Red, White and Blues - Part One

January 31, 20

This latest Bloggo if you care to follow a long is part of a lengthier blabber broken or pared down some may say, into two days for you. Sorry for the cliff hanger but this little story is somewhat of a long won to be just a one day affair.

If you get sick, can’t come back tomorrow or the day after, be pre-paired I may skip a day. Maybe you already realise that writing all this stuff ain’t easy; especially when one considers a daily consistency has been the norm for almost a month now. Mist spelling is not the hardest part; coming back everyday is…

In any case after a good amount of stories have been entered, most of which have begun before this blog began I’ll return to mmy little cubby hole and prepare a few more. You didn’t think I did this on a daily basis, one at a time, did you? Right, OK then the story begins when in 1986 this experience began:

One late evening, living in New York City, taking the time to relax for no other reasons than quietly, I took a long, hard look at the flag of the United States. It was the very end of the day on the fourth of July; about 11:45 p.m., on the occasion of America’s 110th birthday; the 100th birthday/anniversary of the Statue of Liberty. That’s right I was there watching you guise on those streets.

The year was 1986, and the whole day had been a gloriously loud and wonder filled experience. One that I shall relate to you as it's written into this Book of MMemories; in this case it’s the Blog. Don’t forget how to spell I tell mmyself.

I had spent the 4th with friends, relatives and a newly acquired 3D camera, roaming around the Battery Park area; Wall Street, South Ferry and most of the NYC downtown environs. I looked for scenes to snap for the scrapbook, and for the family’s history pages. God knows we have no history this side of the sea.

The whole area had been bathed and decorated in Red, White & Blue everything. We had spent the whole day in the wondrously crazy, spectacularly crowded, at times very loud, in a friends see of a mmelodiously mmusical, and very tasty mouth-fills, wide spectrum of this multi-coloured celebration during America's best chest bursting birthday. Hold on a second, I’ve got to take a breadth…. OK.

I was really enjoying the amazingly gargantuan festivities. Besides other accomplishmeants on this large scale, mmy hometown, NYC, is well known for producing celebrations and whirled feat's such as these. The tall ship parade which I had the opportunity of witnessing earlier in the day as it sailed in its entirety under the Verrazanno Narrows bridge, and continued regally through the New York harbor, was crowded with everything ships, boats, and all that wood floats. (I must think about changing these long ascent tense is.)< got that?

Every size and every shape known to man seemed to congeal for this won day in New York's harbor. Tall ships being one of mmy favourite images, this was more than an awesome sight to behold. It’s amazing viewing people standing at attention on the very top of the little wood things that hold billowing sails.

Although a confirmed terra firma lubber ever since childhood, the shapes, sounds, and smells of the Bounty full see always x-sighted mmy inert most fan to seas. I imagine because this celebration was a once in a century extravagance, what was readily available to purchase in the weigh of anything one could think of, defies description in total. One couldn’t begin to taste everything in site.

Food of every shape, size, colour, taste and nationality was set out for purchase, by venders that one would say matched that same description, except for taste of course. I shall confess that I due eat meat and most things that feel edible. But…

Fowl mostly, among other things well cooked, so it doesn't smell or taste as it's titled. During this wide-open binge, I was set on a course to devour as much as any normal human digest sieve system could hold. Hopefully taste wasn’t waist.

Huggin' the bowl not being a flavor wit exercise, I held back at points so as not to feel too upset during the process of trying to taste everything I've never scene before… without spilling the beans so to speak; and no I didn’t eat any beans.

Needle less to say, at times the ayes are bigger then the belly and as we were having sum serious fun and deed, the need to re: strain one's self came to mmind more than fourty seven times. The hands grabbed and the mouth flabbed.

The daze activities culminated for us on one of the Staten Island Ferries that a cousin (who worked for the NYC Transportation Authority) had invited us to join her and her come patriots in what she said would be a sir prize experience.

She didn't and wouldn't no matter how hard we pried, tell us about what would happen beforehand. We found out much later what that happening would be. Earlier, our ship of fools had been guided in and moored at the pier entrance to Governors Island. The ferry backed in but in its case still appeared forward. Those of you who have scene or have ridden the S.I. Ferry know what I mean.

It was only later on, under cover of darkness, that we noticed the presence of several barges full of barrages, one of which was stationed about 50 feet directly in front of us. As I remember, when we continued to gleefully wish our freedom loving country a happy birthday, we almost had our heads blown to pieces; our ears shattered as we witnessed the 15 huge assembled barges of multitudinous, colorful, mostly loud and timed to the mmusic perfection, bombs & fireworks. Now I can relate to Frances Scott Key trying to sing through all that thunder.

As we stood on the deck of this stubby floating, ugly orange-red, city-owned and operated ferry-turned party boat, we couldn't imagine how amazing this view, not to mention the sound, was going to be to our surprise and enjoy meant.

Without a doubt in mmy whole doubt full life of living in lots of places and seeking out these celebrations; all kinds of festivals for the masses, this was by far the most spectacular event I had ever witnessed. ' HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU - ESS -SAY, ' was the crowd plea's in chants for the day. One would think that after all this, the end of the festivities had drawn to a close, but….hold on hear.

Upon mmy arrival home to Staten Island, in the community known as Eltingville (the home of the largest garbage dump in the whirled), I quickly noticed that mmy usually quiet, and serene neighborhood was exploding all around mme.

The sounds of unbelievably loud fireworks, the likes of which seemed such as those Francis Scott Key (remember him?) must have heard when he wrote our national anthem while Fort Sumpter was being bombarded and attacked, was hard to ignore. There's no way anyone could sleep through this; no way jack.

Because of explosions coming from every which way, I couldn't tell who was doing what, and where. The sound was deafening at times. Rather than trying to fall asleep from exhaustion due to the daze nonstop activities, I decided to extend, therefore adding to the noise with the boys and girls while joining war sounds of mmy fellow compatriots. Where they acquired hand grenades? Wow!!

Without hesitation, I dutifully ran inside the house. Being a percussionist for most of this life, I searched for the biggest bass drum in mmy possession of such in stir meants. This baby was part of a basic 15 piece drummset; a vintage 1932 Slingerland original, 26 inch diameter giant, of which I had two. These well cared for wooden monstrosities had plastic heads; knot part of the originals of course.

I had replaced the cowhide heads for the convenience of playing with modern equipment. Needless to say, either can make the sound of a happy, well fed Howitzer cannon when hit with a hard mallet and a heavy hand pulled back in proportions for the dainty sound or not so subtle tones produced by either hand…or feat ‘fore that madder.

In mmy haste to join the late hour glee club before the jubilant sounds of the night ebbed, I retrieved this improvised mmelodious device and quickly dashed for the door to the backyard to join the melee. Remember it was well after dark.

With great skepticism, I stood suspended in thought under a tree for a moment. I gazed in astonishment in all dire wreck shuns, but mostly up towards the heave ins; just in case a misguided bottle rocket would find it's mark onto an uncovered bald spotted target of a bull's I. I listened to see if there were some sort of rhythmical pattern to those bursts of the leery I'mm. Nope, no mmusicians.

I soon realized of course, that no such thing was occurring in this neighborhood of anything goes. I proceeded with merry a band drummeant, to pound the hell out of this monstrosity as hard and as long as I could while at the same time, yelling at the top of mmy lungs, ' Happy Century Birthday USA - Happy Century Birthday USA!' Hey, who would think mme crazy with all their stuff going on? Anyone who hadn’t joined the festivities one would imagine.

MMy neighbors must have thought mmy senses had finally left mme, or for that madder, I was like them; nuts and rightly so purr haps. I was one might say, a little off mmy rock its by that time, and truly admit it, but I figured, what the heck. Although they needed no help, I joined the crowd anyway and with as much gusto as one could muster under the same sir come stances. We were loud.

To Be Continued tomorrow:

True Blue Friends

January 30, 2010

Back a few years, I was living on the west coast; again. This time in a state that I had never been before. Beautiful Oregon; I love that state; haven’t seen most of it really. Most of what I had scene, just took mmy breath away.

The coast, the sky, the smells the view everything about it around Newport is awesome, Bandon too. Name it really; any town along the coast, up and down the whole western U.S. is mostly and quite simply awe inspiring.

The ‘Next Stuffed’ or words were written about an hour; in pencil on regular blue lined paper as the days events had unfolded. This is something I never usually do since acquiring a computer but for some reason while sitting up in bed, tucked in the security of warm and thinking how lucky I was; this began.

There’s no way I couldn’t remember just about all of what had happened a little earlier. The images not to mention the smells were so vivid; imprinted in mmy brain by the luck I had that day in not being blown up and/or killed along with a friend. At the time the friend was a fellow poet in a writing class we were both members of; we were both along for the ride of our lives so to speak.

I was in the market for a new vehicle. Bob, the Oregon friend offered his vehicle as a possibility; a great one at that; or so we both thought. He after owning the thing for a few years and after just having worked on it, and mme just because of inspecting it a little before the test run. It seemed like the next great find.

He called the vehicle ‘Ol Blue; yes of course it was blue. He loved the thing as a friend and kept it in great shape. The tires were almost new, the paint job still shining although a few patches of dull didn’t project an ugly image. It was washed and waxed weekly said Bob. After looked in I began to delve further.

The engine purred, the wipers worked, even the radio was in excellent condition; oil levels and colour were great; tranny good too. No matter where I looked or where he was so proud to show mme, everything about ‘Ol Blue said take mme.

This I was all pre; paired to due. Cash was burning in mmy pockets and ready to be dished it out except for one thing. I asked Bob for a test run. He agreed of course and wanted as part of the test to travel a short distance to a friend’s house. Bob was interested in having a little conversation about a past fishing trip.

I thought, great; he said it was only a few miles one way; the same back so that should give mme a good idea of how everything in ‘Ol Blue worked. He especially wanted mme to drive to feel the complete experience of his friend.

He was willing to turn ‘Ol Blue over to someone he thought would treat it the same way he had. He was right of course; ‘Ol Blue felt like it was ready to be well taken care of by someone who appreciated her everything. That was I.

These words then are how those events took place before, during and of course after. Needless to say I’mm thankful we both came out of the experience in won peace. It could very well have been otherwise. Fortunately for us, we were quite lucky, mostly because the vehicle itself had shown the owner that they still were:

True Blue Friends

"For sale, MMick," says Bob
A dear price aye thought,
But oh what the hell
This ride maybe 'fore naught

Bob started Blue up
Truth tells it ran well
A long on horror weigh
It is gas? Sure dice I smelled!

Oui drove up dales, hills
"Turn," right hear, Bobs bend
"Wheels stop at this house,
An 'ol fisherman friend."

Weee pulled in, long drive
Big spread - house yella
"My fireman bud, MMick
Built home like you fella."

Oui stopped, stepped out, walked
Bobs pal tomed 'o fish
Meanwhile i'mm standin'
Lookin' 'round, stilled, anguished

Again smelled gas winds
Wonder in, Ay? What's wrong?
Fish head, tales over
Bobbin' eye mosey on

Said I," Bob ya' think
Oui, looks under hood?
That gas smell still dwells."
Answered he “Prob’ly should!"

Sure 'nuff a puddle
Bob fingers smelled, a gas
“Just sits; they're wet Bob,
When'd you check that thing last?"

"Cost $65 bucks!
Had fixed buy, fix friend
Sold, too a jerk though
Repossessed in the end.

No tellin' guide id
Heed ruined did sum
Guest he's in jail now
Good riddance too, that bum

Look! Broke safety's belt
Sits fat ass on see't?
I'll tell ya though MMick
This 'ol Blue's hard too beat."

"THRUST GAS!!! WATCH!! TRUCK BURNS!!!
UP HILLS!! - LET'S GOAL BLUE!!"
Sounds great two mme Bob
'Ol Blue glides - HOT TWO!!

Then on back to Bobs
Oui, coast down his hill
All of a sudden
Blues engine stops, dead, stilled

"Ay! What the hell Bob!?
Look!! Hood's out black smokin'
Oh know its gas thinks."
Bob yells, "YOU AIN'T JOKE IN!"

We barely coast in
‘Ol Blue's parked in spot
"I'll open hood MMick."
"Know you ain't!" Aye said, "Knot!"

Much sooner than quick
'Ol Blue explodes fire
"Oh Damn! Get out Bob
Red flames - reachin' dire!"

Bob runs, two his house
"Hey babe let me in!"
Seams hour’s pound door!
Wife, a peer, open’s, grins.

"BABE, OUTTA THE WEIGH!!"
'Ol Blue's flame in spread
"QUICK, CALL FIRE FRIENDS
'Ol BLUE'S MAIMED, GLOWS RED!!"

Tires explode, yep they did
Red heat melts sum, past
"Man! Just knew it when
Aye smelled it, scene that gas!"

"Man! Know insurance now
That jerk - aye’s none - tossed"
"Chalk this one up Bob
Blue saved lives, we ain't lost!"

"Thought, Donate truck, MMick
Good church took to long
But sold Blue instead
Turned out bad, was all wrong"

Cool fire folks came
Ordinary fire dread
Chief quizzed, "What's up Bob?
Spelled the story, Bobs said

He 'splains, watch is flames
Brigade beats wild test
Over in know time, slick
I'mm thinkin' for the best

'Ol Blue's engine melds
Metals mold one, too done
"That's some hot heat Bob"
Wheels blast, two, Blue out sum,

Sad damage up front
Rear end seems OK
Eye guess truck's junk man
Heal, take 'ol Blue, a weigh

"Count bless sing Bob, bud
Your heart's golden - soul
You did right things pal
Wild Blue's fame unfolds

Could have bin others gone
Knot lucky as us
You'd hell to pay Bob
Believe, yes due trust.

All's well, ends good, Bob
Livin' – heaven’s your send
Look! 'Ol Blue stands there
Stayed true - Blue's end - your friend."

Moke's Hill

January 29, 2010

About two years ago while traveling with a friend on a visit to and through the gold country of northern California we stopped at the local hotel for a weekend. The Ledger, not pronounced as it’s spelled in American/English but as if the French had a hand in its originations; which they did as the owner’s will tell you.

Those early traders and trappers from further north of the U. S. borders seemed to keep more things than their hands out of their supposed pockets. Anyone will notice this while traveling throughout the U.S. of A. no matter the state. Some more than others of course as they left their good marks of their mother Canada.

We were interested in wandering the earlier century’s streets as well as the surrounding area. The hotel room and bed we collapsed in was right above the saloon. We thought this perfect as the corner overview was of the street where we could witness any challenge of the past or present. It was also a lost night of sleep.

The old time looking hotel, restaurant and saloon also had old time insulation which was basically none. The hole in one part of our bedroom floor gave a glimpse of someone’s shiny bald spot. The walls held nothing back in return.

The separation of only the floorboards gave little or no resistance to the pierce sings and the later well inebriated conversations of the jovial crowd below. Be low they didn’t.

Not to mention the band that appeared for the night was in full blast glory well beyond midnight. At the beginning we joined them for a few good times until it was our wont to seek Mr. Sandman as well as our be four hands reach two each other’s closer company dedicated especially to the weekends intentions.

From time to time we’d not hear the loud climbs; we had each other in mmined as well as a book, a good wine, a book, more in mmined, wine and so on; until noticing it was a full mmoon night and we felt more than happy to be there.

Lucky for us there were two almost floor to ceiling windows in the room. During one of the band brakes the woman and I had to combine our strength to open one window of convenience. It was summertime; weather was hot so she pushed up, I pulled up and nothing happened ‘fore two longed for a breath of fresh air.

It was explained upon our arrival as, “It’s one of those,” that opened as the door to the balcony. Up instead of out or in was not French windows of course unless one considers we did both. We noticed a well used stick of ease to hold windows play.

There were also wonderful architects in those daze. What happened here was beyond thinking about it. The balcony eventually not effortless was a short stay. Surprisingly enough, there were also two short dreams to breakfast.

The town architecture was early western. It appeared as though at any minute two burley men with handle bar mustaches, dirty boots, and frowns of mean, would be on either side of the two block town ready to come face to face out on the street.

They’d be armed of course with six guns as their size; both willing to lose their life over a horse, a woman or something the other may have said about their mother, sister or their shirt; inebriation like what was going on downstairs may have had a hand in these mostly mmanly exercises of strength, length, smell, end mmind.

If the modern day vehicles were replaced with the earlier times mode of transport this would be exactly the seen; most of the buildings still appeared to have that western charm. Bowed railings, balcony’s and roofs added to the flavour of what once was only a few decades ago. The higher building facades of auld dominated.

The next morning or really it was after a much later tomato mixed breakfast-lunch pleasure we strolled until someone passing mentioned we shouldn’t miss the local cemetery; and write fully sow. It was a short walk down and up little asphalt hills winding back and over again until we reached this charm of a place and stills.

Walking amongst the monuments of the past while trying to find the oldest stone of remembrance, the smell was of pine and eucalyptus trees. The surrounding scenery at points, one could see the hill where the tall tower of cellular was placed for those who could witness the passed while disgusting the spoils it did, future.

The photographs above are those from and dedicated to the memory of:

Moke’s Hill

Weave Scene; Moke Hill
Beguiled amble a long
Through stones stare; the passed
Stalk up life’s toll, hills
Take in ‘fore granite
Century’s epitaphs

Earliest year fades
Rest din pieces 1804
As one Inn, their rose
Precedence amour

Serenities flagrance
A child lost borne
Times March; Crows fly
Gabriel’s blast
Forlorn

A Strangers Benevolence

January 28, 2010

That photo up there is the great Mr. Johnny Holloway. A champ in the rodeo world and in mmy book,life in general.

This is a story, of two different instances really, where a horse is involved in both; two different horses. One instance is just about the total opposite from the other; for one main reason. You’ll read and know the reason probably well before the tail ends.

These two particular instances came to mmind because of a friend who really loves horses. She’s said she has four. She rides them I’mm betting as much as she gets a chance. I’d imagine she takes very good care of every one of them as well.

Besides all that she is also an artist; her main subject matter as I remember is; you guessed it - horses. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen her so it’s quite possible she’s found more things to draw, paint, or design. No matter what it is, the girl definitely has creative talent. I could see that as she painted from day one.

Her name is Ashley. A lovely girl who I met while living in the wine country of Northern California. She was brought to mmy studio by Roger; an older friend at the time who was taking care of her along with someone else I thought was her younger brother. Most recently she wrote that in fact he wasn’t; just a friend.

Roger thought for some reason it would be cool for them to spend some time painting with mme. After a little surface talk in the studio/barn I called Barnio, I thought why not; they seemed like good people with a little time on their hands. It was a Saturday, late morning. I was working in the studio anyway.

We just grabbed a few extra things and began to paint together; empty plastic water container’s as I recall. The long kind with the handle on front which looked like a long nose with the spout being the mouth. Paint a few eyes of any shape in what one would think the right place and it looks like a face really.

Remember that Ashley? On the rez with the Spruce Street Colour Club we had painted a dozen or so of these. I was getting ready to do another series with other kids so I had already primed about ten of these a few days before. We painted what was a whole head with a face on the thing. Ashley’s was stylistically great!

In any case Ashley thanks for getting in touch. Now that you’ve connected again, I just wanted you to know that your love of horses inspired this little memory. Glad you’re still out there and hopefully you’re still painting. I liked your art work that’s for sure. Your love of horses reminded mme of a grammar school mate whose love of the same animals you mirror. Joan also drew a lot of horses.

A Stranger’s Benevolence

I was living in South Dakota from 1994 to 2000 and change. In that time I was lucky to be around and among a lot of ranch people. In a country atmosphere were a lot of people who did all kinds of work with horses. They raised them, trained them, brought them into the world, rode, bought, and sold them too.

I won’t mention the name of the person in this next part of the story. I’mm sure like a lot of horse trainers from the old days, some unfortunately might still be doing the same thing. It was what I witnessed and thought must be the cruelest way to train a horse; as opposed to a horse whisperer I did witness later on.

You’ve got the picture now? Well, there it is. I was living ranch country long enough to see the opposites in what one would imagine most trainers go through to train a horse. Maybe some do both because of the horse? I don’t claim to be an expert in anything horse related. I’mm more than uninformed of these things.

One thing I do know is what I had seen and how it affected mme when I did see it. Both ways were so opposite I couldn’t believe why anyone wouldn’t want to learn what was witnessed as being the most humane way possible. That was what I know now as a horse whisperer. By the way Googling Horse Whisperer you’ll find many things. Here’s one that really impressed mme. Check it out.
http://www.montyroberts.com/

The first person I witnessed trying to train his horse, or one of them, (he had a few) seemed like it was a really cruel and intimidating way to communicate with an animal of any kind. It was like he was teasing the horse, making him angry with both his own sounds as well as the way he treated the animal in total.

He kept whipping the horse with a long rope as well as an even longer chain. At the same time he kept yelling, and cursing at it. I guess it’s like anything; the guy was angry or trying to be so the horse was angry; and there’s the clue, isn’t it?

He had the horse penned in certainly. He had the horse going in a circle which like most training I’d imagine the horse would be lead to go both ways. Back and forth; this way then back that way. Whatever the trainer willed, that’s the way the horse eventually would go; but each time before the change, came the anger.

Needless to say the horse continued to be angry. It made irate snorts; reared up persistently while neighing in what seemed like loooong periods of time. The horse just wasn’t happy doing what the trainer wanted it to do. After a while it did do what the trainer wanted; or else. Some people are like that, aren’t they?

I was watching for a long time because I knew the old guy and of course he let mme stay there to watch. He knew I was a city slicker and that this was really mmy very first time ever watching this kind of thing. He was proud of what he considered his expert tease. The mman was also an expert leather bridal braider.

I didn’t want to see another after this to tell you the truth. It was so negative being there not only watching the stressed out animal but listening to it was even worse, I’mm sorry to say that’s just the weigh it is sometimes. It takes all kinds.

On the other hand, the next time I had the experience of someone trying to train a horse it was mostly by accident that I was even around. I was both lucky and glad because it finally presented a different side to how not only horses can be trained but any animal in general; anything living for that matter; plants too.

With kindness. With love. With respect for the other being. The horse whisperer took control in less time, with no stress and especially with a heck of a lot less effort then the first trainer. HIS name I don’t mmind telling you was Chuck Holloway. The first person and the last one I’ve ever seen do this with a horse.

Maybe the rest of his family, all of which I knew at the time could do the same thing. I’d imagine they could. His dad Johnny probably taught him and so on down the line. Johnny was a crack up. Something I did all the time made him laugh until he just about dropped to the floor for not stopping; but most times, he was the instigator. That’s another story I hope to get to one of these days.

The whole family, for generations was involved in ranching. Like the first guy I’d imagine, but in a different way. Again, I don’t claim to be an expert or even have more knowledge then what you’d find in a pea about horses; I’mm still learning.

The Holloway family used to raise stock animals for rodeos and such. The grand parents on down to husbands and wives, sons, daughters, grand kids all; trained since kindergarten to ride horses, rope steer, ranch cattle and what have you.

Ranching was and is still most of their lives. Eat, sleep, drink and dream ranching is their lifestyle. Amazing people. I felt lucky to be around them even if it was just for a short time. It’s a side of life I’ve never seen until meeting them.

After being around them for as short as it was, I can tell you that I respected many aspects witnessed in their family. How they lived, how they treated people; they showed great respect for everything including the land and animals; it was the way it should be. They were truly a remarkable family.

The Holloways had a son, TC. He was a rookie champ bronco rider years ago. TC was lost in a one truck accident. I still remember him well. He like his other siblings, parents and family really knew horses. TC was one of the good guys.
http://www.matchofchampions.com/holloway.memorial.htm

Sharyn Holloway, Johnny’s wife expressed at one point that in fact she did want to write a book. I hope she does. Maybe she already has. It’s been too long since we’ve communicated so I’mm not privy to the latest. In any case it would be a great read for anyone interested in their way of life. Lots of lessons there.

One day, I was helping Johnny, the father by fixing a huge wall. The wall was in their inside arena; a pole barn type of tin building about 300 feet long and about 100 feet wide. They used it for lots of different things. It was so long that end to end they could practice chasing and roping cattle in it and still have 30 feet of room left over at both ends for other things. A big tack room was off to the side.

They had movable metal fences in ten foot sections that could be made into different shapes; rectangles, squares or circular. The last is the way these fence sections were set up so Chuck could begin training a horse. Chuck was also a pick up man who sometimes teamed up with his sister Roxy.

Many times, together they traveled the rodeo circuit doing just that. When a bronc rider stays on his mount the 8 seconds it takes to win or is stuck in the ropes or whatever; Roxy and Chuck would gallop or run to their side and ‘pick ‘em up.’ Most times this would be to save the rider from injury or death, many times putting themselves in harms way. If you’ve seen a rodeo, you’d know this.

I was in the arena; in a usual concentrating mode, oblivious to anything else going on until I heard a horse snort. I was kneeling in the dirt at the bottom of the wall being worked on when looking up and down towards the middle of the arena. Chuck had set up a 20 feet diameter circle with the metal fencing. He was whispering softly to a horse that was just standing in front of him - face to face.

It was like they were just talking and getting to know each other. I didn’t see any food being exchanged; that may be possible. I couldn’t see that close. This lasted about 5 minutes or so; then Chuck just stepped back with a rope in his hand and basically ordered the horse somehow to start walking around the circle. Walking at first not running. Eventually he did get the horse to running back and forth.

At times he’d just touch the horse’s hind quarters with the rope; not hard; a tap or just gliding the rope along it’s back really; just so the horse new that Chuck had the rope he was being touched with. He’d make the horse go faster at times, then slower, then stop, then begin again; back and forth around the circle.

Pretty soon, or before much time went by really, Chuck laid a blanket on the horse’s back as it stood still. He’d caress the horse while still talking softly and petting it as he did everything. Then he’d put the saddle in the middle of the ring for a while so the horse could see it I’d imagine. This took quite some time, yes.

One thing led to another and before I knew it, he had the saddle on the horse and began to buckle the thing up with no problem; every so often the horse would snort but not in anger. Chuck kept talking to the horse; softly; reassuringly.

Then of course he just mounted the horse and began to ride the thing with little or no trouble at all. Chuck is a horse whisperer for sure. Remembering the first time with the angry horse, this was no comparison. It was a pleasure to watch.

As a city boy I just gazed at Chuck from a distance; in silence and amazement really. It was so cool to see that animal give back to Chuck what Chuck had given him; respect, love and kindness. It was apparent which way was the best.

Eagle Butte

January 00, 2010

Eagle Butte

In the summer of 1994, July 17th to be exact, Habitat for Humanity (HFH) began a blitz build. Thirty new homes to be built in a week was their goal. Of course a lot of the preliminary work was done before the 1500 or so volunteers showed up to volunteer their services. The little town turned into a city of swarms of busy bee’s.

People from all over the U.S.A. as well as other countries were involved. Media of all stripes were there, cameras at the ready. Many of the donating corporation’s rosters and many CEO’s were in attendance. Family’s all worked together for the single purpose of helping each other help strangers in need of a home of their own

The compacting of the ground as well as the foundations were already completed or supposedly so, before the ‘real’ work week began. July 17th, Monday was the first day. For lots of reasons it was the day before I read about this happening that I had left that next day. It took three days total when finally arriving to volunteer.

To make a much longer story or groups of stories really, much shorter, let’s just say that when finally arriving HFH gladly accepted the pittance they required for mmy three day involvement. Five dollars a day for food and I was on the way to house #18. It was a Jimmy Carter Work Project besides; the rest is their history.

After that week I decided to stay in Eagle Butte, eventually building mmy own house there; after finding a little property with a small pole barn garage on it. Five years later after many amazing and not so experiences it was time to move on.

The mostly self built and designed structure, now two stories high with a lot of improvements both inside and out, was boarded up and sat like that until four or five years later when returning on mmy birthday for a visit. It needed human TLC

This poem is an adaptation really of one originally composed by Phil Lynott who was the leader of Thin Lizzy, an Irish Rock and Roll band. He’s no longer with us but his words and mmusic live on. After reading a lot of his work one particular poem hit home more than the others. The fact it did became a later tribute.

His poem was named after a town of his choosing, Dublin. The poem appeared in a little hard cover book of his poetry. One Christmas after a shared tour of our separate bands, he signed and handed out as gifts, a book of his poetry and lyrics to his original songs. Illustrations to some poems and lyrics were also in the book.

The following poem is one of them although titled differently. It related the same personal feeling is why I liked it so much. It seemed to adapt itself easily to the circumstances as well as the town where I lived, loved and moved on. Maybe a lot of your towns are like this and you can have the same feelings; it would seem so.

I hope this work signifies no disservice to Phil or his words. Hopefully anyone who reads this rearrangement of his work will know that I honour his memory and words with this version dedicated to a town and its people still in mmy heart:

Eagle Butte

After our affair
I'd swear that I'd leave
Eagle Butte

And in that time
I'd left behind the years,
The memories and the views
Of Eagle Butte

On the rez
Friends came to say
Fare well.
We'd laugh 'n joke
We’d smoke 'n poker
And later on the butte
I'd sigh over views.

How can i leave the town
That brings mme down
That has no jobs
Is blessed by God?

And at sea
With blowing hair
I'd think of you

Of Spruce Street clear
The color club there
Those of whom i care
Those of whom i love
The beauty of
The rez and
Eagle Butte

(R.I.P. Phil)

Read Rocks

January 26, 2010

Artistic license. For some reason, it’s not often that I’ll even consider let alone use off colour words in anything I’ve written. No prude here though. I guess it’s because of trying to be respectful of anyone who may read these thinks as well as big brother Bloggo here who let us know such stuffing’s won’t be tolerated.

After all, it’s the net nowadays isn’t it? Peer rental digressions add vised. As we become aware it makes no difference; access to Google or what have you in the everyday search engine’s wander or wonder what? If it’s their, they’ll find it.

If anyone has the need to find anything, they can and they will; especially in the privacy of their own home or for that matter, that doesn’t seem to make a difference either except when the place outside those norms have ways to prevent obvious step over the line points. Parents or computer checks ‘fore thee to won.

However they figure that out is still a mystery to mme; eyes don’t go there to find out anyway. There’s too much other information or cooler things in this world that I’d rather si or read about then something that may be questionable by the pole lease net re: litigious, spirit chew all’s ‘fore that madder mom’s; rest there soles.

Having said that then, there is only one time I can remember mostly because it’s a recent one where I’ve done this; gone against migraine, so to speak; a word seemingly out of place meant as a defining moment. A moment of irritation it was because of where eye was and what was witnessed. A word let’s say ‘fore affect.

MMinded you, I’ve been to this same location twice. The first time for work and the second time for even more pleasure. It was the second visit that revolutionised the initial attitude, dude and dudesses. I didn’t really see it full strength, first time.

Inn, a daze so to speak; a whirlwind of the moment. It was pitch black dark except for where I was sitting; wild looking out to a sea of faces illuminated by the reflections from stages bright spots twirling and whirling threw the mass is like a movie premiere trying to attract all comers under insight full stars of all stripes.

Later on remembering the second time a round visit is when the following was composed. The experience was felt more personally when actually seeing it from a much different angle that necks time. There were no masses. Four score purr haps.

A clearer view it was and a time when one could take time to really see what was mist from first. It was daylight now; the visit lasted for a few hours just before dark encompassed the hole environmeant. The walk was serene; an earthly aroma.

MMined you, I had to travel a long distance both times to get there but suffice it to say both were planned. The first long and well before. The second not even close before hand was that toon; spurt of the moment; the drive a short won.

The second time I was included in the planning; a single vote of actually wanting to see what was mist the first time. I don’t remember having the opportunity to walk around the place previously before having to take care of business. This latter fact you will read into the following poem.

Needless to say when viewing it the second time it was beautiful. I could see how even more beautiful it could have been had it not changed to what it had much later become. Although sum what glad for the change which if it didn’t happen maybe I’d not get to see it because of why I was there in the first place.

Gazing about the place from a different position as opposed to the view I had had the first time; I observed the original position of the initial time while scanning other locations, all the rows up where people could have been at that time.

It was quite impressive really; trying to imagine what it could have been and basically got lost in the present. I was perturbed in a way because of the need of wanting to feel like it was before the new man made structure had replaced the ancient forms of mostly natural. Mother Nature sure knew what she was doing.

I wondered then, how the heck the dramatic change had happened to begin with. The state it was in as in the U. S. state is a beautiful one. Its people revere such things as ‘Don’t mess with Mother Nature’s beauty pleas.’ They usually fight like mad dogs to try to protect and save those things that man’s glad money seem to destroy for purse sin ill gain. Natural grass hills in park settings feel much better.

Without giving it away, before the poem really, I wanted to feel what was there before man turned it around; almost could; Even to the point of closing mmy eyes to try and see or feel it differently. That didn’t work very well because of how energy of anything works. The new structure was simply too overpowering.

As an alternative the answer was quiet, clear; repeated many times elsewhere. Daze on the Green for starters. The colours would have complimented each other in a most brilliant fashion. Shades of cobalt blues would accentuate the positive.

Earth toned hands as Mother Nature in ten did. So then this poem is brought to light; apologising before hand if the end offends anyone. The point made is of:

Read Rocks

The deep, pulsating, pounding
From the dominant, vigorous tone
Aided by the decimating decibels
Rammed hard against their inhibitions.
All at once
As if the cock crowed ROCK!
The see of hearts rows up and
Began grand slamming in plays;
Dancing frantically with their emotions
Hands hell’d high over their heads
Wild grabbing for their own
Clutch of heaven.
The gradual writhe of humanities steps
Slanted towards far away blackened skies
Were surrounded on all sighs by
Red Rocks
Standing still
Like tombs tones of
Shaded rust
Jutting edges
Smooth to cragged
Crust did cusps
Monuments of time
Watching over us
Majestically painting
Mother natures ancient design
Changed - buy human hands to
Accommodate sell abrasions
Of today’s loud.
The splendor of an earlier monolithic
Silence and grace
Place; the touch of souls to pray
Gave way to prey with
Boisterous modern timbres
Fortune ate legal tender
As they X’d – claimed;
“Fk off Mother Nature
We’re walkin’ heah!!”

Come Back Dreams

January 25, 2010

Back a few years, I was staying in another city and traveled the short hour or so it took to visit an old acquaintance. One not seen in almost 40 years. A jam session was the order of the day; it would be two eating sessions in between and actually night by the time the reunion was to happen. I looked forward to the long day.

I had made sure to arrive really early to enjoy more than a few hours until the jam. Lunch or the noon hour was not a long way off so I walked around for a while until feeling hungry. I strolled while gazing in windows into a familiar area where I was hoping to find an old haunt. It was located around the upper 50’s on the west side. At least I’d hoped it was as an earlier remembrance.

I walked down the few city blocks it was in order to fill an order of hunger pangs. The Brooklyn Diner, was yes, still in business and located in New York City across the street from The Art League. Traveling up to Columbus Circle

The place was still a warm welcome and of course the American fare was the usual; pretty good. After and during appreciating lunch I was talking to a few other customers who sat at the next table; two excited tourists from the U.K.

In our not too short conversation at the end they had asked for directions to the place across the street. The same mentioned earlier; The Art League was pointed out to them with a smile as they sauntered on their way with another American’s photo; eating lunch with one hand while waving a pickle at them with the other.

I had more time to kill. I stayed there, ordered another drink for I guess a few more hours and began writing the words to the title of this particular Bloggo. All I had with mme as far as a scribing tool was concerned was a felt tip pen; a sharpie one at that. Those fat ones only bring out more of mmy worst hand writhing. Knee’d less to say, thank you for inventing it Mr. Typewriter.

The writing on material was several nicely squared napkins. After the waitress noticed the struggle with unfortunate ripping she offered and did bring a few larger pieces of yellow writing paper, apparently lifted from the office of her boss. Needless to say I wasn’t prepared for the write time that had happened in the spur of the moment. Most times I’ll usually carry paper, rock and scissors.

It was close to Christmas time so I thanked her for the present and asked if it would be OK to sit and write for a while. No problemo she said while scanning around the room and noticing the dwindling lunch crowd. The little missive was continued; the same one you’re welcome to read at the end here.

Lunch time was ending. The streets were packed with people hurrying to and fro on their way to everything they know and some probably didn’t. I did notice a trio who had no clue where they were; or it seemed so when they hailed a Calvary Cop who saved their day with a smile while looking down from atop the huge brown gleaming mount. The mount seemed like it knew the weigh.

As they left saying thank you the mount left a thank you of its own as the smartly blue bedecked mman of the hour continued on. There was no one behind to take up the slack, slapped to the ass fault with a splat of moored them a few nuggets of pew. Several others looked but like death on a busy street of most big cities sometimes their’s really no one who notices. Or that’s how it may, a peer.

While sitting there looking out at the continually transforming sea of humanity, vehicles of every size, colour, form and sound passed bye in re; view. I began to record the ever changing seen while from time to time the waitress asked how I was doing and could she pour more in the empty glass vessel. Yes, thanks, yes.

I was reminded of while in grammar school doing a book report on the place and thought about it a little. I wasn’t really thirsty but the length of time experiencing the public movie, the habit of reaching out to grab the glass and lead it up to the face while filling the orifice with liquid was too easy not to resist.

That day I helped to empty what could have been a few of Mr. Coke’s three axle delivery trucks as well as refilling what flushed threw this body of what could have been and what discharging times felt like Grand Cooley Dam.

Driving from coast to coast, back to the original coast then back again another time and two more in between and more times than one can count again or even cares to after that is what brought mme to these words and:

Come Back Dreams

New York, New York what a wonder full town
The Jazz is up and the mmusic gets down
From Rose Hall ‘round threw Columbus square
The circle turns park at 7th; 8th Street they’re.

Walkin’ down south; make a left; 57th
The Art League, Brooklyn Diner’s feed heaven
Spoke two the Londoner’s of Hard Rock; Devon
Smiled while ‘druthers’ photo’s tastes gives in, on.

Eye’s watched walled traffic in front of the placed.
The hustler’s bustle’s hustle through every small space.
The faces turn, turn style stairs towards mme.
Aye, grabbed a phew smiles, end connected as we.

Ain’t life grand at a time like this?
The lights on trees, the field of love’s gist.
We tide our times when we live yonder weigh
Our dream’s home buoyed hear,
Wear coast two kin play.

The Two Tree Farm

January 24, 2010

A few years ago when visiting a friend, I was invited to walk behind his house and beyond. Into the bush one might say. He wanted to take mme on the short walk around his 32 acre property to witness what he had acquired a few months earlier. It had a large pond and a wide to ride earthen trail leading into a forest.

He is a retired grammar school teacher who enjoyed his job almost until the last day. Immediately after retiring he studied a little harder and became an RN. Some people have one job they’re proud of performing all through their laborious years but mmy bud Jim now can say he has another. But even more…

His latest endeavour unlike his first is to stand guard over the bridges, benches, cardboard boxes and any place he can that most everyone else can’t or won’t see. Well, let mme change that a bit most can see them at times and maybe would if they could but Jim is one of those people who look for them specifically.

I’ve known Jim for about 15 years. While living on the rez in good ‘ol South Dakota he showed up one day along with over a dozen other people from his surrounding home at the time to lend a hand for Habitat For Humanity.

Ever since then and all the years until his first retirement he’s returned to the rez specifically on Thanksgiving weekends. The all day and into the nights four day, round trip drive was besides other things to bring toys to the local YMCA.

All his grammar school classes acquired an SUV’s worth as well as a 5’ x 6’ U-Haul trailer full of toys. One year during his annual Santa’s run he managed to cramp in a set of new and cheaper where he lived car tires for yours truly.

The mman is a giver of mountains who takes pride in always making his best effort to help others in distress. He is definitely one of the chosen phew who the spirits upstairs lent us for his time to save the world. I’d call him a saint if it weren’t for the fact that he could have been taller and had longer hair.

His U. S. Marine background should help those superiors and buddies proud of what he’s accomplished before and since training. They’ve sent him further on to help protect, defend and lead us across the streets of difficult times. He fears nothing except the dissed comfort of others while sharing his heart and his hair.

Jim’s latest job is not an everyday nine to five one; nor is it easy. He’ll often be roaming the streets in any weather that’s blistering hot or cold as hell nights to find and help those more unfortunate than most of us.

Coffee, blankets, clothes, shoes, plywood, tarp as a tent, a ride to a clinic, his organisations services, an emergency hospital run or just to stay around and shoot the breeze is in his heart when dedicating himself to those he’ll include as some may call ‘his job.’ A job that most would care not to do Jim is always there.

Technically it is his job but really it’s not. From how I can remember Jim as long as I’ve known him, it’s part of his soul to help humanity; his fellow mman, woman, child, animal, plant or vegetable. I’ve witnessed all those cases of Jim.

Of course he’d not want these facts publicly known. Like other past characters you may have read about on these pages, people like them and Jim usually place themselves in that anonymous box; hidden with the flaps shut until the trappings of society call them out; more often then not, to give light to us all.

Jim’s light when switched on shines brighter than most. His toast is his newly acquired farm he obtained from a close relative after years of hard work trying to find a refuge with Mother Nature’s arms in mind. His trees sing with him.

When I visited him just after he found his heaven on earth, he presented a tree that stood prominently and in clear view of his surroundings. It was a dead tree that looked like it is over 30 feet tall. Its form brings life to anyone who seizes it.

Its few substantial branches were gray and bare. Its over one foot diameter trunk was still strong. Its form in total reaches for the blue. Yes, that’s an artistic version of a photo of it and placed at the top of these words.

He wanted to keep it just where it stood because he loved the way it presented itself to visitors or especially I gathered as it appeared to him and at that time his new girlfriend who also appreciates the tree, like they do each other.

There’s another tree just before it that’s not just a tree one should appreciate from a distance. When walking up to the other shorter tree and within sight of the one mentioned before; anyone will notice the wooden handled tool caressed within its trunk; like two separate lovers in a long caress held to each other, overt time.

The tool I think is an old short handled shovel. The tool propped there for so long that the tree grew around it and holds it within itself. That tool will be there for as long as the shorter tree stands; longer if it doesn’t. A monument to ‘One.’

There’s no way to separate the tool without hurting that tree. They’re now two of the same. Similar, akin, equivalent, alike, friends, lovers, family, related, linked, interconnected, parallel, somewhat different except for the handle; together.

After seeing that first tree with Jim present, standing rite be sighed it I thought to mmyself; that’s Jim and where he stands with all of humanity; hugging it like the tree and the tool…

The Two Tree - Farm

The Two Tree - Farm
Alight in wish.

Our walk reigns softened soil
Scant hills path, our bliss.

The mist, the sun, the shades of this ‘ol tree
She stands tall, pleased, proud,
Her branches leafless,
Free.

Her reach to the sky touches blue.
Her hue’s glad, light’s refrain;
We feel her beam.
Her strength, her torch, our flame.

We kiss her reflection in our eyes.
We feel the same.
She caresses our souls with songs
We sing of her past.

She’ll always be there ‘fore us
In our care,
In our hearts,
In our last.

Haiti - Love's Again

January 23, 2010


While living in South Dakota, just up the street was a building where half a dozen or so men with a religious organisation were residing. A few of them I still hear from when time to time they call or send an email.

I remember one time when one of those guys came to visit mme one day just to hang. He was the youngest person and sort of still trying to figure out where he fit in that world. We related quite a lot in mmusic ways as well as other aspects of life so that when he did visit we usually had long conversations about lots of different things.

One particular conversation we had was when he asked, “Say MMick, what do you think it would take to bring different kinds of people or strangers together?” I said, oh that’s easy; lots of ways really but one particular way other than art, food or mmusic would be any kind of a catastrophe; end of story.

Hopefully by now you’ve heard of the earthquakes and tragedy in Haiti. What I liked about the program that was broadcast last night to help benefit Haiti’s devastation was that a huge and diversified community of people gathered and collaborated as one; to help strangers basically.

Not just from one location but in several places the entertainment was broadcast to six continents, 58 countries etc… watched by millions of people. Everyone who presented a few words or performed was asking for help while showing the devastation of Haiti and its people. Unbelievable it was and still is a tragedy. Hopefully you’ve helped sum how.

You’ll notice that when those kinds of things happen; devastations and the like there’s really nothing to grab on to but each other; sometimes that’s all that’s left; The words at the end of this message are related to another tragedy. They were written after I had visited ground zero; 911 where like Haiti, another scene of devastation had unfolded. Different circumstances but destruction none the less. A lot of us were close to that one.

Like 911 or Katrina and others, Haitian’s too will survive. Especially when we all grab on to each other. That’s what humans do in their wont to help their fellow humans. Why? Because:

Love’s Again

…went ‘round ‘n ‘round again, end, again - showers on the sighed.
Stared in, under towers brake – know wear would they hide.
See meant fence is healed to takes – tight end to the crunch.
Scene the love of saddened i’s - willed try over lunch.

One moor time, end once again, papers float in air.
Black walled curtains call winds, falls; gusts of bust scene – fear.
Stilled ply prayers of loneliness, hands on hearts wholed loves.
Dreams of times forever spent - bowed to chimes and doves.

Standing bye the window’s glance - hands held at hour sighed.
One more one will come again - stair at faith’s door, cried.
Hear a long the story’s bend – speaker’s care re: song.
Man, kind knows its never flight, killing wrongs bleed wrong.

Piled din revenge, no it speaks - when will love re: main?
Cross are hearts, end hell’d dour hopes - ‘Never be…’ - the claim.
Those of loss remember, win - love’s hear, end be sure.
When we speak of lost in veins – know that their’s our pure.

Smile end, ponder all that was - good daze, end the rest.
Yes, weave felt their spirits I, live they’ve willed love’s test.
Our love grows - threw all of those who live width /thin hate when
Oui remember love still rains again, and again, and again.

Grand Dad's Smile

January 22, 2010


I can’t remember the year but amm pretty sure it was about four or five years ago. After reading a news article, the main subject being about one particular family, immediately words came to mmind that sparked a tribute.

When we’re relating the goings on of life and its end; in this instance presented to us in a dramatic fashion is the fact that it’s just the way things happen sometimes. Unfortunately a group of children really, were traveling all at the same time. They were all in the same vehicle that was rammed from behind by a big semi-trailer truck.

I was feeling pretty sad for the young family. These words giving homage to them. All the names listed in the last lines were the children who stopped for a short break; their fate was sealed.

Unfortunately, this is how things play for us sometimes. Life has a way of proving to us as many times as we’d like to look at it no matter whom, or where we are. It can be as if we’re looking at ourselves from twenty feet above a room; or we can be across a room observing our image in a mirror.

It can be a dream we dream or what have you but the fact remains that our existence is a delicate balance we experience every single day. They say we should live our lives as though each day were our last. How many times have you heard that?

In the news article, the specific carload of children; yes, all children; the oldest, the driver only fifteen years young. Her passengers included four other close relatives. The tiniest being a babe in arms and most likely being held by another.

This story is similar but unlike the fateful day story of other instances you may have heard or read about in the past; perhaps like the five Sullivan Brothers. They were much older when just after Pearl Harbor they ran to enlist together as a family; one wouldn’t go without the others.

As a team - family, they wanted to help America get back on its feet. While serving their county and all at once they too met their fate decades ago. Because of the first and last time that ever happened, many people at that time heard of it not only because of the news it made but mostly I’d image because a movie was made as well. The U.S.S. Juno was their means of transport to another place.

In this latest instance the same thing happened but no movie was made. It did make a little news. All were on their merry way for a visit before parking on the side of a not too busy road.

They were there for just a very short time before they were to meet and reach out their hearts and hands for just one more heart and hand that were to join them; their grandfather. When hearing the news he too went to meet them on their next journey together, as a family.

Like the Sullivan brothers in the real life, at that last instant while all were carrying one wounded brother off a sinking ship when they met their fate, these children because of distance to their grandfather but shortly thereafter perhaps they all held their little hands in his hand while welcoming him and his:

Grand Dad’s Smile

Nicky, Elizabeth, Johnny Mann
Heaven holds pure Anthony Lamb.

Ashley Keen, Miranda Finn
Grand Dads loves - all welcomed in.

Times before last bye - sand’s quick.
Gather youth’s - love’s spirited, picked.

Catch new clouds - speak in bliss.
Relatives - daughter, sons, cuz’ - mist.

Seeds of lives’ brief - traversed last mile.
Grabbed Grand Dads hand
Seraphs – heaven’s gait - smile.

Helicopter Son's Sit

Helicopter Son’s Sit

Although in the beginning of what was already becoming a mmusical future, somehow Uncle Sam got wind of it and told mme in no uncertain terms that he needed drummShine even more; off I went, dragged singing Are mme goes rolling along. Little did I know until much later that it was probably the best thing that could have happened – as leaps as far as mmusic is concerned. (Thanks Uncle)

The ARMy men in charged back then were in no way sympathetic to anyone begging for only two years as a regular drafty, they were usually called; butt tolled mme that I had to enlist for three years to receive the reward of carrying a pair of drumm sticks; either that, or if refused then prison doing harder labor would be hard two beats. Like the up and down of hammer ring rolls of rocks.

Butt gladly I turned both cheeks to accept their generous offer of ten needles pricked to each arm, both at the same time when standing in line following everything they ordered left, right, left rite end left for boot camp shortly their after, ”See ya later, pal; oh WAIT, say this pledge then make one step forward… GOTCHA!!” Except they didn’t because I fainted before they could catch mme.

After I woke up, I looked up at a few good mmen as the doo process seized before mme. Six weeks of boot camp during winter immediately followed after entering the service of our country; lucky mme or so it seemed until they threw the well known military discipline at us. It was then I questioned,”… why all the yelling?”

The very next day I woke up at an ungodly and very dark hour to what was basically a fire alarm ringing at reveille. I couldn’t help thinking how I ended up with all these strangers in the same room while another angry guy was yelling at mme to get off the floor I was standing on and get the f- - dressed or else! What?

The next generous offer was a six month training course of most things mmusic. I was a gleaming new cold induced, chrome domed recruit at The Armed Forces MMusic School - in the ARMY and stationed on a NAVY base of course located just outside and miles away from beautiful Norfolk, Virginia; their famous oogling tender mercies beach is; butt, our view slight differently of many men with pants.

We had a great view of the UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) guys daily before lining up for lunch. Their line formed after running towards us while carrying huge inflated rubber boats overhead with another guy screaming at them. How loud one screams in the military didn’t necessarily depend on their height.

When everyone was in place, their in charge guy didn’t ask them to drop down, face in the dirt or mud if it rained. They did this automatically. Waiting for his permission to get up as fast as they could he yelled at them to eat faster so they could then go back to more yelling at them of course wild carrying their boats overhead but even faster still, now that they weren’t hungry any more.

Many daze were spent in a glee full time of practice, studying and even more practice as well as happy times spit shining shoes, toes and over starched clothes blues. UDT? Sheesh, I’d ride in those boats but don’t think I could lift one.

Bedtime for us bonzo’s were the comforts of itchy olive green woolen blankets stretched to test the bounce of quarters as well as many other calls to arms like fall into f’n roll calls place; stand up f’n straight they told us with our f’n hands tucked neatly while holding the f’n crease of our f’n pants between ya f’n so ‘n so on ‘n go f’n forth ya stinking maggots. Many King’s had a hard time distinguishing bugs.

Oh yes another part of the war effort was to weekly GI (General Inspection-none of which ever came) the whole sleeping place with joyful mates ‘n Joe’s just in f’n case the f’n President him f’n self wanted to join us for a f’n snooze, they said.

We had the most fun wild scrubbing off the thick f’n layer of wax we dutifully put on the f’n week before. All these f’n wonderful activities without being af’n ware seemed to change our f’n language habits to match those of the f’n Kings ‘n culprits in charge of all f’n knaves ‘n I. An excellent vocabulary was had bye y’all.

I was on the way to - what the fk? (You see? I’mm STILL not totally cured)… to what I thought was to be a long stay at a military base which happened to be close to home. The Brooklyn Army Terminal closed down three months after mmy arrival when luckily for mme and the boys, we were all shipped to a little town in (no not Bethlehem) Texas. Properly named, Mineral Wells? It’s in the Dallas area.

The front gates were just outside town like lots of military bases they so brilliantly locate; within what would be considered a short walk if in fact it was in saaaay… Africa or in the middle of the Sahara where in some places walks to fetch water are a way of life or death cases many are used to doing for shear survival; not just to get a decent beer or to find what could look like a lover depending on your inebriation. Hopefully the next morning it didn’t turn out to be a tree; sum dazed.

Weeks, days, hours or even a half hour (fuhgeddaboudit minutes?) is the norm for the majority of our military minds to conjure up where the heck to put these bases. I’mm sure the locations have nothing to do with water but with keeping the separation between the church of military and the taste for something more than 3.2 beers; or other bad habits unfit for whatever it’s unfit for military clones. Gum!

Mined you, most bases do have military clubs where any member of said organisation can purchase this grandest of bruise; moistly after hours. At least that was the case ‘in mmy time,’ as they say. Stars and strikes for every SHOULDERRRRRRRRR h’ARMS!! Forget the salute pal, where’s the juice bar?

The base we as a “You Nit!” were transferred, was to Ft. Wolters. As a lot of shut downs go for a cleaner, faster and a more modern fighting force now forced to be a defunct and decrepit place is the only remains of the sad as well oiled base was.

In mmy time, as they say, it was teeming with teams of hundreds if not thousands of what looked like little swarms of dining needles in the sky. “Are those Helicopter’s or bees?” ”Helicopter’s of course ya f’n stew pet privates,” sum said.

Training helicopters they were. Ft. Wolters was a full fledged helicopter training base with thousands of Warrant Officer Candidates streaming in and out of the place. Like dominoes they marched in; sicks months later they marched back out.

Yours truly and a continually revolving door of banned members who played ‘em in and out of the hole place and everything else in between until such time as we dropped in long ass processions of every damn one of ‘em passing bye in re: view; repeating the same march over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n over ‘n you get the idea. Oddly enough the march was titled, ‘The Army Goes Rolling Along,” or marching in this case as they did doo on mmy time.

We paraded for days while some dropped in the hottest noon day sun in what seemed like a forever tail of, “…what did they say he did?” We all of course stood at duty full attention trying to hear the louder tones of soft speakers while they received metals; everything that always included,” above then be warm the call of Dewey.” Sounded like a dated politician must have written it but not altered since.

We also performed in large to small groups which included parties anywhere the Kings said we had to be; in ordered for the comfort and well being of any and all mmusic things two office ears. It was our job too, YES SIRS and mostly know sirs.

All kidding aside. The digital design above this article is mmy personal interpretation of one particular way the visuals, mmusic and or sounds of our helicopter service members could be; and of course dedicated to them as a whole.

There’s nothing more I respect than a military person; now or at any other time if it’s war or peace; Even more so when any time someone puts their lives on the line including and especially if it’s in harms way so we can enjoy the freedoms that we DO have… or most do. Let’s put it this way;

No country is perfect including ours and those who still have a hard time with this statement have that right thanks to lots of reasons ‘fore freedom’s ringing. Thank you very much women and men. Amen, we’re still and always will be with you.

Traveling to and being in a few other countries longer than a day, a week, a month etc… I can tell you or maybe you can tell ‘them,” there’s no other place that enjoys the freedoms we can on our way to a perfect re: union. Whenever that happens, I hope we keep working at it; never stop; when the ball drops pick it up, will you?

In the meantime the following words, an interpretation of one single part of many of those who serve and are our hero’s. Next time you send a letter to someone you don’t know over there, tell ‘em I said so; tops in mmy book, hang in there pals.

These words were composed during the conflict when the military was wondering how effective helicopters would be at the time. We now know how that went and still goes on a daily basis. Words dedicated to the memory of those in whatever small way one in this position could play; mmusic played a small part to help them get from where we were to where some are still now; we see them every day.

Two other thinks; excuse mme ladies of Helicopter land, when I wrote this, being well out of the military loop, had no idea, but it figures, you women too are involved in such things. Amelia Earhart and the like helped get you there so know that I honour you too. Thanks for your service, strength ‘n duty too in tell a gents.

Yes, MMusic too; supports our hero’s everywhere. Yes again, if you didn’t know? Now you do; that’s everywhere they go as well; even in the battlefields where military bandsmen buddies played and some died while performing in Vietnam. No matter what they do, where or who they our, I honour all of those in our military while presenting to you and especially to them:

Helicopter Son’s Sit

Helicopter son's sit
Weighting shores - chained time
Set to strike
Coals heart
Instruction

Helicopter one's with
Gasping engines whine
Death set sites
Soles mark
Destruction

Helicopter run's width
Reigning dazed on crime
Die know might
Holes dart
Reduction

Helicopter won's pith
Spoke in love grounds chime
End of plight
Soul’s heart
Construction

Helicopter son's gist
Sharing hands combine
Know more flights
Wholes start
Education

Her Toy Coat

January 20, 2010

Her Toy Coat

A parently, there’s what seems to be a disparity of terms or the definition of words such as poem as well as haiku and the like. Like what to call mmusic even rock or role, the word people too can dither and blabber about what is what and what the heck did you call that when you mentioned this or that and those are?

Several persons of all genders both near and far, all learned mmined you, each having different sets of letters after or before their names, have expressed several definitions of each of these bloggo end things. Considering they’re right, one dire wrecked did to the sup-planted words at the end of each one of these oh so purr sin all bloggo entrails we, you or they don’t quaver nor who do; you? OK let’s.

Their for this, the dunce in diss case end a bit confused ass too, what to call these ‘things,’ here written. One guess is that from now on we’ll just call them what, words? Who’s who of who nose every way and better stilled whose dares.

Maybe from time to time while being fearful of the alphabet and or rhyming and rhythm police as well as the hallowed gallows of hell’s belle’s wringing in mmy err, I’ll just title them, ‘The Next Stuff’ end leave it at bats. Like confused views of all this new’s whatever we, you or they care to pontificate in title meant do sow.

The Next Stuff, were composed during and mostly well after witnessing a friend; how she addressed another one of the multiple views of places we both hold near and deer to our hearts, soles, glands did feats. Maybe your views? Doo to.

The ocean; or mostly water of any kind really such as ponder us ponds, gleaming streams, warm or shiver wring rivers, brooks, nooks and or those including specifically of the pacific is where this particular adventure had taken us two.

To find this place we traveled down and then up the west coast of the U.S. of A. In ‘The Next Stuffed’ case the up part of Northern California is where we both were residents. Miss R was moored than I. This adventure took us first south, turning to landing north on water ways of mid-Oregon of all places. Wave now.

We began a two week time out, a vacation of sorts a few hours before; miles and miles later the specific pacific scenery of San Francisco came into view. We were glaringly staring at the big blue; See? Ocean. Not far from the Cliff House, yes?

Thanks to her appreciating a distinct colour sense and our wont to share it, the ten day trip turned out to be a great trade off; really. The photo is of Oregon; not caring what anyone thinks, it’s titled, “Face sitting in Bandon,” because that’s exactly how it appeared when in view of the image, not just the words. MMined you this same photo is presented on mmy www.youtube.com/mmicky site receiving thousands more hits then mmy art work for sum strangers reasons.

Sir prizingly enough one comment received was from a woman who said she travels the net looking for things ‘like that’ so she can shut them down in her life’s work of scents sore wring things ‘like that,’ but up on viewing mmine, she said, “ I think it’s the best one, out they’re; love your work, sorry to bother you.”

I’ve digressed and wear back. The equal time and the creations designed from those of our mostly light and bright favourite colours are what we presented to each other; R ‘n I, that is; a birthday present to present one after the other in total two. More often then both of us could have imagined at the beginning, our multitude in us adventures counted plenty more ‘fore naming us love veterans.

The un-fore-scene images weren’t a major plan of neither locations nor events. Most of what we experienced from day one was mysteries revealed or un-tolled adventure simply because we always sought getting lost in the maze is of any number of country back rodes; our destination or destiny; take your picture?

To this day we’re both astound did at how many different places we experienced in a short amount of time. The uncounted and personal visuals also took into account our shared love of everything liquid especially that of the deep blue sea.

The following is what I perceived, at this particular point, of our previous personal conversations; our shared emotions not just about how, what or we’re or why but perhaps like welcome warmth from inside her specifically are; this is.
This poet dressed miss had been raised in Alaska’s best kissed Home coast; with deep feelings of being embraced a round all sighs and as a garment to wear is:

Her Toy Coat

She sits at the left shifted curtain
Sealed pleats, cloth obstructed her view.
She stares at blue shores; seize uncertain
Of her third floor, bird’s scenery, bend hue.

She pines for her home on the ocean;
Dad’s cabin, precarious cliffs.
There she ran with the tides of all seasons,
Amid hard rains, snows covered, sun’s kissed.

Her gaze, our waves, currents, scent, beach kings.
The core of her heart’s sand, sun, shine.
The smile of her eyes, raised two reach, sing;
To shores, ode’s blue waters, dune climbs.

One more won brought soaring pleasures.
One more won shattered, rocked cliffs.
One more won breakers churned treasures.
One more’s sum fun, stunned, through wished.

One more won hails spells blurred moment.
One more won crashed, watched - the trend.
One more won climax - life’s dormant.
One more won rose like a friend.

One more won touched her sky, curling.
One more won clutched her breast pleas.
One more won held her forever.
Like the buoy of her toy coat - Blue Sea’s.

The Key's - The Circle

January 19, 2010

In 1994, while living in the western most part of the U.S. state of Pennsylvania, the sculpture you see above this message was designed using various materials that have traveled with mme at that time for over twenty years.

From a Northern California home, 88 ivory piano keys were saved in pack rat fashion; carefully dismantled from an old upright piano I had owned and played until it finally fell apart. The keys were wrapped in plastic and stored in a heavy wooden box.

The backing and crucial center focus for this sculpture were acquired years later while rummaging through an abandoned 100-year-old building which at the time along with a group of other artists, we called home.

Home was formerly part of the long defunct Duquesne Brewery located on the south side of Pittsburgh, PA. MMy residence was on the sixth or top floor of the building known as ‘The Brewhouse’ which was directly across the street from the hospital.

The sculpture was also constructed with a 5 foot diameter - ½ inch thick piece of plywood, surrounded by a 1/8th inch thick, very old strip of rusted iron. In the center is a 22 inch circular mirror with a 2 inch convex plastic frame. All the colours in the work were professionally mixed matching the U. S. A.’s national flag; The Stars and Stripes.

The finished sculpture was not permanently completed until 1998; Four years after I had moved to and self-built a more permanent home on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation in Eagle Butte, South Dakota. The home still exists; perhaps as this work.

During the annual Labor Day Pow Wow held that year, it was entered in the Lakota Art Contest and titled, The Key’s - The Circle. It won first place for original wood sculpture.

In August of 2000 the sculpture was wrapped with plastic, quilts, and foam; tied to the front of a 6 foot x 6 foot U-Haul trailer where it faced the severe winter elements head on. It was then transported to where I was commissioned to facilitate an originally designed mmusic mural project at an elementary school in the U.S. state of Michigan.

During the long arduous ride, much of it through snowy, cold and very bad weather, a majority of the keys fell off - one-by-one. Due to the tremendously rough ride and the pressure of the rigging against them, a few pieces of ivory and one key were lost.

Two keys were also broken and have since been repaired. All the rest of the keys stayed glued to the backing except for the seven that were later found lying comfortably inside the wrapping materials at the end of the trip.

Upon arriving in Michigan the sculpture was stored in pieces in two different garages owned by friends for close to a year. In August 2001, it was moved to Ypsilanti, Michigan; thanks to a local and her space which became mmy studio for over a year.

A month later, while in the process of contemplating reconstruction of the sculpture, it was decided that the time had arrived to finish the damaged work and get it back to as much of its original form as possible. It was quite a puzzle, none the less a success.

Needles to say this wasn’t the end of the sculpture’s journey. Perhaps there never will be an end. From Michigan it traveled back to Northern California where it was displayed in several shows, one of which was at Sacramento’s Native American Health Center and during one of their well attended Second Saturday gallery crawls.

Two years later it traveled on the way back to Michigan where it was delivered or dropped off and the last time I’ve seen it where it sat stored in a practice room of The People’s Music School located in Chicago, Illinois; on Rita Simo Way; the street named after the founder of that school.

It was donated to The People’s Music School specifically to help their $50,000 shortfall in fundraising efforts along with thirty two (32) other original works personally transported there from California for that purpose.

The Key’s – The Circle is best understood when one views the circle as a universal spiritual form; one which is said to be broken not only in the indigenous culture, but throughout the world.

This is true especially at this point of time with the continuing disharmony amongst cultures as we observe wars being fought both near and far. Therefore this piece seems very relevant and made even more so when before the trip to Chicago the 22" circular mirror was added to the center of the sculpture.

As the observer stands in front of this work; they will see themselves in the center of the circle. The Keys - The Circle asks many questions of each individual who stand before it. The most important are; who are you, and are you doing your part to heal the circle?

In this world we all call home, each one of us is a key. . . . The Key’s - The Circle.

Tales of Bill

January 18, 2010

I met Bill Ganaye while living on the west coast about, oooooh maybe - let’s see; I’mm guessing about twenty plus years ago. Yes, I know it’s been a while but Bill is someone you’d not soon forget. He was a good buddy. Blues mmusician; one of the good guys most of us will meet at some point of our lives if we’re lucky.

We weren’t in each others physical presence THAT long but long enough to make this kind of an impression. He was a good person and a hellova mmusician. When we first met we jammed of course. He was a good blues guitar player but when I met him he was playing bass at the time. It wasn’t long after that he concentrated more on his first love, the guitar.

He had a semi-solid guitar; not one of those fat one’s as most would recognise as that of an acoustic. Nope, Bill’s was definitely electric, not solid wood but hollow. I know he had more than one electric guitar but at this time he didn’t. I called Bill, ‘Mr. Bassman.’ As a bassist he was solid and right on the money; or ‘in the pocket’ as they say. He’d work hard to drive mme to work harder to drive him to work harder and them sum. We played well together; like a team, we were.

No matter what combination of mmusicians we happened to perform with in too many jams to remember; but what I DO remember is that at most free jams we both happened to show up for, he and I always picked each other as the one we wanted next to the other in the rhythm section. I knew what he was going to do and he knew mme. After playing as a team for quite a time we’d look at each other when we hit the groove together as if an alarm went off and say, “You got it!”

Shortly after our first jam he invited mme to meet his folks; his parents. He also wanted to show mme just about exactly where he was going to build his first dream home. It was on the same property his parents Betty and Claude Ganaye had just purchased in 1985; a 25 acre plot of land with a historic house on it that sits on top of Trinity hill in Northern California. Part of beautiful wine country.

Their place sits just outside the little town three miles up from Glen Ellen; a hop, skip and a jump down the hill and you’re stepping into all kinds of wineries in Sonoma’s wine country. Remodeling of the house was completed in 1993. Needless to say his folks were then and are now two of the nicest, warmest and most welcoming people I’ve ever met. Great B & B hosts. Breakfast will kill ya!

After Bill turned mme on to the place he and his folks invited mme back for an incredible dinner/family get together that took place outside and in front of the huge house ‘Above the Clouds.’ It was… and is sooooooo gorgeous of a place. Claude and Betty own and manage the Bed and Breakfast and run it like their own home. You can see them at: http://www.abovethecloudsbb.com/index.html

At that time though they had just acquired the property and hadn’t begun to remodel the house yet but it’s completed now. Without a doubt, if you’re ever in the area, stop by or look ‘em up on the net; you won’t be sorry I can guarantee you that. Tell ‘em I sent you and they may take you up to see and touch Claude’s pets.

One of the great things about the place is Claude (a baker from France) has a group of Mother Nature’s own he calls his ‘pets.’ Unlike what most of us would imagine, they’re not your run of the mill same old dog, cat, bird, turtle, llama, Alpaca, mink, Cockatiel, Cockatoo or any concoction of a pet or even a skunk variety. Nope, not Claude’s. The man’s a special breed with a special breed of pet.

His pets are in the usual but not so these in the swimming category; CATFISH!! I’mm tellin’ ya, he’s got a pond located and situated around one of the most serene settings on the place that is just full of serene. On a scale of won to ten, I’d say this one is a 14. I mean that pond is chock full of fish. If you stick your hand in the water there’s no way you’d not touch at least three with each hand as they kiss your fingers; that is if you’re not holding a piece of bread that may be mist taken.

No kidding; the mman’s a lover of catfish. Feeds ‘em bread all the time so those suckers are huge and plentiful. MMined you they’re not for eating. Better not or Claude will shoot you faster than you could say CLEVER! They’re his PETS! How cool is that? I’d bet he’s taught them to respond in French. They’re French bred.

So yes, I had a great time at Easter and every time Bill and I visited his folks ‘Above The Clouds.’ His mom’s a happy, fun loving and warm person with a huge smile and one who invites anyone she meets into her heart. Needless to say it’s been too long since we’ve reconnected again; in person anyway. From time to time we’ll connect thanks to the net and email. (Hi Betty! Say Claude! – Wave to ya’s ;o)

In any case it wasn’t too long ago when tragedy hit Bill at too early of an age; he’s no longer with us but I’ll always remember that dude; not just for his playing, his friendship and the times we shared as a mmusic team, but also because his parents raised him swell. I loved that guy, his sister with the most beautiful eyes, Colleen; his whole family are good people.

You’ll be, ‘Above The Clouds,’ too if or when you visit them. I’mm sure as you walk around the place, sleep in one of their bedrooms during any phase of the mmoon; they’re situation right in ‘The Valley of the Moon’ in joy their warm hospitality; their remarkable cellar of all kinds of wine, domestic; imported; or even if you’re lucky to sit either on a clear night or in broad daylight perched (or in this case catfished) on the one foot by eight foot weathered board that juts out like a dock to meet unusual pets. Claude and Betty will probably and most likely tell you, if you remember politely to ask; even more

Tales of Bill

Hey! Did you know Bill? When
He played his blues you’d feel
The chills from the neck of his guitar
Way down through your shoe’s.
He’d peel and rip threw riffs,
He’d smile through tunes a gift of his songs.

He had a way with blues ‘n soul
Stories, six or twelve strings told
His touch, we grooved
Melodies all down home, true
Notes chose sing he owned ‘em all.

His time ‘n life cut way to short,
Wild Bill holding true blues court
Beguiling he was mmusic
Dreams played from the porch.
Hey! Did you know Bill?
Bending blues notes

Fingers flying trills hot toast
His mmusic screamed - cried, we cheered
His tone - no fear, that Bill you’d hear
His melody's; yeah! His singing swing’s there
MMusic - dreams played from sincere.

His days with us – good times Bill, trust
We’ll si you Will -We hear you still
Yes, we grin and sing Yaaaaa’s of your
MMusic - dreams heard from your hill.
Hey! Did you know Bill?
Yeah – MMan! DID he thrill!
He’s heaven's Will.
I can hear him still.
Yeah Bill; “You got it!”

The Trails Next Staged

January 17, 2010

Approximately the summer of 2006 I was visiting a mmusician friend, Tom who lived on his family’s ranch/farm not far from California’s capital. I lived a few towns over but we managed to hang every week at rehearsal as members of the same community band; he in the trumpet section, I still beating mmy brains out.

His dad and mom who were both in their late nineties were sitting on their old farmhouse front porch. The house was one of those old ornate Victorians still in really good shape because of an extenseive remodel a few years earlier. The paint was almost new looking and the structure itself looked straight and solid.

Tom was really proud of the outside detail as well as the insides and threatened a few times to invite mme in sighed to see it; for some reason and unfortunately, we never got to experience this together, nor did I do it alone; not like mme.

Tom and his two brothers with each of their wives and small families all lived in separate housing while mostly sharing the farm duties. As old family farms go, they too could do many of the mechanical things needed to keep up the large machinery. Their huge pole barn shops had every tool imaginable to do anything imaginable including making parts for anything needed on an immediate basis.

Those things always amazed mme when thinking how it used to be in the early days of very few repair gas stations as automobiles were first coming to light.
Most times when visiting, Tom would be in the shop for any number of reasons. He’d be fixing or working on or mostly inside of something that needed repair, oiling, upkeep or to just hanging while enjoying a beer in the shade of too hot.

All the brothers were geniuses with beer besides their other duties on ‘The Ranch.’ The ranch besides raising their own hay was sold to buyers around those parts. They also had a herd of cattle to raise and move from pasture to pasture in the never ending business of their ranch, hay sales and farming enter prize.

One night after rehearsal Tom, who is also a great poet asked mme if I’d like to witness their next branding exorcism of which I replied with a wide eyed yes. Being a city boy and although after living in South Dakota for five years still was enthralled with the idea of being around Blazing Saddles and City Slickers type of landscapes escapes, so of course I acquiesced; always with a camera in tow.

When living in South Dakota and helping to do different things on ranches wild living there I did have the opportunity to be involved in several ranch type things but nothing like this one. Needless to say after you read the following poem maybe you’ll imagine what was actually witnessed. Quite a day it was.

Strange as it seemed to mme to see and especially hear this particular hap in stance wild taking photographs and trying to keep out of the way; I took just a few photographs wild trying to keep out of the way; and I mean out of the way.

I’mm not your usual cowboy, go get ‘em, wrestle that steer or even hop on that horse kind of guy. I don’t even feel comfortable riding a horse on a mmerry go round let alone a live one; but I have on occasion until the last few mounts paid no attention to anything I had to say or do when last we met. I’mm no horsepoke.

Naturally it wasn’t sitting on top of their back and them below mmy butt wild trying to point them in the direction I was hoping to move. There was no way and no luck; they just didn’t pay attention to the rider trying to change their directions. I’ve heard of horse whisperer’s doing this very easily. That I tried.

OK, what’s the big deal I thought? No matter how long I tried this whispering thing, even when whispering over and over and over as in ,” Come on horsey, Come on horsey, Come ON horsey,” nothing worked; the thing stood still as a granite wall.

Unless it’s a small cat or a larger dog that I’ve known for a while, I’d just as soon keep a safe distance from something with bigger feet, heads and brains smaller than a walnut. This does not include living things smaller than a pony or a Great Dane thank you very much. Although I’ve lived in a house with two of those, they too may be in question. I’ve always wanted a pet pig though. No luck there.

In any case Tom thanks for the invite, the days of riding on your tractor through the waving haze of grain and especially for introducing mme to the finer points of castrating bulls, trimming their horns and cutting parts of their ears off for whatever reason that was I still don’t know; and didn’t ask. Maybe you told mme but I’d soon forget. What DID you do with those things anyway, eat them?

In whatever the jobs are in ranching I’mm one of those little persons compared to the dudes that were there that day. Most of those MEN were cowboy hat, full chaps wearing, tobacco chewing, big hands people two or three times mmy size.

Their familiarity with every job of the day seemed like it came natural to them although I think one of them was a bank teller during the week. The only person who sort of put mme to shame as I hid behind the camera at every turn was Toms son who looked like he was in the 5th grade and had no problems hanging.

It seemed a brutal necessity of requirements to keep everyone happy and healthy in order to sustain the common community of heifers as well as a lot of bull. MMined you I noticed each cattle of both genders, although electric prods were used, tried like hell to jump out of the shoot to freedom only to be caught at the last minute in the clutches of the next shoot that turned ‘em on their sighs for the final cut in their movie of transforming them from one gender to the other. Next?

I definitely could understand their position as they huffed, puffed, had bulging eyes, wild kickin’ and screamin’ and what have you, in not wanting to lose their pry’s possessions. I’mm not sure I’d be that calm during the same process.

The last part when their horns were cut with large what looked like pliers while the streaming spurts of blood shot out from their heads pretty much did it for mme as far as photography was concerned; not too mention losing part of their ears which after a while seemed like a pile of questions that none of them could answer when herd from dirt. By the way what happened to that bucket of balls?

The black tar on that make shift miniature broom rubbed in the movement of a windshield wiper and in the same spot where there once was something else as a replacement just didn’t seem the same; especially when after finally being scent on their weigh, most looked back at us with what definitely appeared to exclaim something like in the movement a human would do with one particular finger.

Not being a cattle person I wasn’t sure that in time they would get over this but I guess they did although I can’t imagine how. Maybe it had something to do with thinking of revenge at a later date; hence a trepidation to ride one of those things.

In any case thanks much for the experience. I’ve tried to put this out of mmy mmined every time offered anything resembling their consistency as food. These then were the impressions I herd from your cattle on:

The Trail’s Next Staged

The muscle’s amassed
The strength’s to hard
The prods or mauls
The hulks, stern guard’s
The pens - our tense
The wrest leapt, caged
The weight’s in store
The trail’s next staged

The ‘lectric prods
The climb out’s blocked
The sir cull’s iron
The gates hell rocked
The one bye, won
The next timed - pinned
The bar’d in shocked
The squeals, the din

The climb in crime
The brand read hot
The hef’ or bull
The creed’s the lot
The door is opened
The race for free
The path’s swift, broken
The clamps sentry

The to ear’s marked
The holes howl, trimmed
The blood spurt blows
The ground plies win
The horns not spared
The crimson’s gushed
The bull’s grid lock’s
The slide over’s crushed
The sac’s their pried
The face glows pissed
The battle’s cried
The agony twists
The neck blows, stiff’s
The bucket’s fill two’s
The needle pricks, kicks
The pine’s tarred, shoo’s
The health’s in sure’s
The rife goes on
The heard’s endure’s
This trail’s staged - gone.