Goin' Teaux Grandma's for Christmas

Goin Teaux Grandmas for Christmas

The year was '48,
aheadin' to Grandmas for Christmas,
drivin' through the woods,
passin' those giant pines,
crossin' so many streams,
mama called them out,
all along that route,
here's the Atachafayla,
and then the wide Mississippi,
names, we could not speak,
words that made our tounges twist,
then she cried here's Puschatap creek,
her excitement showed in her cheeks,
children, we close to mama's,
oh, how it seemed it been a week.
for in a '42 Ford to Grandma's,
and how papa did drive.

Oh how our head was full of treats,
that only grandma could spread,
crossin the Huey P Long bridge,
papa sounded like a preacher,
at a piney woods pulpit,
just a talkin' about that savior,
ole Huey P, and did he speak,
mama exclaiming to papa,
lets save that sermon for next week.

There in Red Baton town,
hitting the streets,
we stopped to take a peek,
there was no time to spend,
we were herded again,
we are not piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
still mama shoved us it seems,
back into that '42 Ford,
and onto US 190,
Eastward to grandma's,
there,we were bound.

Racing through the picket gate,
like a herd of piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
running about myrtle bush,
racing up the steps,
and there stood grandpa,
upon the front stoop,
he looked so grand,
grandma's house was smellin,
the goose was acookin,
she had bowls of sweet tators,
for us to peel,
if we were to eat,
ole grandma had a deal,
we had to earn our keep.

Don't make a mess,
if you want to partake,
of this Christmas feast,
with smell of bake goose,
deep dark and sweet,
sat that pecan pie,
of Grandpa Lowe's Thanksgivings pecans,
that Grandpa had shelled,
be bragged, for over a week,
and did Grandma cook,
she was part Fornea,
loved passin' chicory coffee round,
is there more to say,
all her eating,
placed so gracefully,
upon that table round,
with her cornbread dressing,
would we make a mess,
no, not for Grandma's tables spread.

Uncle Charles and Uncle James,
gifts they did bring,
for they had just returned,
from that foreign war,
being proud of their service,
we greeted them on the porch,
with screams of excitement,
and of treasured joy,
this we could not control,
we were mere children,
with so much to behold.

After endless hours,
to us children it did seem,
we finally set upon cane woven chairs,
and how did ours eyes feast,
for this was a true spread,
Grandpa's head started to bow,
our hands settled down,
for we were no longer wild cattle,
we wanted to eat of this feast,
as grace was given,
seems like an hour,
as our taste buds quivered,
to savor on this feast.

Oh, for once again,
to travel to Grandma's,
this would be a joy,
as Grandma now,
sings in heavens choir,
instead, it's these memories,
precious and priceless in name,
ever so thankful,
of those whose table awaited,
for a herd of piney woods cattle,
to partake of this holiday feast,
everlasting memories of childhood,
these,will never cease.









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To Race Again In The Wind

It is attributed to Shaw,
that youth was wasted on the young,
to which, I have often replied,
that beauty was wasted upon women,
and can life ever give comfort,
before that final pause.

As we have seem to be idle,
youth has sped past us,
ever so swiftly,
racing like wild horses,
there in the desert wsnd,
leaving us stranded,
in a blowing sand storm,
blinded and wandering aimlessly,
as they raced, so far ahead,
clear out of our sight.

To grieve that those years,
which have long ceased to be,
departed, and we wish now,
that they could be enjoyed,
we can reflect on those good moments,
that has to be the cause,
the purpose of our wandering,
in this endless desert of life.

Alas, another flashed has gone by,
as a lighting bolt scatters,
the darkness that enveloped the night,
so quick, and with no remorse,
to see the young colts,
there racing in the Summers storm,
with trails of dust,
laughing and singing up a storm,
this, is the purpose,
of this aimless wandering,
that we have endured in our life,
race youth, race into the far distance,
our joy, is but to see the storm,
of dust that develops in your trail.

The Chant of O'Homa

How long must we walk,
this path to the sea,
tears have been
shed about our tired feet,
as promisses given,
that our journey will deliver,
us to a land of fertile valleys,
and rivers of many waters,
flowing to the sea.

O'Homa, O'Homa, we were told,
that seeds of abudance
to which we will sow,
and harvest maise and roses,
gold and red, colors do flow,
our tribal banner flies,
a reminder of those lives expired,
on this journey,and souls delivered,
promisses taken, not given,
upon barren land we are delivered,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
this is the land is our chant.

Spikes Cemetary 9/6.08

As thoughts ramble thru this ancient Sabine forest,
Of Hickory, Oak and Pine,
As kin and neighbors of long ago,
Gather upon this hallow ground,
Stories transpire over cups of coffee boiled,
Filtered thru Grandpa's last sock,
Worn thing with age, as his skin roughen,
From years spent in mule's paths,
A teamster with his team,
Harvesting Pine and Blackjack Oak,
Stopping only to fill his pockets,
With morsels of Hickory Nuts,
For our youthful tongues,
To tingle our senses of life's abundant wonder.

We this day are gathered round this communal fire,
Feeding upon someone's homemake cake,
It is of this feast we do partake,
Where once by an ancient sea,
A multitude was fed upon loaves and fishes,
Ever so grateful of this sacrifice,
This lamb, given, to give us solace,
We sit, ramble round as this Sept wind,
Whistles thru the tall pines,
Whose straws flutter and spiral down,
From the crown, as wings of quail,
Rustle from the Dogwood,
As the lamb ascends,
We, stand upon hallow ground.

Stardust Motel in Vegas !!!

Roper The Cowdog
The worlds best lookin cow dog...(Blue Heeler)...I fell into love with a beagle, followed her for three days...that mean ole cowboy took me to the doctor and took away my pride and joy...at least I did have that 8 second ride...

like a good cowboy, I put on my new Tony Lamas and then I hit the road, left her at the motel with a note, and a trophy buckle I bought from a pawn shop in Los Wages, (this she does not need to know) she was sound asleep in her dreams, and just did not want to awake her.

heard it at the VA...

Jamb'alaya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
who came and smoke wildwood flowers,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
way past the midnight hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
then in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down the Atachafayla.

Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
on the front porch, she did dance,
then layed in bed,
she sucked dem heads, by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
she took their money, called them "honey",
she got big and round,
loved going to town,
and fais do do way past the midnight hour
in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.


Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
dressed in style,went hog wild,
they gave her money,callin them honey,
them second cousins,to weak to walk,
couldn't even talk would leave her shack,
having fais do do, past the midnight hour.

Jamb,alaya, Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
they came and smoked her wildwood flower,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
and made love by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
she got big and round,
ran her traps before going to town,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.

Lisa of the Mustang

The screendoor slammed,
she gave her "mother",
her parting words,
I'm tired of these geldings,
I leaving to where,
buckaroos walk amid the sage,
and wild stallions stories are told,
its time that I depart,
having a life of my own,
away from these geldings,
to be among the sage and stallions,
it is there where I want to roam.

The road took her eastward,
thumbing truckers for a short ride,
traveling towards Winnemucca,
having heard stories,
in the trade of wild stallions,
and buckaroos among the sage,
there by the side of the road,
two long days of bad rides,
some were near suicide,
she was left at Junction.


Outside the Junction stop,
time comes to roll the dice,
with a toss in the desert sand,
is it to be Snake eyes,
or a combo pair,
choices of Elko or Los Wages,
with no winnings or even a spare,
snake eyes rolled,
and thus her road to Elko.

Knowing not what awaited her there,
amid the wild stallions,
and buckaroos who sat and composed,
these would be better she thought,
than the "geldings" she has known,
Yes, the money was good,
but with the 30 hits you,
its time for a secure roll,
and snake eyes ensured Elko.

Thumbing past Carlin,
and the gold mine in sight,
a long walk down Idaho Street,
Passing Stockmans and other places,
which she never knew,
on to the convention center,
this is where she was told to go,
and what a welcome she had,
as she walked in the door.

They invited her on the stage,
and all gathered around,
with intense ears,
the sage buckaroos who composed,
her stories were quickly told,
of her life with the geldings,
for now she was now on the road.

The road from Mustang,
was a difficult road to take,
and making it to Elko,
walking down Idaho street,
she realize that this venture,
was not a fatal mistake,
becoming a endured legend,
around campfire light all aglow,
her stories are nightly told,
with red embers and guitars,
of Lisa of the Mustang,
and her life on the road.

To Honor The Hertiage

To honor the ancestory,
of our great Scottish kin,
Jacob Neely,
who stood tall,
with precision aim,
firing his musket,
and REDCOATS fell,
most proud to have his
rebel-celtic-blood,
run true in these veins.

Come on, my dear laddies and lassies,
take down you bodram,
and rosen up your bow,
pack up your pipes,
grab your kilt,
for we shall gather round,
in this piney woods moonlight,
dancing our jig,
our celebration will last,
until mornings early light.

Without those brave hearts,
we would not have
the liberty that we enjoy today...
To Honor...To Praise...

dar marker...Neely, Jacob -- b. 1758. d. 15 July 1845, age 87. Grave located in Liberty Baptist church, 6 miles east on Highway 80, Jackson, Rankin County, Mississippi. Marked: 29 March 1953 -- Magnolia State Chapter

THE ORGIN OF THE COOLEY/COCHRAN WAR

Asa Cochran was famous fur stump break'n Cooley's ole heifer and den her turn around and with de underside of her tongue lick dee Roger pistole....sand paper blues...dats where the ya-who came frum...ya-who!!! ya-who!! Roger he did dance thru de pines with de knees a knock'n...ya-who!! ya-who!! De ole long horn bull en de woods saw him en came'a chargin; for he be a mess'n with his heifers, as well all de neighbors within ten miles would hear, and know that de Cochran kid had been stumpin again...

Ezra Cochran ran sheep...and de Cooley's in revenge would put de Cochran's sheep at pleasure, all eight of de Cooley's boys wore tall mud boots, and de feet fit fine...thus starting der war of de Cochran's en Cooley's!!! Sheep now all say cool ley, cool ley as dey drive past...en de bull he ghot big ole Cochran oysters up on his horns....they just swing as he runs about de pasture..

Lots of Cooley and Cochran blood runs thru Beauregard Parish, the flip side of Newton County Tejas......a very agricultural parish, lots of horses .and moo cows... I met a man over a year ago, at a old filling station near Kirbyville Texas who was telling me of battles the Cochran’s had with their sheep...

Oh man (Senator) Hennigan ran sheep when I was a kid...open range...lots of cotton farmers dogs got poisoned...I wrote a piece inspired by a song by Don Edwards...about the last red wolf...I have memories at school where Hennigan’s hired hands brought a red wolf in, and threw it in front of us kids, to show us the evil thing...

From a E that I sent to a friend from the Elko Crowd.

An Ode to John B.

In life there are rules,
Some simply are not for scorn,
For my eyes encounter a lost sight,
As I looked over my morning coffee,
And saw a vision of the past,
It was thou that Black Elk had spoke,
Giving me this vision to see,
One that truly separates the bulls,
From those that stands so content,
Grazing in green pastures,
With the prize heifer,
And having no earthly ability,
To distinguish what is about,
For their production quotient,
Was taken when they were quite young.

They, without genetics,
To be a producer,
Stand in absolute contentment,
As the prize bull, strolls by the fence,
Throwing his head back,
And nostrils flared,
Looking over his choices,
And lavishing in that scent,
That permeates the air,
He, truly is a bull of the woods,
Sets reading his times journal,
Or whatever presses his glasses declares,
Over a stronger brew.

Upon his dome of years spent,
Sets a crown with reminders of,
Some former president,
Who wandered from some far Texas town,
At a time when hats were most common worn,
Declaring the status of the wearer,
That they were bulls, bulls of the woods.

Across the fence, the yearling so fresh,
Graze with that absence of instincts,
Contented to be just steers,
There, grazing in pastures of plenty,
Unable to grasp the scent,
Of that heifer in need of attending,
As thus has come the condition,
As the bulls have vanished,
And the young yearling scent are spent,
With the indifference of these steers,
Grazing in pasture’s of plenty.

Louisiana had a governor,
The last one spent, wearing a crown,
For they found him running with a Blaze,
A woman of most beauty,
Whose fame was of dance and disrobing,
And he, whose bedside manners,
With boots and spurs intact,
Lay down upon that feather bed.

Through the darkness of night,
The ride was of a blaze,
Politicians became disgraced,
Of this governors case,
Disbarred him and history,
Has left us with simpletons,
To regulate our great state.

Yes, I was a youngster once,
And walked away from the Ranch,
With a cover, not realizing it was,
My fathers, who years later,
Remarked, that I had departed,
And left his head uncovered,
For this was his “John B”,
This had graced my head.

Some years earlier,
His brother, our Uncle Larry,
Chided his sons,
For sitting on his “panama”,
Reducing it to a straw pancake,
There upon his back seat,
As we rode into town in his sedan.

We knowing not what “panama meant’,
For it aided a bull of the woods,
To recognized a heifers scent,
You can take my blue suede’s,
But that which covers my head,
Blocked to redirect the rain,
And restricts where the sun hits my face,
This you can never take,
For there are those of us,
Who do graze by that fence,
In search of that scent.

We, like that bull of the woods,
Who’s morning brew,
Was as dark as the night,
Wearing that crown of glory,
From morning to night,
And such be the ode,
To John B,
Whose glory is ours,
And for it, we will fight.