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Here's a couple of my ditties which I thought I'd drop on this page so you'll have a better idea why it could be referred to as "Junk Poetry". As you will notice right away, not all of my stuff is of a "Cowboy" nature, I just write what I feel and sometimes it's fair, and sometimes it's lousy, but always it's a good experience, cause I'm called upon to think.. I suppose it would be more proper to call myself a Country Poet. I do recommend to one and all the art of writing, whether it is poetry, stories, your journal, or just doodling, it is a relaxing pastime. My real love is writing spiritual stuff and some found it's way on this site, but for the most part I keep them to myself or share them with friends I write them for.
I was awarded the "TOP SITE" award for my website from
Grandma's Closet.
This is an honor and I appreciate it. Don't make anything on my stuff so it's kinda nice just to have an "atta boy" once in awhile!
THANKS GRANDMA!!
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He'z a lookin' for work, wanted to ride for the spread, a cowboy with salt, so he said.. But if, as they say, a books judged by it's cover, he could be a bullrider instead.
His Resitol lid was high crowned and flashy,
The old mare that he rode was so neatly groomed,
But the crowning eye catcher that reached out and grabbed you,
He rode into the yard that bright summer morning,
The old ranch foreman hired that young feller,
Had a lovely down comforter with matching pillow,
It was usual procedure on any cow spread,
He went with the hands to the Big Valley saloon,
He established himself as a real malo vaquero,
Now I don't mean to suggest that he was unusual,
Now cowboys ain't dumb, least all of them ain't,
Among thorns to use the vernacular.
He slipped into town ever' chance that he had,
The bettin' pool closed one Monday A.M.,
I, myself looked high and low,
Old Jose Bautista and his band of woolies,
He stroked his old beard and looked into the sky,
But then it came out as he re-lived yesterday,
Dos Hombres, he'd said, and uno caballo, © Paul D. Hatch This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission. | 
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Paul D. Hatch....
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No walls of wood to resonate,--
no ceilings with reflective vanes. Nor floors with thick, plush carpets, no stained glass window panes. There are no padded, form fit seats, no balconies high above. No ticket booths with waiting lines, nor ushers in starched white gloves.
Yet on the stage of this grand hall, |  |
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A Bear count... (A.K.A. "Bruce's story")
They'ze lots a consternation, an' wringin' hands galore.
'bout birds n' snails, an' crawly things, that won't be here no more.
The egghead types, with floppy disks an' printouts by the reams--
are index filin' all creation,-- er at least, so it seems.
From elephants ta killer whales, ta things sub-microscopic.
They're funded well by Bill an' Al an' others philanthropic.
Newts n' gnats, an' great horned bats are tallied scored an' logged.
Ten zillion micro bits are stored,-- the I.B.M.s get clogged.
They've set in place criteria, most accurate they insist--
determining which critters make- the endangered species list!!
Allow a fer example how these counts is done with care.
A most accurate guesstimation of the noble Grizzly Bear..
One square mile is staked an' strung, the P.H.D.s are called.
They wander every hill and dale, scientifically involved!
To make the endangered list, the criteria is quite clear.
He makes the list if not one Bear- bites a doctorate type rear..
May I suggest another view, tho some may think me nuts.
There may be Grizzly Bears a plenty,--- just need a few more butts!!!
The eco-system is inter linked, everything fits in the chain.
'cept, say enviros, ozone depletion, global warmin' and acid rain.
The cat they say depends on mice. Nuts are crucial to squirrels.
Bovines need grass, as does the steed, an' oysters is important to pearls.
Near every critter is one of the links,- the roach, the flea and the rabbit.
One thing only with no real need,
a cell mass they call "Bruce Babbitt".....
© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
P.D.H.
One of very few politicians with whom caricature artists have
a hard time because he looks like a caricature in real life!
He is by far the most anti-property rights and the most destructive Secretary of the Interior in American history!
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© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
It won't take too long when cowmen gather 'round,
ta start braggin' 'bout stock that they own.
It may be a steer er a heifer perhaps,
er a bay, er a strawberry roan.
But fer reasons unknown, perhaps it's male ego,
one thing'll come up ya can trust.
The performance an' grandeur uv their favorite bull
will in detail be thurly discussed.
The bull ta cow ratio an' the size uv his calves,
an' the quality a the stock that he sires.
The truth'll hold sway fer the first round a stories,
then those cowmen'll all become liars.
"One bull I owned", ol' Roy exclaimed,
"could cover my entire spread".
"He could get all my cows pregnant in a month an' a half",
"I run 'bout eighty nine head".
"Well, he'd work nite an' day ta get the job done",
"never stoppin' fer rain er fer cold".
"Oh yeah", Roy added, "I pert near fergot",
"his calves were all born neatly polled".
"Now that sounds like a fairly decent ol' bull",
ol' Jack said in a right doubtful voice.
"But some bulls is fair an' some bulls is good",
"my Angus bull, he's downright choice."
"In this here day a scientific ranchin',
when computers is a ranchers' main tool",
"there-on are kept calf gender records",
"they'ze more profit ta be made on a bull."
The truth wuz the victim uv Jacks' next remark,
He know'd his tale had ta top Roys.
"That ol' Angus", he said's, "the best bull in the county,
"His children is one hundred percent boys"!
Now, ol' Stump'd been listnin', takin' it all in.
Fer his tale he pulled out all a the stops.
"So if yer' a wearin' yer boots, as ya otta be doin',
make sure ya have yer high tops".
"I bought me this bull", he said without flinchin',
"frum that ol' 7x mother outfit".
"'cuz among his offspring weren't found any bulls,
'ner a single calf with a tit".
The silence wuz deafnin', the cowmen befuddled,
ya could hear their brain gears a spinnin'.
in bull story tellin', they'd shore placed an' showed,
but wuz plain ol' Stump wuz a winnin'.
"We ain't heard such a thing", the two cowmen said,
"in all uv our ranchin' careers".
"lts easy; sald Stump "my ol' 7x bull,
just never fathered nuthin' but steers"!!
Paul D. Hatch TOP
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The old clock had just struck January- an' I'ze cold plum' ta the bone. The icy north wind bit my cheeks, as I sat that leggy roan. My ear wuz froze, my nose, my hands-- fact I'ze froze in all my parts. Now parts may be parts, but uv utmost import, wuz the parts that wuz froze in my shorts. I've tried thru the years all sorts a gizmos, ta keep my plumin' unfroze. A big woolen sock, some down underwear, an' some Joe Namath style panty hose. I'd tried bib overalls with two pair a pants-- a custom saddle with fur lined indent. If'n I needed to go, 'fore I could undress, on occasion I'd already went! Well, I decided right then, enough wuz enough- after all I'm a space age type guy. So I gathered my coins, went ta the city,- cold relief I'ze a tryin' ta buy. Went ta the feed store, to the cowmen accessories, a lookin', tho I knew not fer what. I supposed the display'd feature a brass monkey-- just a holdin his near frozen ---------. But I found not a thing, so on with my quest,- ta Wrangler, Bar-N, an' the Gap. I explained ta the clerks in a sensitive manner, 'bout the temperature concern a my lap. The girl clerks'd mostly giggle an' blush, the men clerks'd nod wizely an' wince-- This wuz fer certain a one gender problem, fer Adam, an' ever' man since. I wonder why the Maker, in His infinite wisdom, who made things so precise an' exact-- Why not an option fer cold weather cowboys, perhaps a push-button retract. It wuz finally suggested in a feminine voice, by a feller in lavender clothes, That down at the Mall, back in a corner, wuz a little shop they called "Romeos". Now, I been around, an' I knowed this guy wuz queer as a three dollar note. But then, who'd know more 'bout male type parts, than this fairy in the frilly fur coat? I'ze just as nervous as an egg suckin skunk, in this boutique with whips, chains an' such. The clerk gave a warnin', an I whispered "ditto", when he said , "just look, but don't touch"! Well, they had fur lined pants, complete with lace trim, the clerk even suggested, "BEN GAY"? I told 'im "NO, I always been straight, but what you do shore is okay". He showed me a thermos with an adjustable mouth, an' a silicon connector that bends. A hot water bottle, a thermal jock strap, he even suggested, "Depends?" We searched every aisle, ever' cranny an' nook, then lo, way up in a dormer-- we found there the answer ta my frigid entreat, a box labeled, "YE OLDE WEE WEE WARMER". Wuz a pink woolen tube, a battery box, with a plug-in marker plainly, "Recharge". It came in all sizes ta insure a snug fit,-- I, of course bought EXTRA LARGE! Had it full charged when the next cold snap hit, put 'er on,-----it seemed ta fit loose! I cinched 'er down tight, flipped it ta "High", went out an' forked my cayuse. Now, if you ever drank frum a cool mountain stream, er kissed a baby's behind. The joy you felt on those special occasions, would my feelings partially define. 'Bout three miles come a cold drivin' rain, but heck, I'ze warm as a fox. My body machine was all warm an' snug, 'specially the parts wrapped in socks. As the rain started soakin', I had an experience, which may seem in retrospect strange-- suffice it ta say, my old wee-wee warmer was left there in the mud on the range.. You've heard the sayin', "Hot as a sheep", er, "Warm as a sweet angels hug"? How 'bout, "High as a kite", "Full as a tick", er, "Snug as a bug in a rug"? I'd suggest a sayin' that describes me plum' good, when that smokin' pink gadget I aborted-- I shorely moved, "quick as a bunny", that day when my old shorts shorted!!! © Paul D. Hatch This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission. |  |
© Paul D. Hatch
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
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He stood there by the horse corral, My old friend, Clyde Kincade. He's as sad as the shovel man In the parade horse poop brigade. I hated to see my old pard hurtin', so I interrupted his pout. "What's the problem Clyde", I says, "What's this here all about?" Now, 'fore I finish this here rhyme, They's somethin' I should explain. "bout my old pal, it's oft been said, that he ain't got a brain!! His deck, they say is one card short, his crocheting dropped a stitch. His elevator stops before the top, his picnics' short a sandwich. Was plain that he had struggled long, to keep his mares names straight. And tho I saw a surefire way, to differentiate---- I thought it best to let old Clyde, work it out on his own.. He, after all tho not too sharp, was a real horse man full grown. I imagined him in a reflective mood, just perched there on a stump. Tryin' to figger this thing out, not unlike old Forest Gump. He told how he had trimmed Jill's mane, and that worked for awhile. But it growed out and then returned, old Clyde's horse ID trial. "I painted a spot on Tess", he said, "and that worked right fine until", "Bye and bye the sun and rain, caused the paint to peel". "Then I put shoes on old Tess", said he, "I thought, a clever plan." "But tender feet required a change", "I'ze right back where I began". Sudden like Clyde's face lit up, his grey cells then re-booted. A thought began to formulate, his critics were refuted! He took off like a death row convict, who's attemptin' to escape. But he returned at warp speed, with his trusty craftsman tape. He crawled into the horse pen, to measure up his Belgian pair. He stood 'em careful side by side, and then he got up on a chair.. He measured his team up and down, And then from stem to stern. He looked like old Bob Villa, I'ze a wonderin' what he'd learn? He measured them in feet and inches, and then in millimeters. He measured them in hands and fractions, his hands moved like eggbeaters. Then old Clyde let out a yell, out there in the horse manure. For his remuda indentifyin',- He said he'd found a cure!! Now like I tried to tell you, when I first began this rhyme. Clyde ain't given much to smarts, he's dumb in double time.. "I got it figgered", he blurted out. "A sure fire way to tell". "From this day forth I'll know for sure, who's Tess and who is Jill... "My team", said he, "is clones to me", "like two pickles in the brine". "Now I got my horse fix in place", so said old Clyde Einstein. In my own words I'll share with you, just what he had to tell. That deep dark secret he discovered, there in that horse corral.. As I noted at the onset, I don't know just how Clyde missed,- the key to tell these mares apart, don't take a rocket scientist. He discovered that the black mare, was 16 hands and a quarter. While the white mare measured carefully, was xzactly two inches shorter!!!!
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