Cowpoke Posey

A COWBOY POEM MUST RHYME THEY SAY
By GC SMITH

Cowboy verse has got to rhyme
Meter just so, intact, in time
So when our cowboy’s tale’s begun
It can be read with verve, what fun

So gather round the flaming fire
Who can claim to be the best liar
Say with verse the deeds been done
By us wild and wooly sons-a-guns

Of thunder booms and lightning flashes
That light the night and sound the crashes
That spook the cattle on the prairie
And make us ride till we are weary

Of holding herd bunched up together
No matter what the kind of weather
Of riding drag in pouring rain
Listenin’ to cattles’ sad refrain

No free verse can tell the tale
Of cowboy’s work out on the trail
Their stories need a rhyming verse
And must be told without a curse

Cause that’s the cowboy way


Calgary
By GC Smith

Calgary
big stampede
drunkin' cowboys
temptin' them wimmen
who fall hard for macho
them guys who can ride the bull
not them guys who just throw the bull
but them guys what master the bucking horse
them are the cowboys gals consider worth bedding

the pretty young gals who bed those macho rodeo guys
stick with their cowboys through both the thick and thin
hold them, love them, nurse all their rodeo hurts
talk good to them when they’re feeling low
pick their cowboys up with sunny smiles
keep them going with their true love
kiss ‘em an’ hold them tight
close to their hearts
Cowboys


Yippee-Yi-Ki-Yay
By GC SMITH

I'm a poet lariat
lassoing maverick words
branding them my own

Poetic form my quarter horse
I’d drive longhorn words
from dusty dictionaries:
I’d bunch ‘em up to strophs
Moving loose word confusion
to a tight trail herd of verse,
Stray words would not cut loose
I’d push my herd with rhythm
I’d drive them home with meter
No free verse would stampede
words driven on my roundup,
I’d corral them all with rhyme

I'm a poet lariat
lassoing maverick words
branding them my own

On the road

Going
By GC SMITH

Steel belts hummin’ on a back byway
Getting’ out o’ town, getting’ away
Leavin’ that gal and her snot nose kid
Going, going, -- gone

Old Ranchero full of whiskey dings
Bumper fell off and the lights are askew
But that pick-up’s motor still runs strong
Going, going, -- gone

Ain’t comin’ back, there ain’t no way
Gonna stay out on the asphalt way
Maybe take me down to Mexico
Going, going, -- gone

Honey on the highway her thumb stuck out
I just dunno, she could-might be jail bait
Keep the pedal to the metal, pass her by
Keep on going, going, --gone

Get where I’m going I’ll set a bit
Find me a dark hair gal with a ready smile
Long as she don’t have a snot nose kid
I’ll not be going, I’ll stay a while

Yeah, I’ll stay there while life is good
And there’s ease for me in that neighborhood
But when things change, when life goes sour
I’ll be going, going, -- gone

Changin' direction

Breakin' Loose
By GC SMITH

Wha?

Change my poetry?

Think?

Do sumptin’ different?

Ol’ stuck
in the
lowcountry
ploof mud
GC Smith?

Gotta be kiddin’.

Not write
of estuaries,
of shrimp,
of crabs
of fishin’ poles
an’
of Boston Whalers.

Not write about
blue skies,
hurricanes,
nature’s treachery,
green marsh grasses,
tall pine trees,
mistletoe way up there,
live oaks,
resurrection fern
an’
SC palmettos.

Not write of
of wood storks,
of hawks an’ eagles,
of ibis,
of heron an’ egret
of painted bunting
an’ of
Carolina wren.

Not write
Of Gullah-Geechee ways,
of Frogmore stews,
of Oyster roasts
of Seafood gumbo,
of Savannah red rice
and
of the
laid back life.

Hell no. I can’t
Change.

’cause
I’m mired in
Lowcountry lore
not to mention
quatrains
and
iambic pentameter
and
lettered rhyme schemes
and
all sorts of
crap
like that.

I don’t know
how
to break
the mold;
to do
neato
new stuff
like
free verse
with
jarring enjambment,
loose structure,
whoopsy-daisy
rhyme schemes
or no rhyme at all;
with
all the
accompanying
unfettering
of the
muse
that goes with loose.

I think
it may
be
too much
for
me.

Nope,
I don’t
know how
to break free,
no,no
not me.

but
then again,
maybe
just maybe
I managed
to do
just that.

Cacophony

Kitchen Symphony
By GC SMITH

Wang, clang, bang
whap;
dissonant kitchen sounds

The sous chef
slams
the walk in cooler shut

Clunk!
a waitress kicks
the swinging door

A Chef's knife
clatters,
dicing the trinity

A pot walloper
rattles
encrusted sauté pans

A tray load of dishes
crashes
to the floor

A waiter
shouts
his order

The chef
slams his cleaver
on the cutting board

Diners wait impatiently
oblivious
to kitchen cacophony

I’m fidgeting,
annoyance peaking
as my steak doesn’t appear

Another diner finger drums
his table while awaiting
crème brûlée

We don’t care
what goes on
back there

Twenty percent tips
even fifteen percent tips
won’t be

‘cause we don’t
hear
that kitchen music

Magican's Art

ABRACADABRA
by GC SMITH

I'd wow them
with the magic arts
make a
Rhode Island Red appear
from out of thin air

Hid that damn chicken
'neath my hat
to fool the kids
with
my trickster's act

It might have
worked out better
than it did
i could have skipped
the pooped in hair

But I suppose
a bad hair day
must be the price to pay
for possessing
the magician's art

Wanderlust

Moving
by GC SMITH

Balmy May days
call for moving on,
compass points North

To get from
here to there
eschew the straight and narrow

Chart a route
with slantwise
deviance

A path direct
is designed
for missing things