Buffalo Chips: A Collection of Western Poems

With sticks and flags and other gags, he brought the horse to terms, Defying wild traditions, and humbly he confirms: Last time I tried to salve the pride I'd nurtured through the years: That outlaw spawn was sudden gone—my teeth locked on his ears! Bob woke to fervent terror: Each tense, relentless moment increased a growing fright.

He displayed signs of madness, attempting to jerk free. With bowing neck, he arched his back, whipped head from side-to-side. What flitted through the woodlands—too quick for eyes to see? Had loose horses, bear or Sasquatch destroyed tranquility? This life's been a grand undertaking On a long and a tortuous trail; Emotions and dreams kept us floating Like ships breaking waves at full sail.

We've partaken of visual wonders Watched the trout rise to harvest a fly — While mountains — shaken by thunder — Flashed neon 'neath lightning-framed sky We've thrilled at the elk's lusty whistle Marveled at spots on a fawn; Then, quick as a shot from a pistol: These symbols of freedom were gone. We've rigged a team in dray trappings, Sowed joy from a buckboard behind, Motivated by multitudes clapping, In response to old ballads aligned. We've sought for the fruits of the forest — These ravaged and gutted by man, Whose intentions — not always the purest, Embrace his municipal plan.

We've seen sections of lush vegetation — Which loss we may never atone, Yield to a civilization Its asphalt, skyscrapers and stone. Ox wagons, once truly symbolic A vestige of migrations west, Wore wheels that preceded the frolic of autos man soon would possess.

Songs Written in Delicate sonnets, Harmonized in a warm hearted swoon, Emphasized a pure life on the planet — While rockets raced up to the moon. We've seen the invincible humbled, Our century three quarters gone, From the full bloom of youth we have stumbled And still times march presses on. Now fanatics die by the legion; They call this, "Allegiance to God," Others leap to defend each his region; It's the righteous who bloody the rod! It's peculiar, the road we have traveled, And, no doubt, we'd transverse it again.

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Do not bolt as the world comes unraveled, But, drive on, for great goodness remains. Bill was shifting, more like drifting from the sea of normalcy, Both a loner and a groaner to a frightening degree: Bad to talk to, he could shock you, cause a horrible melee, Looking for that youthful fountain, he escaped into the mountains To pour fuel upon his fire of misery, But he only floated faster, toward complete disaster and pure demented lunacy. Life alone with horse and cattle kept his mind in constant battle And he never seemed to vary from the course. Just to watch himself while shaving would set "Mad Bill" to raving; He might spook whole herds of cattle and his horse.

He approached his mirror glaring at the Dude inside it staring, Building hatred which grew daily worse and worse. Volatile his mind corrosion, it forewarned schizoid explosion With sudden and electrifying force. Such the state of his delusion, maniacal his confusion— He was surely on a self-destructive bent. His hand was badly shaking; there was certain no mistaking As he laid the deadly pistol to his head. Before when Bill was stable he chuckled at the fable: He would exit on a round of smoking lead.

His finger slowly tightened; he felt somewhat enlightened, Full-intending he would put himself away. It might be a moment longer, for his will was growing stronger, Facing final trip—returning to the clay. He'd spend fifty years in prison if he took a life like hisn, But he didn't feel that crazy in the head.

With each moment looming bigger, he just couldn't pull the trigger And join those ghostly figures from the dead. Bill was treading slippery ice well prepared to pay the price And write the final chapter to his ride. He had, it did appear, sought to save his skinny rear, As death in final moments he denied. Flocks of buzzards floating over forebode the calling clover, But gourmet luncheon? Bill those birds defied. Though hunger each had shown, Bill could satisfy his own And still retain possession of his hide.

Then one day we found Bill dead with a bullet in his head. His passing marked the finish to my rhymes. The boys broke down and cried when they found how Bill had died; He'd missed that shot a dozen other times. Sammy Flynn, an old rodeo buddy, and I were reminiscing a while back and the questionable whereabouts of such a fellow we once knew—back when—came up. This poem, we decided, could well be true! We've called him Quick Ride Robbins since he popped onto the earth; That's what his Pappy named him, he was premature at birth.

He fell out of his bassinette, rolled down a million stairs; His Mom decided early: He'd best learn to say his prayers.

Category: Americana - Cowboy Songs, Poetry, Humor

To fall off in the arena one must clear the bucking chutes, That was difficult for Quick Ride, he would fall out of his boots. He'd tumble off a sidewalk and he'd fall out of his car; He fell off every bar stool hoisting butts at Curley's bar. If he heard a whistle blowing—from the tanbark usually— He'd pop the pupils from his eye balls looking for a referee. Expressed in bar room lingo—as often cowboys did— Were loudly voiced opinions: He'd fall off of the chute gate—often earlier than late. He couldn't ride a mattress for the total count of eight.

He'd fall off of his foretops if you turned him up side down; It seemed to fit his calling: But he'd send the horse hair flying if "three fingers" passed his breast— Enshrined in satin shirt sleeves with no witness to attest. While propped against a wet bar with a glass in either hand He would rowel the rankest critters to have grazed the western land.

This story is actually a very true to life rendition brought to mind by two people it most closely exemplifies. An unusual attachment connected brothers three: They practiced vocal surges some called "ventriloquy. These lads were mischief-makers full of boyish deviltry, Hell-bent, they sported roguish smiles not borne of gallantry. Quick were the boys to heed the call, their talents to devote, When next weeks college rodeo fell short one contest goat. Goat-tier's choice is here defined, just so you'll understand.

The voiced demands of Jills and Jans came straight from Disneyland: Forgive the guys, their sparkling eyes, the smirk upon each face, Who seemed acutely eager to lead the merry chase. They canvassed stock-commission yards-Spokane to Lewiston; Here and there they skipped a pen, all in the name of fun. The cold Clearwater River hid a diamond in the rough, Where scores of goats thrived on an isle, perhaps one had the stuff To make the girls all happy-their choice had been defined: They sought to have a "Lady Goat" with manners well refined.

A rubber raft should fill the bill, but we must plan it right; It's blacker than the ace out there, we'll figure on tonight! Just let them paddle their canoe and steal their own damned goat. Did you agree to paint its lips? What's happened to your mind? Why don't you manicure its nails and powder its behind? If you need help to see this through go find yourself a fool.

On second thought, lets get it on, I'm growing bored with school. This well may be, in history, the first time it's been done. It ain't like we were stealing goats we'll take the Nanny back; For most, it's their first rodeo, let's cut the girls some slack! Come night two booted buccaneers procured a two-man raft To consummate the mission, for the want of larger craft. When at the pinnacle of night they eased her to the drink, In spite of all the air inside the raft began to sink.

The grand success they plotted and the search just set upon. Two men alone must man the boat or weight would sink the pawn. Necessity may fail to bear the fruit of man's intent. Lead him to shot gun tactics which clear thinking could prevent. When cargo threatened overload, the facts were there to note: One of these three to stage the coup must push or tow the boat!

Jake's furrowed brow looked puzzled-how? There, big John, Who swims just like a dolphin when the mackerel rise to spawn. Use rope and pad John's flannel shirt for harness, that should make. He'll tug the craft with Joe and Jake atop its boiling wake. John balked then more defiant than a booted alley cat; So Jake tried subtle coaxing used by slick-tongue bureaucrats. Sense of reason did not tell John he might provide the thrust And the more Jake pled and reasoned why the louder Johnny cussed. John seemed at last to weaken, then responded with a nod, And By God you shoulda seen him when that water hit his bod.

Roaring like a cougar why he set a record pace. Splashing trout from out the water with a grimace on his face! Ah sweet success, to tell it straight, the boys were feeling grand When John full-filled his mission and they trod upon dry land, Abandoning the anger, which in John might surface yet, Those three with trusty lariats fanned out to form a net.

They combed that bushy island in a nearly fruitless bid, To find but granny nannies suckled by their bleating kids The dawn was fast approaching, there remained one glaring fact: They formed a council circle, like Apaches planning war, When, "Damn", growled John, "We've carried this a bit too blasted far! The girls earned straight up treatment-so responding to their rights— We'd better find a Billy Goat that snorts and hooks and fights!

Look, ripping up that willow root But thrice before they tripped him he'd bowled Johnny to the ground. By luck and perseverance, with a willow travois, They skidded Billy to the raft, by then their odor's gross! Looks like a Texas Longhorn, he's a foot between the eyes. I'm guessing, as he lies there, he'll stand nearly thirteen hands. Don't look for me to tow him back, for I have other plans. John cut loose Billy's bindings, and, also facing north; He cast his voice to resonate for all that he was worth.

There echoed 'cross the valley a lonesome nanny's bleat, To inspire in Bill a passion expectant of a treat. As he gazed across the river, a shudder wracked his form, Then leaping into water he defied the standing norm. When Billy bowed his neck against the tension of the rope He ripped the tub from dry-dock with a speed exceeding hope. Goat-wranglers three performing like a relay's final heat Just barely caught the raft in time to gain a frothy seat. They skimmed across the waters so to reach the northern shore With Billy still increasing stride in hope that he could score.

Respective of his effort rose the ground held once before, There Billy found dry footing and the fight was on once more. Billy's quest for distant ridges and a lover there to view Was derailed by rocky outcrops not spaced to let him through. As swains before in loss of love had floundered thus distraught, Billy wilted in submission like he'd been belly-shot.

His weakness temporary left in play the battleground, For Billy was responding with a vigor quite profound. He'd turned the lust for romance to a fight for liberty; He fought a gallant battle for the right to remain free. Before "Sweet Billy" once again lay tethered on the ground The fumes that rose above him wilted flowers yards around.

No mild restraint subdued him-education claimed the tab— They laid him low with chloroform hooked from a college lab. Ungrateful were the ladies for the "Star" the boys possessed. Before the contest ended, it's a fact: Wranglers, bra's and panties found a clothes-line on his horn, A bright festoon of lingerie his rapier to adorn. The girls rode bravely forward-as six hundred to the death— Bill upended all their horses and he took away their breath. He quivered with excitement, but he held the battle ground, Sent the judge to greener pastures-his flag was never found!

Billy bounced along the stairway, storming the announcer's stand, As if he'd scaled a rocky ridge and topped the Tetons Grand! He silenced the announcer, when he ripped apart the sound, Then he flipped him from his bulwark and he flung him to the ground. When, charging to the rescue both the pickup riders flew, Why Billie upped the anti-he'd a score to settle too— He ducked their singing lariats, set horses in a skid. He'd learned to handle ropers when he was just a kid. He plowed into the beer stand, foaming cans and bottles flew, Then he stood his ground among them, while lapping up the brew.

Thirst led there to his downfall, trussed inside the Rambler's trunk, He'd have never lost the battle if he hadn't gotten drunk! They shuttled Bill to Lewiston, his home range, once again. How sad it was to leave him, still hung over and in pain. Again resisting water, 'til the vibe's came from the south, He heard the call to romance-from Johnny's artful mouth. It's true, but unacknowledged: In the goat tie Bill placed first, The three who had purloined him weren't expelled, just soundly cursed. Their rider's glory was split upon the ground. Goat tiers tied for second, 'cause that has a better sound!

Bob told us, "This is based on reality.

Insert New Record:

Howard Harris, John Holt and I did make a trip by rubber raft, we did apprehend a goat and we did return it. Its owners probably never dreamed they owned a rodeo star. This occurred in the s. Some parts of the story may be incorrectly stated as per detail-Lets attribute it to the light spots in my memory.

Don't stories often get better with each telling? Santa Comes Calvin' and Christmas posted with Holiday poems. When we started the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in , Bob Schild was one of a handful of poets who came to recite poems about rodeo. I've always admired anyone who attempts to capture in language something that defies language. Rodeo is not easily put into words. Rodeo is full of emotion -- fear and courage.

Rodeo is visual -- full of kinetic action. Rodeo is historical -- anyone involved in rodeo is full of stories about the past, about the characters and calamities that chronicle the sport. Besides the power of his poems, two things stick out about that first encounter with Bob Schild. I asked him why he learned cowboy poetry. Remember, this was long before cowboy poetry became popular. Few cowboy poets had published books and this was before there were scores of cowboy poetry events to perform at. Bob told me he and his buddies learned poems to keep each other awake on those long all-night drives between rodeos.

I loved that foundation of poetry appreciation. The old poems were not learned to impress anyone. Their function was just part of life, staying awake. The other thing Bob told me, which always struck with me, is how when he writes a poem his main attention is to "getting it right. What does it take to get a poem right? I know that if you could catalog the ingredients of what Bob does to get a poem right you would have captured the qualities of his poetry.

A partial list might include: Bob is true to the memory of his friends and to the experiences they shared. His poems reflect the past as accurately as possible. Bob has lived the life, "first hand. Though it takes digging deep in the soul, Bob finds words to express the emotions of a life lived on the line. Bob chooses a full range of experiences to express in poetry. His poems go from a heart wrench to a belly laugh. Bob is a craftsman. He gives the same attention to the traditional craft of rhyme and meter that he would give to the working of leather into a fine saddle.

What happened to those ninety-five percent of varieties that are lost? Did we decide that five types of apples sold in the supermarket represent the best in taste and texture? Did we not need the other types of apples? We believe because there are a hundred channels to choose from on TV that our choice is vast. We have gained many things in the past century, but what have we lost? Bob Schild is one of those rare varieties that they just don't raise anymore. His poems represent a community of rodeo and ranch life which is passing out of existence.

The community of memory I am writing about is not the fact that Bob can recite fifty poems from memory. It is that memory which Bob holds and expresses in his poetry that tells what rodeo was about when Bob won the Saddle Bronc at the N. It is the memory of traveling the professional rodeo circuit during the fifties and sixties. It is the heritage of southern Idaho. This memory is a treasure and what makes it a treasure that Bob is not stingy with that memory. He puts all his energy and talent into words, verses, and poems.

He gets it right for us. His poems have appeared in numerous anthologies including a best selling anthology I compiled in , Cowboy Poetry, a Gathering. For this collection he is joined by an old musician friend of mine who is a top hand artists and illustrator, as well. He has illustrated three other books, has made custom western paintings for Gibson Guitar Company, and his works can be found in galleries in Idaho and Montana. Preface by Bob Schild.

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The old west is gone but not deceased. It lives forever in the hearts, minds, novels and poetry of those who savor its culture and its memory. Being myself creatively, socially, and emotionally involved, as a contributing Cowboy Poet, has afforded me the opportunity to overhear and partake of the usually friendly debates on the basic whys and wherefores of Cowboy Poetry -- What constitutes a cowboy and who has a license to authoritatively represent the breed? There are, in my opinion, no justifying requirements, no limits, no rules.

Cowboy poetry of today seldom bears the scent of chuck wagon grub or the dust of a trail herd plodding from Brownsville, Texas to Browning, Montana, nor does it describe the weary thud, thud of horses' hooves on prairie sod at the close of a day's or week's long journey -- guided only by stars, mountain ranges, or river drainages. We, for the most part, are observers whose deepest roots may scarce touch upon a now faded past. Growing up on a farm livestock operation on the edge of the Fort Hall Indian Reservation, I, from my earliest recollections, have considered myself a cowboy, who has at every stage of life been affiliated with livestock people.

Educated a stockman B. Bob Schild bull riding at Nephi, Utah. I know no other life than that of the rancher, horseman, and rodeo cowboy. The language, the mannerisms, the warmth, the humility and appreciation for humor are the wonderful traits that abound in these, my truest friends! This facet of life my verse reflects. Bruce Brockett, Charles Franklin Parker. Near fine condition, a few pages have ink smudges from printing. Poems about cowboys on the trail and in town. Softcover, still paper covers with pasted-on title block in front cover. Signed by the author.

Previous owner markings on front endpaper. Very good condition, slight slant to spine, rear cover has minor scuffing and peeling. A very nice copy of a hard to find book written by a real master of western verse. Good condition, has minor bumping to spine ends and corners, front hinge is split and rear hinge is beginning to split, pages are toning. Text is bright and clean. A collection of classic poetry from the master of the craft. Many of the favorite poems written by Bruce in the 's, 30's and 40's. Hard to find this edition.

Softcover in custom made slipcase. Fair condition, cover is soiled, cover is splitting on the spine, slight slant to spine, number written on front fly, one page shows a water stain and several are a bit wavy at the bottom. Interior pages are toning, text is clear and bright. A hard to find collection of poetry written by one of the masters of the trade.

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Only copies printed. Good condition, covers are extremely brittle and have severe chipping. Interior pages have minor soiling and are toning, but text is clear. Pasted in photos, front and rear, are in good condition. The first eight poems were written while motoring through the Rockies and Sierras in the summer and fall of - fo Little Songs of Long Ago By: View more info Adding Something That a Cowboy Knows: A Photographic Essay By: A Wyoming-Idaho Sampler By: First Edition Seller ID: Very Good Softcover, 64 pages.

Poetry of the American West: These are his poems, filled with rodeo memories and humor. Signed and inscribed by author by his photo. Very Good Trade paperback. View more info Adding Petersen, Gwen;Rhodes, Jeane Price: Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce: First Edition Seller ID: Muddled Meanderings in an Outhouse By: Muddled Meanderings of Yesteryear By: Near Fine Trade paperback.

Ballads of the Great West By: Austin Fife, Alta Fife Price: Very Good Hardcover, ex-library. Rufus A Coleman Price: Good Hardcover, no DJ. Something That a Cowboy Knows: A Photographic Essay By: Rhymes on the Range: R P Smith Price: Signed by Author s Seller ID: