From a high branch of the live oak,
the squirrel chatters and turns,
its derriere to the blueheeler,
who in frustration, chases the cat,
the cat chases the rooster,
and the ducks, donald and daisy,
get into the fray, after the po' rooster.
He in desperation, being a manic,
chases the hens who,
having been romanced by the rooster,
stagger, sway and stumble,
into the "hen house to lay",
becoming engaged in their hen house cackleing,
comparing mental notes about,
"this rooster and that".
OH, this one "he has that certain peck",
and how I just totally collapse,
and fall to my knees,
when he gets near me,
when he struts about the barnyard,
adoring, awaiting that peck.
And, amid this barnyard ramble,
I arise and steal their laid product,
taking to the feed store,
returning with feed,
the piney big top circus begins again.
Viewing from a chair,
whose frame is about to decompose,
there 'neath a 40 year old oak,
being both relaxed and de-stressed,
far better than a 5th of Whiskey.
I can then upright and walk,
there into the house,
provided that I do not,
step on the tail of a feline,
sphinx, mostly, coon and danser,
who await at my feet.
If, by chance I do,
I then will become serenaded,
by the feline choir,
of the Full Gospel Sanctified Feline Church,
while the rooster crows,
with his rigorous amens,
it's with a most great appreciation,
of the piney big top circus,
that I just seen.
10/07/2009
7/03/2009
Island In The Sabine
Waters flow all about,
both sides, carrying its passage,
down to the Gulf,
Trees of ancients stand most bold,
upon both shores,
as I, a solitude Island,
stand in this midst,
an ancient grove of mixed trees,
as those that navigate both sides,
have often stop for the night, to sleep,
to fish upon my banks,
to gather thoughts as they rest.
As days breaks upon the eastern shore,
Niblett's Landing,
the rested set to travel,
further up this stream,
that flows so mighty,
whose mighty current,
carrying those pines, cypresses,
fallen to build,
cities upon those grass prairies,
and I, this island,
am the only keeper of the secrets,
shared around the circle of light of night,
of those that slept beneath, the trees.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I will forever keep your secret,
as where you place your gold,
far, far away from those that sought,
those you helped their liberty,
now, they sent out searchers for you,
your usage immediately expired.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I welcomed you upon my muddy banks,
for rest, rest for those that dared,
and as you, casted as an undesirable,
constantly in chase, for they wanted,
no more than your bounty, your head,
to claim that they were the just,
and your efforts were just a pirate.
both sides, carrying its passage,
down to the Gulf,
Trees of ancients stand most bold,
upon both shores,
as I, a solitude Island,
stand in this midst,
an ancient grove of mixed trees,
as those that navigate both sides,
have often stop for the night, to sleep,
to fish upon my banks,
to gather thoughts as they rest.
As days breaks upon the eastern shore,
Niblett's Landing,
the rested set to travel,
further up this stream,
that flows so mighty,
whose mighty current,
carrying those pines, cypresses,
fallen to build,
cities upon those grass prairies,
and I, this island,
am the only keeper of the secrets,
shared around the circle of light of night,
of those that slept beneath, the trees.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I will forever keep your secret,
as where you place your gold,
far, far away from those that sought,
those you helped their liberty,
now, they sent out searchers for you,
your usage immediately expired.
OH Lafitte, OH Lafitte,
I welcomed you upon my muddy banks,
for rest, rest for those that dared,
and as you, casted as an undesirable,
constantly in chase, for they wanted,
no more than your bounty, your head,
to claim that they were the just,
and your efforts were just a pirate.
3/04/2009
Caffertys' Fire
As stories of long have been told,
of youths rounders searching for gold,
taking trails westward,
some as prospectors, others
working as hands on the W “Z”,
Long Bar, or the Double Diamond,
some emblem, to place by their epitaph,
of their time, spent on the land.
We were a true crew of hands,
gathering at the Blood Bucket,
there upon Virginia City's hill,
with Mildred at the bar,
so much like Ms Kitty,
as rowdy as a crew,
as she handled at the “Branch”.
Rodger Dale, drifted across the plains,
stories told he had came from Lou Ana,
not in search of gold,
but to escape some hanging,
for his battle over a Redbone Girl,
at some border town bar.
She was a true beauty,
who sat with luring eyes,
with her skirt pulled above the knee,
and left hand placed gracefully on her thigh,
and the hands of Mo Mans Land,
could not resist taking her for a “dance”,
and possible even a chance.
Some French man, with a knife,
filled with cheap whiskey,
approached Rodger Dale,
one Saturday night,
threated to take his life,
spurting that “she” was his girl,
and was going to take her for a whirl.
Roger said just meet me outside,
where he pulled a gun,
and two shots fired,
the Frenchman fell into the mud,
and Rodger sped off in his truck,
never stopping till he got across Texas,
and working westward until he got to the Bucket.
It was at the bucket,
where we hands gathered round,
Rodger would take his chew,
and when Ms Mildred's back was turned,
challenged the crew that he could ring,
the cash drawer with a direct hit.
Mildred tired of his antics,
did bring to town,
a pastors plate,
and with the wink of an eye,
caught the hit,
telling Rodger, oh, not I.
After abundant cash was accumulated,
I headed for the famed Sonoma Hills,
building a milking farm,
and hiring hands from a far,
to automatic milk,
before the days light had a start.
An old injury
did come back around,
from a bad bronco, and luck,
this is life, and its value,
sometimes are not measured,
in British pounds.
As aches, keep me late in bed,
grateful of the “dairy” and the wealth,
that it gives forth,
with my wife having long been gone,
I have my blue heeler,
to keep me warm,
and those memories up in Virginia City,
and wonder of Cafferty and his outcome.
I have heard that he ended up in the Big City,
driving with four on the floor,
and a fifth under the seat,
it all caught up with him,
the Big City was not,
as charming as Reno,
for now some newscaster on CNN.
What of Mildred,
and where is she these days,
for it is told,
she took the accumulation,
there upon the pastors plate,
one final Saturday night,
returned it to Rodge Dales' face.
Turning saying boys,
I am retiring,
removing her apron,
walking out of their lives,
and some said she got a job,
over at the Mustang Ranch,
others told of seeing her in Vegas,
spinning fools dice around.
There are always those who would play,
thinking those snake eyes,
would tumble on every roll,
Mildred would earn her take,
As she reached out with her “rake”.
Rounders are always standing round,
telling tales of youth whose times spent,
but some never knew Ms Mildred,
Roger Dale or Cafferty with his fifth,
there upon that old ford floor,
when these hands Ms Mildred
would cry out, bar the door.
These were quite a crew,
that gather with Ms. Mildred,
once a week, on payday nights,
now long, to return to that life,
but those days are now gone,
its only memories that bring comfort,
as aches take over our bones.
of youths rounders searching for gold,
taking trails westward,
some as prospectors, others
working as hands on the W “Z”,
Long Bar, or the Double Diamond,
some emblem, to place by their epitaph,
of their time, spent on the land.
We were a true crew of hands,
gathering at the Blood Bucket,
there upon Virginia City's hill,
with Mildred at the bar,
so much like Ms Kitty,
as rowdy as a crew,
as she handled at the “Branch”.
Rodger Dale, drifted across the plains,
stories told he had came from Lou Ana,
not in search of gold,
but to escape some hanging,
for his battle over a Redbone Girl,
at some border town bar.
She was a true beauty,
who sat with luring eyes,
with her skirt pulled above the knee,
and left hand placed gracefully on her thigh,
and the hands of Mo Mans Land,
could not resist taking her for a “dance”,
and possible even a chance.
Some French man, with a knife,
filled with cheap whiskey,
approached Rodger Dale,
one Saturday night,
threated to take his life,
spurting that “she” was his girl,
and was going to take her for a whirl.
Roger said just meet me outside,
where he pulled a gun,
and two shots fired,
the Frenchman fell into the mud,
and Rodger sped off in his truck,
never stopping till he got across Texas,
and working westward until he got to the Bucket.
It was at the bucket,
where we hands gathered round,
Rodger would take his chew,
and when Ms Mildred's back was turned,
challenged the crew that he could ring,
the cash drawer with a direct hit.
Mildred tired of his antics,
did bring to town,
a pastors plate,
and with the wink of an eye,
caught the hit,
telling Rodger, oh, not I.
After abundant cash was accumulated,
I headed for the famed Sonoma Hills,
building a milking farm,
and hiring hands from a far,
to automatic milk,
before the days light had a start.
An old injury
did come back around,
from a bad bronco, and luck,
this is life, and its value,
sometimes are not measured,
in British pounds.
As aches, keep me late in bed,
grateful of the “dairy” and the wealth,
that it gives forth,
with my wife having long been gone,
I have my blue heeler,
to keep me warm,
and those memories up in Virginia City,
and wonder of Cafferty and his outcome.
I have heard that he ended up in the Big City,
driving with four on the floor,
and a fifth under the seat,
it all caught up with him,
the Big City was not,
as charming as Reno,
for now some newscaster on CNN.
What of Mildred,
and where is she these days,
for it is told,
she took the accumulation,
there upon the pastors plate,
one final Saturday night,
returned it to Rodge Dales' face.
Turning saying boys,
I am retiring,
removing her apron,
walking out of their lives,
and some said she got a job,
over at the Mustang Ranch,
others told of seeing her in Vegas,
spinning fools dice around.
There are always those who would play,
thinking those snake eyes,
would tumble on every roll,
Mildred would earn her take,
As she reached out with her “rake”.
Rounders are always standing round,
telling tales of youth whose times spent,
but some never knew Ms Mildred,
Roger Dale or Cafferty with his fifth,
there upon that old ford floor,
when these hands Ms Mildred
would cry out, bar the door.
These were quite a crew,
that gather with Ms. Mildred,
once a week, on payday nights,
now long, to return to that life,
but those days are now gone,
its only memories that bring comfort,
as aches take over our bones.
1/19/2009
Frank Gerald Foster
It is of these woods,
that my life's seeds were sown,
amid the evergreen pines,
who embraces the rare,
thou not indifferent,
fallen of snow.
Mighty oaks, barren as the fields,
whose harvest has been gathered,
and into the cribs stored,
for both famine and feast,
joyful of the latter,
dreadful of the former.
The poetic wolf,
comes scratch at the door,
as the creek brook,
itself has gone bare,
and no rabbits trapped,
in the snare are to be found.
Oaks, mighty as our souls,
reach out their tentacles,
to touch the sod below,
as squirrels scout about their storehouses,
amid the fallen branches for nuts,
in these hills of red clay.
A circle of evergreen pines,
thru the brown grass paint a masterpiece,
that no human eye could,
capture in lyric form,
ants whose red mounds fortresses,
retreat until the return of Springs warmth.
It is of this land,
and into these woods,
that my seeds were sown,
and that my ashes taken,
to merge, to be reborn,
in the light of that new morn.
that my life's seeds were sown,
amid the evergreen pines,
who embraces the rare,
thou not indifferent,
fallen of snow.
Mighty oaks, barren as the fields,
whose harvest has been gathered,
and into the cribs stored,
for both famine and feast,
joyful of the latter,
dreadful of the former.
The poetic wolf,
comes scratch at the door,
as the creek brook,
itself has gone bare,
and no rabbits trapped,
in the snare are to be found.
Oaks, mighty as our souls,
reach out their tentacles,
to touch the sod below,
as squirrels scout about their storehouses,
amid the fallen branches for nuts,
in these hills of red clay.
A circle of evergreen pines,
thru the brown grass paint a masterpiece,
that no human eye could,
capture in lyric form,
ants whose red mounds fortresses,
retreat until the return of Springs warmth.
It is of this land,
and into these woods,
that my seeds were sown,
and that my ashes taken,
to merge, to be reborn,
in the light of that new morn.
1/03/2009
THE MUSCADINE VINE TWISTS
JUST GRAB A VINE, COIL IT INTO A RIALTA, CLINCH YOUR SADDLE, PUT YOUR MUD BOOTS INTO THE STIRRUPS, THROW YOU HANDS HIGH AND RIDE, RIDE, RIDE
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