerful and agile

The spirits are with us and they're in us

So, sometimes you might not even see us

Our weapons are small but very mighty

Our little poison arrows fly lightly

And so much farther than any arrow should

A shot here can kill a man in Deadwood

You may or may not believe we are real

That we're mythology and no big deal

When you're alone on the Wyoming plains

Winter wind blows, blood freezes in your veins

Then you will receive the help you pray for

A few little people, two, three or four

Will come to you and build you a big fire

Was it Heaven sent or a place higher

Up high in the Wyoming mountain dens

Or below, where you hide your I.B.M.s

We little people, keepers of the gold

Like Pedro, in the cave so long ago.

Why do you keep him and won't send him back

You should beware, we might go on attack

Pedro belongs here and not where you are

Giant grave robbers put him in a jar

And so, we shall remain, ever unseen

Either trickster or betwixt and between

Always guarding where buffalo are roaming

We little people of Big Wyoming

[https://www.wyohistory.org/encyclopedia/pedro-mountain-mummy]

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COMIN' HOME

"I miss you Mom," the letter said.
Tears streamed down her cheek as she read.
He said, "You won't believe how much I've grown."
p.s. "I'm looking forward to comin' home."

Dad came in from workin' in the field,
And looked at the letter, unsealed.
Mom said, "It was sweet, he sent a poem."
"And said he was lookin' forward to comin' home."

Dad called the prayer line at the Parish,
And said: "Share the word, the news we cherish"
"My boy just sent word. When is unknown,"
"But he's lookin' forward to comin' home."

Soon the whole town knew all there was.
There'd be a celebration just because.
The pride of the town, up on on a throne.
This boy, looking forward to comin' home.

The smile that beamed from his father's face,
A smile no one would ever replace.
Repeating the news to each and everyone,
His boy was going to be comin' home.

His girl from high school had been waiting.
Waiting for the day, always anticipating.
Anxious for a reunion with the boy, now grown.
The boy, soon to be comin' home.

A telegram gave the time and date.
Dad dressed up early so not to be late.
Mom fussed and fidgeted all alone,
To be ready for her boy comin' home.

Dad went up to the depot agent,
Asked about the arrival at the gate.
"We're here to pick up our boy, you know."
"He wrote and told us, he's coming home"

The agent, surprised by the smile on his face,
Tried hard to find the words of grace.
Maybe the family didn't know.
Maybe they're just makin' a good show.

They waited on the bench for the train.
The agent watched with worry on his brain.
Sooner or later, they'll know for certain.
It can't stay hidden behind a curtain.

The agent wished it was already tomorrow.
He told the father, "I'm saddened by your sorrow."
But, also wondered why they were so cheerful?
Did they not know the news was tearful?

"Your boy will be getting off from the last car."
"We'll bring him here, you won't have to walk far.
"Don''t fret son," the father said.
"We know he's coming to us dead."

And we'll be saddened all our life,
Knowing, he never lived to have a wife.
Yes, we cried and made a fuss.
But today is not about us.

Today is for him, you see.
It's the way he would want it to be.
Today's the day he nevermore will roam.
Today's the day my son is coming home.

He'll rest in peace and worry not.
He'll watch us go on without his lot.
We'll miss him more than you can know.
But every day I live, I'll know my son is home.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A SONNET FOR BEVERLY

He talks to me in the gentle breeze.
I hear him in the rustle of the leaves.
We talk often when it's quiet and still.
Me down here and him up on the hill.

I hear him whisper in the chimes.
Together we remember old times.
He hears me in the dark of night.
And draws closer to assure me it's alright.

We're not alone, neither he, nor I.
We have each other, and we'll get by.
I smile when I hear him speak.
And remember, like it was just last week.

We talk and laugh and cry.
When it's just the two of us, he and I.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

GARRETT GOT HIS DUE

His name was Patrick Garrett and he shot me dead.
In the dark, in Pete Maxwell's room, is where he hid.
When I came in through the door,
My feet were shoeless on Maxwell's floor.

Now Pat's in hell, and he's looking me in the face.
It's a hard position for a man who's fallen from grace.
To meet the man you put into the grave,
By actions deemed selfish, but not so brave.

It took awhile to get here, but Pat finally did arrive.
Ambushed, much like me, with a scheme contrived.
Twenty-seven years or more, I've laid in this ground.
Waiting for Garrett to finally come around.

Now I can ask him about those things he said.
The things that made me seem worse, after I was dead.
Garrett tried to make a buck or two.
But died in debt when he finally got his due.

On a cold February - eight years into the new century
I was long forgotten by most, evidentially,
But not by some who knew that Garrett lied
Twenty-seven years of memories before Garrett died

How does it feel, Mr. Garrett, to be face to face,
With the kid, whom you tried hard to disgrace?
As you lie in the cold ground with no smoke or chew.
How does it feel there, sheriff, to finally get your due?

Did you know about Karma when you shot me dead?
Did you understand the concept when they shot you in the head?
Did you ever have regrets or do you have them now?
Ain't it too bad I never became your cash-cow?

Now your fame will last for all time and all seasons,
Like Booth, Ford and Oswald, for all the wrong reasons.
Now the fame you wished for is all through,
And now, Mr. Garrett, you finally have your due.

Oh, my name is William Bonney and I lie here underground
The day Pat Garrett died, I was dancing on his mound
Now we're here together in this hellish place
In hell-fire and brimstone, standing face to face

I waited for you, Pat. For so long, I waited all alone.
Now, we share the same end, but I am without a stone.
The lies you told about me in the book that you wrote,
Gave license to the souvenir hunters to come and gloat.

Now, I'm in a cage Pat, another cell, protective custody,
To keep the vandals from chipping away my dignity.
How 'bout you, Pat, do they come to trample your plot?
Do you think that either of us got the justice that we ought?

Like Booth and Lincoln, like James and Ford, Pat,
We're a pair, you'll never get rid of me and that's that.
I'll be here, haunting you, day in and day out, right on cue,
And that Patrick, me boy, is you getting your final due.

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EPITAPHIAL

WESTERN RHYMES

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