Sunset red stains the plains
like Quantrill days in bloody Lawrence.
A kestrel arcs overhead, but he has not
one red feather.
On either side of the highway,
country miles filled end to end
in feed corn, alfalfa, and soy;
acres gone mostly to graze,
jelly rolls of hay for riderless mares.
The odd pasture of amber-eyed emus;
humming alpaca songs supplant the cicadas
shaggy necks listing for lost Inca valleys,
as the Flint Hills shift uneasy beneath
dun-colored cows, and mourn again
the jumps, the round-em-up’s,
the Big .50’s.
And engines still bluster and railroad
through spitdirt towns with odd names
like La Cygne and Chetopa and Kismet
their founders never suspected one day
they’d be tucking up rusting trailer parks
and struggling co-ops.
Dead oil pumps stand like dewinged grasshoppers
in fields of tall dropseed. Their hind legs,
useless, flutter no more. Their outlines go to brown
in the fading light like bark-stuck locust shells
on cottonwood trunks.
"O, bury me not on the lone prairie,"
Land of no horizon, where I’d fear
prairie dogs tunneling boneyards
"where the wild coyote will howl o’er me"
See the red sash tied at his waist,
and dread the possibility of no sunrise.
"where the buffalo roams the prairie sea"
The copperhead stalks the rocks, prospector.
"But we paid no heed to his dying prayer
In a narrow grave, just six by three."
A dead man’s hand played
five years out of Abilene.
Body kept cold in a Deadwood creek.
"While firing my last shot, I will gently breathe the name of my wife – Agnes - and with wishes even for my enemies, I will make the plunge and try to swim to the other shore."
Aces over eights. Hang up your shovel
and we’ll strike out west, beyond the great yonder:
El Dorado, Dodge, Salina,
wandering until we reach that other shore.
"We paid no heed to his dying prayer.
In a narrow grave, just six by three.
We buried him there on the lone prairie."
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Author notes
Your quick guns and my quicker tongue.
The title and several lines refer to an American folksong.
The ending refers to Wild Bill Hickok. The lines, "While firing my last shot. . ." are from the last letter he wrote to his wife.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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It may have been harder for me to grasp the subject..being I have not much understanding of the 'west' etc etc..
though that doesn't matter..sometimes having no grasp on the subject matter simply doesn't take away from enjoying and learning from the read..this is the case with yours here Pie
I throughly enjoyed the descriptions..the single lines..how it ws all structured actually
Very well written
Cindy
language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 5.
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hey pie
i love the flavor of the old west here. and the allusion that, that great wild romantic era is over. kinda sad for all our creature comforts they had something we never will.
dave -
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Hey, Dave. Yep, as I remarked to MJ, I indulged a bit in romanticizing the west here. I'm a big fan for westerns, and the Midwesterner in me thrills at the sight of big open fields and nothin' but a canopy sky overhead.
Of course, the west is also what made way for the railroads, and the death of the buffalo. It has a romance, but, as with everything else, there's a dark side as well.
Lauren
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good shot pardner
I really like the way you've arranged the material, from the comparison of the opening red sunset to what Quantrill's raids did to the sky, or did to people who looked at the sky after the raid. The interweaving of "Bury me not..." quintessential cowboy song with Hickok's last shootout. "spitdirt towns" a great description, never used before as far as I know.
To me there is an almost seamless portrayal of the modern day prairie and the historic. The language, terminology blends well. I remember your saying you liked the world of cowboys/outlaws and here is eloquent proof. The poem encompasses so much about the wild (and now not so wild) west. MJ -
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Well, thanks, pilgrim. I'm pleased that you, a musician, approved of my weaving lines from an old folk song into my poem. I was a little nervous about that-- didn't know if it would work or not.
Yep, I indulged my fondness for westerns in this piece. Sad to say, as you so astutely point out, that it's the not-so-wild west these days.
Lauren
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Vivid
Rich imagery really brings this to life for me. Your diction really fits the theme at hand, and the poem almost sounds like it should be read with an accent. Nice use of some cowboy dialect too; it made the words connect with the subject in a natural, fun to read way.
In addition, the entire thing seems vaguely magical to me. As a New Jersey born city boy who rarely sees open space bigger than a baseball field, the whole concept of the open ranges of the west is the stuff of epic western movies and other people's lives. It exists, but not for me. Because of this, my imagination can really run wild with the picture you paint here. Not usually a fan of Americana, but I really enjoyed this.
Nice work.
-Zig
language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 4, tone: 4, form: 5.
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Hi, Zig. Glad you enjoyed this piece. Yes, it should most definitely be read in a John Wayne drawl.
I'm glad you detected that thread of magic in this piece. I agree wholeheartedly. I live in Missouri, and the west still holds a certain power with its wild beauty and open fields. Sad to say they're disappearing.
Cheers,
Pie
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