Its seems that...big fat alleged cowdog...charges me with needing someone to take care of me...he is the one that has gotten so fat that he can barely slither...yes slither under that gate on Contraband Bayou, and sneak out and stand in front of the house there to be let back in...I awaiting him to get his fat....self caught under that gate...Always got his mouth open to be fed...Does he chase away the meter man when he comes in...some watch dog...he barks, and then runs up to be scratch...might as well give him the keys to the Dodge..., and the Dodge, well he is faster than lighting to jump and go...at least I stay in the truck as I was taught...and he...bails out every chance he gets...wags his tail as he runs into various stores...come get me...come get me...and after he has greeted everyone in Walmart (only to get can dog food) then he is willing to get back into the truck...otherwise, he is right at the cowboy feet, always getting stepped on...he should be thankful that that cowgirl threw him into the Ram...he was left at a McDonalds, and living off of scraps...last night we shared some Ben and Jerrys...Cherry Garcia...they had no Wavy Gravy, which is our preference...spoiled I would say is his problem...we are awaiting him to go flying over the Cajun Moon, for he loves to chase the gelding around the pasture at night...and the geldings hind quarters squeak, and thus, we await, the Blue Heeler over the Moon.........
8/17/2006
8/16/2006
THE KING AND I
To some, what they may see is a City Slicker,
Who is seeking White Lighting,
And to taste that powerful stuff,
And possibly this is true, and to others,
They may see a Sharp Dress Man,
To them likewise they are true,
In fact, I am neither, yet I am both,
For I am Lawrence Cyril Cooper,
And in words my story has never been told.
I stand in front of this Abbot House,
On a ranch in northern Texas,
Talking to a 15 year old,
This is the year 1948, the war is over,
As my aunts and uncles have been before me,
I am wanting to be a sage,
This is why my presence of dress is so important,
For one day, he may become the King of Texas.
My life has never been an easy one,
Losing my mother at four days old,
Growing up following my brothers,
My closest being Alton,
As he is current known,
There in No Mans Land running that store,
Caring for our aging father,
While I stand here in Abbott talking to a 15 year old.
My road went from De Ridder LA,
Where I lost my mother in suicide,
When I was just four days old,
My father Clarence Cyril Cooper was a carpenter,
And sought another spouse to care for us children,
Three sons and one daughter, sweet Lilly,
And the young woman he chose,
Mother Emma did as best as she could.
We moved from De Ridder to Orange,
Alton loved to tell stories of old man Lutcher,
Throwing nickels from his Packard,
As he drove through those Orange streets,
Where the carpenter sons played,
As Alton became Kingfish,
Teaching me the skills of fighting,
To retrieve those nuggets of gold.
It would be at fish camp,
There upon Bowl Slough,
That his sons would hear the tales of our youth,
And I would stand throwing my punches,
At the fireflies that darted in the night,
There about the fire light,
And Alton would remark, I was the Kingfish,
And I would settle back to my coffee,
That was boiled with River water,
Surely the apostles shared the same brew,
As they traveled across their holy land.
Our journey took us up to Monroe,
Another town in need of a carpenter,
A carpenter found work where he could,
There my half-sisters took off to work in Kentucky,
Some say they were entertainers,
Working as dancers in Lexington,
This was the depression, and life was not easy,
We three brothers with our younger Art,
Struck off to California,
And the promise of gold.
Alton at the age of 13,
Took off on the road,
And started his pen and prose,
One of his best verses,
Tells of the plight of his friend Blacky,
In Moonlight and Skies,
I likewise picked up the pen,
And by grace received recognition,
For putting my thoughts into verse.
James and Alton worked picking California peaches,
This was the only gold that they found,
They returned to start their own Orchard of Gold,
There upon the banks of the Sabine,
Where the trees were left to the care of our Uncle,
Who was a famous teamster pulling Cypress,
His call could be heard,
All through the Sabine Bottom,
And this is his story to be told.
Alton returned to the Feather River Camp, with Vivian,
Bringing her back on a side door Pullman,
And that Varnado girl rode with the best,
Starting their family with their first born Silva,
I acquired a wife, who was raised in Abbott,
Returning with Sibyl to begin our life,
Where our first born Larimae was born,
There upon the banks of the Feather River,
Where the pines were as majestic as those of the Sabine,
And the water as swift, yet still much colder.
In 1941 Alton, family, along with our dad,
Departed California in a 38 Terra-plane,
His foot was as hot as his soul,
But it was our sister Ruby and not he,
Who took out the gas pump at 7 mile junction,
As they returned to Bancroft,
And to that Orchard of Gold,
Times were hard, and hearing the call.
I stayed and put a uniform on for my country,
The son of a carpenter, and grandson of a Mason,
Guided from birth by aunts as true as a level and square.
Here I stand dressed in my best ,
As my aunts constantly explained,
In their efforts to raise me properly,
Both the Whitman Girls and the Patterson Sisters,
Aunts Mae and Myrtle, most respectfully,
Never to go into the public unpresentable,
For one day, you may never know,
A photo may appear of you,
Standing before the King of Texas.
This is a tribute to a man who strived to be an example to my brothers and sisters... I alreadly have a post that discuss his shadow boxing at fish camp...entitled three dollar shirt...to have fished camp with Uncle Larry, my dad and my brothers was an experience that money cannot buy...there still is the story of the hog that kept getting in his corn--(dads prize sow)--...eventually I will write of that...It was inspired by a picture I received most recently of him standing in front of a 15 year old, uncle Larry was dressed...he always presented himself this way...standing in front of a Abbott Ranch House,the year was 1948 talking to a 15 year old William Nelson, his nephew...The 15 year cowboy became....WILLIE...thus, the title The King and I........
Who is seeking White Lighting,
And to taste that powerful stuff,
And possibly this is true, and to others,
They may see a Sharp Dress Man,
To them likewise they are true,
In fact, I am neither, yet I am both,
For I am Lawrence Cyril Cooper,
And in words my story has never been told.
I stand in front of this Abbot House,
On a ranch in northern Texas,
Talking to a 15 year old,
This is the year 1948, the war is over,
As my aunts and uncles have been before me,
I am wanting to be a sage,
This is why my presence of dress is so important,
For one day, he may become the King of Texas.
My life has never been an easy one,
Losing my mother at four days old,
Growing up following my brothers,
My closest being Alton,
As he is current known,
There in No Mans Land running that store,
Caring for our aging father,
While I stand here in Abbott talking to a 15 year old.
My road went from De Ridder LA,
Where I lost my mother in suicide,
When I was just four days old,
My father Clarence Cyril Cooper was a carpenter,
And sought another spouse to care for us children,
Three sons and one daughter, sweet Lilly,
And the young woman he chose,
Mother Emma did as best as she could.
We moved from De Ridder to Orange,
Alton loved to tell stories of old man Lutcher,
Throwing nickels from his Packard,
As he drove through those Orange streets,
Where the carpenter sons played,
As Alton became Kingfish,
Teaching me the skills of fighting,
To retrieve those nuggets of gold.
It would be at fish camp,
There upon Bowl Slough,
That his sons would hear the tales of our youth,
And I would stand throwing my punches,
At the fireflies that darted in the night,
There about the fire light,
And Alton would remark, I was the Kingfish,
And I would settle back to my coffee,
That was boiled with River water,
Surely the apostles shared the same brew,
As they traveled across their holy land.
Our journey took us up to Monroe,
Another town in need of a carpenter,
A carpenter found work where he could,
There my half-sisters took off to work in Kentucky,
Some say they were entertainers,
Working as dancers in Lexington,
This was the depression, and life was not easy,
We three brothers with our younger Art,
Struck off to California,
And the promise of gold.
Alton at the age of 13,
Took off on the road,
And started his pen and prose,
One of his best verses,
Tells of the plight of his friend Blacky,
In Moonlight and Skies,
I likewise picked up the pen,
And by grace received recognition,
For putting my thoughts into verse.
James and Alton worked picking California peaches,
This was the only gold that they found,
They returned to start their own Orchard of Gold,
There upon the banks of the Sabine,
Where the trees were left to the care of our Uncle,
Who was a famous teamster pulling Cypress,
His call could be heard,
All through the Sabine Bottom,
And this is his story to be told.
Alton returned to the Feather River Camp, with Vivian,
Bringing her back on a side door Pullman,
And that Varnado girl rode with the best,
Starting their family with their first born Silva,
I acquired a wife, who was raised in Abbott,
Returning with Sibyl to begin our life,
Where our first born Larimae was born,
There upon the banks of the Feather River,
Where the pines were as majestic as those of the Sabine,
And the water as swift, yet still much colder.
In 1941 Alton, family, along with our dad,
Departed California in a 38 Terra-plane,
His foot was as hot as his soul,
But it was our sister Ruby and not he,
Who took out the gas pump at 7 mile junction,
As they returned to Bancroft,
And to that Orchard of Gold,
Times were hard, and hearing the call.
I stayed and put a uniform on for my country,
The son of a carpenter, and grandson of a Mason,
Guided from birth by aunts as true as a level and square.
Here I stand dressed in my best ,
As my aunts constantly explained,
In their efforts to raise me properly,
Both the Whitman Girls and the Patterson Sisters,
Aunts Mae and Myrtle, most respectfully,
Never to go into the public unpresentable,
For one day, you may never know,
A photo may appear of you,
Standing before the King of Texas.
This is a tribute to a man who strived to be an example to my brothers and sisters... I alreadly have a post that discuss his shadow boxing at fish camp...entitled three dollar shirt...to have fished camp with Uncle Larry, my dad and my brothers was an experience that money cannot buy...there still is the story of the hog that kept getting in his corn--(dads prize sow)--...eventually I will write of that...It was inspired by a picture I received most recently of him standing in front of a 15 year old, uncle Larry was dressed...he always presented himself this way...standing in front of a Abbott Ranch House,the year was 1948 talking to a 15 year old William Nelson, his nephew...The 15 year cowboy became....WILLIE...thus, the title The King and I........
wanna go to heaven...
WHY MATHETICIANS, ECONOMISTS AND STATISTICIANS CAN'T GET TO HEAVEN
On the same day two 60 year olds, Edsel and Lexus are recalled and brought to the gates by the four horsemen; the first horse is a beautiful white Arabian that St. Peter comments must have been a trade acquired by Edwin Duhon from some Saudi Prince for some land in Holly Beach before Rita hit; The second was a few leopard spotted Appaloosa that St. Peter felt must have been broken by Chief Joseph himself.
Followed by the third, a mustang which must have been the one that put Buck Ramsey in the chair, and the last of the four is a scraggly, Florida cracker horse which must have been owned by Carl Sharp.
The two are delivered and placed in front of St. Peter and he begins his inquest of their lives.
The first, Edsel;
Comments that his life was spent on drink and drugs, to which St. Peter remarks that it says in the book of Genesis to take of the herbs of the fields, and that Jesus, did drank wine with the Apostles, and is given his gold card to get through the gate.
The second, Lexus;
In his inquisition by St. Peter is asked of his performance on earths terra floor; to which he remarks that his life was spent playing with some log rhythms while skewing some numbers, thus St. Peter shouts, you have broken one of the most holiest of commandments, thou shall not for not cate...The statistician in his most logical mind attempts to explain the method as how to skew some numbers while working with log rhythms, St. Peter becomes even more outraged charging him with blasphemy on top of the earlier charge. Thus Lexus is thrown from heaven to the fire below.
Remember, to get to heaven it is easier if you use drugs and drink, rather than to spend you life as a statistician who skew numbers or a mathaticians who plays with log rhythms.
8/12/2006
Sacred Ground
To Raven, To Raven
He sings his songs,
His calls are short,
But they do last long,
To Crow his brother,
Who flies the valley below,
High above the antelope,
And the plains Buffalo.
Doves flutter among the brush,
As does the wren and thrust,
Living off the bounty of insects,
That arive with the evening winds,
High above the peaks,
The peregrin takes flight,
Among the hilltops,
The Raven songs unflur,
While in the valley below,
Resides the Crow.
Along with the wren and thrust,
The doves flutter in the brush,
There in the evening dusk,
This is their home,
This is their sacred ground.
To watch Hank Real Bird deliver his poetry, a native of verse, is to watch the birds dance upon the ground...Rambin Jack and I were awaitin, trying to get into the room to hear Hank read,
and Hank passed us, and Jack with the tip of his hat, greeted Hank...Hank replied that he was not Hank...Jack managed to get in before me, and eventually I did get in, and was able to watch and hear Hank verse as it flew like a crow through the air...that night, in the "Upper Room", I saw Hank and approached him...I asked Hank who was that man across from him, he introduced him as his brother Henry...the trickers...the coyote...the crow brothers...Hank is the poet...Henry is the artist...and to have these two brothers play that coyote tricker on ole Jack was an opportune not to be missed...and I was caught in their trap as well...I spotted two Ravens one afternoon on the ground and thus came this piece...bless the crow and his brother....
SCARLET AND PURPLE
They rode for they were this nations rounders,
Across the plains of Kansas
And along the Tejas Llano,
And in the wake of their dust,
Bordellos rose up like violets and roses,
Aside those rounder trails,
Colors of scarlet and purple,Of blood and passion,
Heat and rain,
Filled the upper rooms,
Trail dust like winters snow,
Fell from the brims,
That hid their young brows,
And from their legs,
Removed torn deerskin and yellowdog chaps,
Scarred by mesquite and barb,
Leaving youth and innocence,
Exposed in rooms of scarlet and purple...
They mounted and rode through the night,
Herders gathering around a campfire light,
For they were this nations rounders,
Driving steers through rabbits,
And herds of the majestic buffalo,
And past tee-pees that graced the plains,
Young men whose youth fled,
And whose bodies harden as steel,
And as time fled became tired,
With rope burnt hands,
Fingers wrapped in pain,
That good Irish whiskey could not end,
For they were the youth,
Rounders for the nation,
There upon Kansas plains,
And the Llano of Tejas,
Whose pain was comforted,
In rooms of scarlet and purple.
One of the real few that I have admired in my life, was the late great George Smith of Sebastopol, who built a turn of the centuryactual town behind his house, in his apple orchard; having acquired set design skills from working on sets in/for Hollywood as a young man, and his last project on this GeorgeTown... in our last visit together...discussed his final project...was the corner bar and bordello upstairs....he both became in later years a Sonoma County Fair Director...I trust that it was not he that took all of Willies Tickets which caused Willie to tell the Fair Board c.1976--- to take the Fair and shove it...but greatly as well, created a most beautiful campus at SSU, taking a bare piece of seed field and landscaped it beyond belief...
8/10/2006
Three Dollar Shirt
T'was on Sunday he sat, there upon the pew,
In his three dollar shirt, for in his youth,
He was known as "the Kingfish",
His brother was a shadow boxer,
Who danced about the light,
Of the river campfire night,
While my brothers and me,
Tried to sleep, while fighting mosquitoes,
There under the netting, watching and listening,
To these two brothers tell their tales,
There upon the banks of Bowl Slough...
The week before, he saddled his horse,
And rode into the river bottom,
Bringing back A fine hog,
And tied behind his saddle,
Were six shoats in two gunny sacks,
For to town he did take,
And sold down at Saturdays barn,
Returning with flour, salt n' soda,
Nor a cent was spent on whiskey,
Or playing a game of cards,
But he did buy himself a three dollar shirt,
Which he wore tis Sunday day...
Remarks were quietly made,
As he entered the church,
Saying that he looks just like Huey P.,
When Huey came through this land...
Huey P. came and stood,
There on that charred pine stump,
They said was burnt by the Pentecost,
When lighting struck on a sunny day,
Huey P. preached from that stump,
And sounded like a coon hound,
Who had treed a coon,
And telling that coon, you may be higher than me,
But eventually, you will want a persimmon,
I will stay here and bay,
Until you come down from that tree.
We sat upon the wagon of cane, and bags of peanuts,
And after he had finished, and came to visit us all,
We offered Huey P. some,
He said that he took not from the poor farmer,
But if you vote for me,
I will take from Standard Oil,
He was there too,
Listening to Huey P.,
Standing by the Pentecostal stump,
But today, he sits quietly in his pew,
In his three dollar shirt,
And as always, at request time,
He sings in his piney woods cowboy voice,
There in that three dollar shirt,
Just a closer walk with thee,
Oh Jesus, hear this cowboy plea...
This was inspired by a man who I grew up with, and around the 8th grade, he dropped out, as did several of the men who I grew up with...I and one other man stayed the twelve year course, having picked up another one in our sixth year, a year older than us...This man dropped out from harassment over his $3 dollar shirts...His father was a logger and employed as many as he could...He eventually, I learned got his GED, and got into college...His conversation inspired me...There were many of us there in those classrooms with $3 dollar shirts...Many had home made flour sack shirts...My baptism shirt I cherished...One of the few cloth shirts I ever owned...The real value in anyone is the internal value....This I learned in my Economist education...And the best education is from the village that you came from....from story tellers who had a message to deliver...
In his three dollar shirt, for in his youth,
He was known as "the Kingfish",
His brother was a shadow boxer,
Who danced about the light,
Of the river campfire night,
While my brothers and me,
Tried to sleep, while fighting mosquitoes,
There under the netting, watching and listening,
To these two brothers tell their tales,
There upon the banks of Bowl Slough...
The week before, he saddled his horse,
And rode into the river bottom,
Bringing back A fine hog,
And tied behind his saddle,
Were six shoats in two gunny sacks,
For to town he did take,
And sold down at Saturdays barn,
Returning with flour, salt n' soda,
Nor a cent was spent on whiskey,
Or playing a game of cards,
But he did buy himself a three dollar shirt,
Which he wore tis Sunday day...
Remarks were quietly made,
As he entered the church,
Saying that he looks just like Huey P.,
When Huey came through this land...
Huey P. came and stood,
There on that charred pine stump,
They said was burnt by the Pentecost,
When lighting struck on a sunny day,
Huey P. preached from that stump,
And sounded like a coon hound,
Who had treed a coon,
And telling that coon, you may be higher than me,
But eventually, you will want a persimmon,
I will stay here and bay,
Until you come down from that tree.
We sat upon the wagon of cane, and bags of peanuts,
And after he had finished, and came to visit us all,
We offered Huey P. some,
He said that he took not from the poor farmer,
But if you vote for me,
I will take from Standard Oil,
He was there too,
Listening to Huey P.,
Standing by the Pentecostal stump,
But today, he sits quietly in his pew,
In his three dollar shirt,
And as always, at request time,
He sings in his piney woods cowboy voice,
There in that three dollar shirt,
Just a closer walk with thee,
Oh Jesus, hear this cowboy plea...
This was inspired by a man who I grew up with, and around the 8th grade, he dropped out, as did several of the men who I grew up with...I and one other man stayed the twelve year course, having picked up another one in our sixth year, a year older than us...This man dropped out from harassment over his $3 dollar shirts...His father was a logger and employed as many as he could...He eventually, I learned got his GED, and got into college...His conversation inspired me...There were many of us there in those classrooms with $3 dollar shirts...Many had home made flour sack shirts...My baptism shirt I cherished...One of the few cloth shirts I ever owned...The real value in anyone is the internal value....This I learned in my Economist education...And the best education is from the village that you came from....from story tellers who had a message to deliver...
She Was Just An Old Woman
To some, she was just an old woman,
others had an everlasting love for her,
whose spirit was both stern and compassionate,
to those that she guarded and delivered.
Her yard was always swept,
with borders of blooms,
and at her porch's edge,
grew her masterpiece,
where the rainwaters dripped.
Her labors of love,
over quilts and patched jeans,
a trade she fulfilled,
while sitting in her porch rocker,
with her incantations of job.
To some, she was just an old woman,
others had an everlasting name love for her
they knew that the name she carried,
was but an earthly passing...
I read this a number of years back in Elko, at one of my first readings, much like the late Montana poet, who met me outside Colorado Springs where I read, commented me on the piece that I read there...Skinny Rowland...Skinny had a saying that he wrote to forget, not to remember. ..I liked this honestly of the late Montanan Cowboy...And to honored by such a great American meant much to me...I write not to remember but to get that "stuff' out of my head...Again, the year that I read this piece, after I had left the room at the Elko Convention center, there stood the great-sober...-the old horse doctor himself...baster black... He commented on this verse, and to have received such an acknowledgement was if Faulkner, Hemingway, or other greats had posed their positive thoughts......One nite at the upper room above the Stockmans Cansino before he got hitched up behind the plow again...baster was leaning up against the wall with his chair, there in the corner, fearful that if he moved his recliner would collapse...I would dare not to call him intoxicated, but I felt that he was securing that wall whereas it would not fall upon us...Reclined with such balance...Ian would might say that the cowboys gets drunk and the muse places his lyrics in balance....
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