The Apache chief and his braves that day
On a hunt for meat had ridden away.
Waiting their return from wherever they'd been
Were the women, children and a few old men.
They soon decided it might be good
To forage around for food and wood.
They left their camp for a near by hill
Feeling sure their baskets they soon could fill.
there were hackberries, squawberries and cactus fruit, sweet.
There were nuts from buck brush and beans from mesquite.
At the foot of the hill was a sandy space.
They could dig wild onions and let the kids race.
At the edge of the space was a cliff steep and sheer.
And the children were warned not to go too near.
And then their happiness changed to fear,
As the thud of hoof beats they now could hear.
Then warriors from an enemy tribe appeared.
A ruthless group which they greatly feared.
Their intent was to capture and make them slaves
While unprotected by their own chief and brave.
They were crowded at once to the edge of the bluff.
Jostled by horses and all treated rough.
The warriors shouting with tomahawks raised,
Making loud threats and with evil crazed.
The victims know their escape was naught,
So they made a decision in one quick thought.
With babes in arms and hand in hand,
Over they leaped, this brave little band.
Shocked and subdued were the warriors then.
How could they boast of being brave men.
In shame they mounted and rode away,
Thwarted by women more brave than they.
Women whose freedom was loved so much
That life without it was worthless as such.
They preferred to go to their deaths and graves,
Than give up and be captured and tortured as slaves.
So down, down they would plunging go
And be dashed to bits on the rocks below.
The earth was enriched where the bodies were strewn
And the place seemed to glow in the light of the moon.
And some folks say, that to this day,
The wild flowers bloom more brightly in May.
And the spirits return to hover and weep
O'er the spot where those fell from "Apache Leap."
Showing posts with label The West. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The West. Show all posts
Don't Cry, Little Indian
Shy little Indian child, don't cry.
With dear, sweet face and shining eye.
Your family loves you that is true,
Your foster family loves you, too.
It's sad from native haunts to part,
Your eyes are windows of your heart.
But soon the time will fly away
and you'll be happy every day.
You left your home a plan to serve.
We laud your courage and your nerve.
You left your plains and winter snow,
The winds that whisper as they blow.
The weather with it's sudden squalls,
The echo of your canyon walls.
The flocks of sheep and goats that roam,
The faithful horses near your home.
So live with us and while you're here,
Have purpose, greater that your fear.
You'll go to school and learn our ways,
To help you live in future days.
The best we have we'll give to you,
The best you have, you'll give us too.
You keep the culture of your hills,
We'll add new culture and new skills.
Yes stay with us and while you stay,
May God protect you every day.
And as you slumber through the night,
May dreams be brought by angel flight.
We're glad you've come our lives to share,
and add your brightness everywhere.
We'll all be happy, bye and bye,
So brave little Indian child, don't cry.
With dear, sweet face and shining eye.
Your family loves you that is true,
Your foster family loves you, too.
It's sad from native haunts to part,
Your eyes are windows of your heart.
But soon the time will fly away
and you'll be happy every day.
You left your home a plan to serve.
We laud your courage and your nerve.
You left your plains and winter snow,
The winds that whisper as they blow.
The weather with it's sudden squalls,
The echo of your canyon walls.
The flocks of sheep and goats that roam,
The faithful horses near your home.
So live with us and while you're here,
Have purpose, greater that your fear.
You'll go to school and learn our ways,
To help you live in future days.
The best we have we'll give to you,
The best you have, you'll give us too.
You keep the culture of your hills,
We'll add new culture and new skills.
Yes stay with us and while you stay,
May God protect you every day.
And as you slumber through the night,
May dreams be brought by angel flight.
We're glad you've come our lives to share,
and add your brightness everywhere.
We'll all be happy, bye and bye,
So brave little Indian child, don't cry.
Windmill
Windmill standing on the plains,
To supplement the meager rains,
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
It's useful purpose still remains.
For thirsty horses, cows and sheep,
From a well of water cool and deep,
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
Full tanks and troughs it serves to keep.
No fuel needed for this friend,
Just a squirt of oil and a little wind.
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
It toils and labors without end.
No smoke, or fallout, fills the air.
No foul emissions anywhere.
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
It serves it's purpose without care.
And after all is said and done,
It's partly how the west was won.
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
A symbol of life excelled by none.
To supplement the meager rains,
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
It's useful purpose still remains.
For thirsty horses, cows and sheep,
From a well of water cool and deep,
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
Full tanks and troughs it serves to keep.
No fuel needed for this friend,
Just a squirt of oil and a little wind.
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
It toils and labors without end.
No smoke, or fallout, fills the air.
No foul emissions anywhere.
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
It serves it's purpose without care.
And after all is said and done,
It's partly how the west was won.
With a clank and a whirr, a squeak and a purr,
A symbol of life excelled by none.
Call Of The West
New England's hills are bright in fall,
With color spreading over all.
The leaves put forth their gay display,
E're winter comes to have it's way.
But solitude you fail to find,
So trodden over with mankind.
So many folks who live near by,
Where'ere you look they meet your eye.
The eastern cities large and grand,
Their crowded hulks spread o'er the land,
Will make you stand in awe and sigh,
Their buildings almost reach the sky.
With man-made spires of snowy white,
And man-made lights that gleam all night.
With man-made strife and man-made joys,
Man-made filth and man-made noise.
To some it beckons loud and strong.
They love to be amid the throng.
So there they go to spend their days,
With city folks and city ways.
For me a different call I hear.
A soft breeze brings it to my ear.
It whispers of a starlit night,
A sunny day that's clear and bright.
A fine shade tree, a clean cool stream,
Where I might sit and think and dream.
A rugged peak that i might scale
And watch an eagle soar and sail.
Give me a land that's broad and grand
With boundless scenes on every hand.
And time and space enough, I know,
For me and all who come and go.
A friendly face, a western drawl
That greets me with a, "Hi, you all!"
So keep the east, give me the west,
I like the way God did it best.
With color spreading over all.
The leaves put forth their gay display,
E're winter comes to have it's way.
But solitude you fail to find,
So trodden over with mankind.
So many folks who live near by,
Where'ere you look they meet your eye.
The eastern cities large and grand,
Their crowded hulks spread o'er the land,
Will make you stand in awe and sigh,
Their buildings almost reach the sky.
With man-made spires of snowy white,
And man-made lights that gleam all night.
With man-made strife and man-made joys,
Man-made filth and man-made noise.
To some it beckons loud and strong.
They love to be amid the throng.
So there they go to spend their days,
With city folks and city ways.
For me a different call I hear.
A soft breeze brings it to my ear.
It whispers of a starlit night,
A sunny day that's clear and bright.
A fine shade tree, a clean cool stream,
Where I might sit and think and dream.
A rugged peak that i might scale
And watch an eagle soar and sail.
Give me a land that's broad and grand
With boundless scenes on every hand.
And time and space enough, I know,
For me and all who come and go.
A friendly face, a western drawl
That greets me with a, "Hi, you all!"
So keep the east, give me the west,
I like the way God did it best.
The Pony Express
Wanted: slim youths, who would like good pay.
Willing to risk death, most every day.
Good riders and brave, who can give their own word.
No close family ties and orphans preferred.
The venture was planned by men of means,
Who wanted more wealth to stuff in their jeans.
St. Joseph Missouri, the last mail post.
By sea it took weeks to reach the west coast.
A horse, day and night, while running full speed,
Should cover the distance as quick as they'd need.
With stations in place to draw a fresh mount,
On maintaining top speed, they felt they could count.
Each rider with mail bag strapped in place,
Not sparing his hose, o'er the plains would race.
In just a few days the mail could go
To Frisco Town, from Old St. Jo.
The riders' response was quick to come.
Exciting most folks and surprising some.
The planners would deem it a sign of success.
They called their venture "The Pony Express."
Some of the riders, for pay and for thrill,
The pages of history books later would fill.
Buffalo Bill and "Wild Bill" Hickok,
Who later at the door of fame would knock.
But Billy Tate is the one I would cheer,
Escaped from an orphanage, for a career.
Age fourteen and not very tall,
he was the youngest to answer the call.
Galloping swiftly over a rise,
A sickening sight was his surprise.
For crossing his path that very day,
A war party, fierce, was on its way.
Into their midst his horse would bound,
The warriors gathering all around.
oh, what a wicked trick of fate,
Their faces streaked with paint and hate.
The seized his horse and off he'd slide.
Rush to the ricks, he'd soon decide.
Arrows hissed and shots rang out,
With clattering hoof and warrior shout.
Then all was quiet, on that day,
As clamor and hoof beats faded away.
The night would come so soft and clear.
The night birds called -- no one to hear.
Then early on another day,
The searchers found him where he lay.
His pistol empty on the ground,
His rifle minus just one round.
The warriors deigned that Bill should die,
But seven braves lay dead nearby.
The searchers sobbed, to tears they hid,
While gathering up this spunky kid.
From east to west the railroad spanned.
To close the link across the land.
No more the pony express would ride
To deliver the mail with courage and pride.
This fragment of history, vivid and brief,
Pilfers your thoughts like a wily thief.
Intriguing me most, I will confess,
Are the stories told of the Pony Express.
Willing to risk death, most every day.
Good riders and brave, who can give their own word.
No close family ties and orphans preferred.
The venture was planned by men of means,
Who wanted more wealth to stuff in their jeans.
St. Joseph Missouri, the last mail post.
By sea it took weeks to reach the west coast.
A horse, day and night, while running full speed,
Should cover the distance as quick as they'd need.
With stations in place to draw a fresh mount,
On maintaining top speed, they felt they could count.
Each rider with mail bag strapped in place,
Not sparing his hose, o'er the plains would race.
In just a few days the mail could go
To Frisco Town, from Old St. Jo.
The riders' response was quick to come.
Exciting most folks and surprising some.
The planners would deem it a sign of success.
They called their venture "The Pony Express."
Some of the riders, for pay and for thrill,
The pages of history books later would fill.
Buffalo Bill and "Wild Bill" Hickok,
Who later at the door of fame would knock.
But Billy Tate is the one I would cheer,
Escaped from an orphanage, for a career.
Age fourteen and not very tall,
he was the youngest to answer the call.
Galloping swiftly over a rise,
A sickening sight was his surprise.
For crossing his path that very day,
A war party, fierce, was on its way.
Into their midst his horse would bound,
The warriors gathering all around.
oh, what a wicked trick of fate,
Their faces streaked with paint and hate.
The seized his horse and off he'd slide.
Rush to the ricks, he'd soon decide.
Arrows hissed and shots rang out,
With clattering hoof and warrior shout.
Then all was quiet, on that day,
As clamor and hoof beats faded away.
The night would come so soft and clear.
The night birds called -- no one to hear.
Then early on another day,
The searchers found him where he lay.
His pistol empty on the ground,
His rifle minus just one round.
The warriors deigned that Bill should die,
But seven braves lay dead nearby.
The searchers sobbed, to tears they hid,
While gathering up this spunky kid.
From east to west the railroad spanned.
To close the link across the land.
No more the pony express would ride
To deliver the mail with courage and pride.
This fragment of history, vivid and brief,
Pilfers your thoughts like a wily thief.
Intriguing me most, I will confess,
Are the stories told of the Pony Express.
Geronimo
In southwest wilds long years ago
The sound that chilled the people so
With thoughts of terror, death and woe
Was this dread name -- Geronimo.
He loathed both Mexican and white
And blamed them for his people's plight.
And vowing all these wrongs he'd right
He pledged to wage and endless fight.
With millions spent to have him caught
By U.S. troops his capture sought.
The way this crafty demon fought
Would bring their efforts all to naught.
He'd skip across the rugged land
While followed by his little band
Of loyal friends always at hand
To raid and plunder on command.
Their horses, although seldom shod,
Were tough, and o'er the rocks they'd trod.
And though they longed for turf and sod
On mountain slopes they had to plod.
High on a peak in one such flight
He turned to find if he could sight
Pursuers that he thought just might
Be from the raid the previous night.
His fierce eyes raked the scene below
And there he spied the hated foe.
A scathing oath he muttered low
Then through clenched teeth he hissed, "Let's go."
His faithful squaw was great with child
And should have had a pace more mild.
Yet knowing she might be reviled
She rode beside her mate so wild.
Then in a more secluded spot
She bore a handsome black-eyed tot,
And minutes later on the trot
Astride her horse, she murmured not.
Oft times in custody but still
Each time was of his own free will.
He'd slip in from a nearby hill
When he was ready, not until.
Though prison walls he came to know
Ere it was time for him to go.
The men who sought will always know
They never caught Geronimo.
The sound that chilled the people so
With thoughts of terror, death and woe
Was this dread name -- Geronimo.
He loathed both Mexican and white
And blamed them for his people's plight.
And vowing all these wrongs he'd right
He pledged to wage and endless fight.
With millions spent to have him caught
By U.S. troops his capture sought.
The way this crafty demon fought
Would bring their efforts all to naught.
He'd skip across the rugged land
While followed by his little band
Of loyal friends always at hand
To raid and plunder on command.
Their horses, although seldom shod,
Were tough, and o'er the rocks they'd trod.
And though they longed for turf and sod
On mountain slopes they had to plod.
High on a peak in one such flight
He turned to find if he could sight
Pursuers that he thought just might
Be from the raid the previous night.
His fierce eyes raked the scene below
And there he spied the hated foe.
A scathing oath he muttered low
Then through clenched teeth he hissed, "Let's go."
His faithful squaw was great with child
And should have had a pace more mild.
Yet knowing she might be reviled
She rode beside her mate so wild.
Then in a more secluded spot
She bore a handsome black-eyed tot,
And minutes later on the trot
Astride her horse, she murmured not.
Oft times in custody but still
Each time was of his own free will.
He'd slip in from a nearby hill
When he was ready, not until.
Though prison walls he came to know
Ere it was time for him to go.
The men who sought will always know
They never caught Geronimo.
The Remnant
I was ridin' the range just lookin' around,
For some long eared calves I thought could be found,
When out of the brush lookin' wicked and mean
Came the biggest old bull that I'd ever seen.
He was broad in the shoulders and broad in the hips
And his big long horns had sharp pointed tips.
He was rugged and tall, standin' there in the sun;
No brands and no marks, he belonged to no one.
I slipped off my horse and tightened the cinch,
I had to be ready in case of a pinch.
I mounted back up and took down my line,
In a few minutes more, that bull would be mine.
I'd slap a quick loop right over his horns,
Then give him a flip in the bushes and thorns,
And before he got up to give me a fight
I'd grab his old feet and tie him down tight.
Then I'd kindle a fire, and with hot iron in hand
Across his old hip, I would write my own brand.
I would whip out my knife, put my mark on his ears;
That bull would be mine for the rest of his years.
Well, I spurred my old horse - started whirlin' my rope
And the bull took off in a powerful lope.
With his tail in the air that beast really blew.
But my horse was fast and my throw was true.
I lassoed his horns like I said I would,
Now I'd give him a flip as quick as I could.
But the cinches broke and the saddle flew
And right in the middle was you know who.
The rope came loose when we hit the ground,
It caught my arm and went round and round.
The slack came taught and away I did zoom,
I figured right then I was meetin' my doom.
Then that mangy old brute started changin' his mind,
He resented me trailin' so close in behind.
So he whirled right around and began coming back
And I freed my arm quick when the rope became slack.
He lowered his head and he started for me,
But thanks to my luck, I was near a big tree.
No time to climb up, so I jumped in behind,
And he thundered on by - he was chargin' me blind.
A number of times he charged with a rush
And then disappeared through the trees and the brush.
Now I really don't know who his owner might be
But I'll tell you for certain, it sure isn't me.
For some long eared calves I thought could be found,
When out of the brush lookin' wicked and mean
Came the biggest old bull that I'd ever seen.
He was broad in the shoulders and broad in the hips
And his big long horns had sharp pointed tips.
He was rugged and tall, standin' there in the sun;
No brands and no marks, he belonged to no one.
I slipped off my horse and tightened the cinch,
I had to be ready in case of a pinch.
I mounted back up and took down my line,
In a few minutes more, that bull would be mine.
I'd slap a quick loop right over his horns,
Then give him a flip in the bushes and thorns,
And before he got up to give me a fight
I'd grab his old feet and tie him down tight.
Then I'd kindle a fire, and with hot iron in hand
Across his old hip, I would write my own brand.
I would whip out my knife, put my mark on his ears;
That bull would be mine for the rest of his years.
Well, I spurred my old horse - started whirlin' my rope
And the bull took off in a powerful lope.
With his tail in the air that beast really blew.
But my horse was fast and my throw was true.
I lassoed his horns like I said I would,
Now I'd give him a flip as quick as I could.
But the cinches broke and the saddle flew
And right in the middle was you know who.
The rope came loose when we hit the ground,
It caught my arm and went round and round.
The slack came taught and away I did zoom,
I figured right then I was meetin' my doom.
Then that mangy old brute started changin' his mind,
He resented me trailin' so close in behind.
So he whirled right around and began coming back
And I freed my arm quick when the rope became slack.
He lowered his head and he started for me,
But thanks to my luck, I was near a big tree.
No time to climb up, so I jumped in behind,
And he thundered on by - he was chargin' me blind.
A number of times he charged with a rush
And then disappeared through the trees and the brush.
Now I really don't know who his owner might be
But I'll tell you for certain, it sure isn't me.
Ghost Town
Green and fresh, the hills around,
The sky is blue, it's always new.
Raise you eyes and in the distance
Snow capped peaks loom into view.
But the ghost town's old and weathered.
Crumbling shacks all in a row.
All that's left is bones of buildings
That have died long years ago.
Here and there a board that dangles,
One more swing before it drops.
All about are cupping shingles,
As they cling to bleeched roof tops.
Now the night has spread its blanket
And the air is cool and sweet.
Close your eyes and listen briefly
To the sounds along the street.
There's a hustle, there's a rustle,
Is it sounds of shuffling feet?
And a distant violin
That's playing music soft and sweet?
Do we hear the sound of people?
Is the town alive at last?
No, it's just the evening breeze
That whispers stories of the past.
Just how long 'till all is rotted?
Every plank and every door.
Just how long? Perhaps forever,
'Till the ghost town is no more.
The sky is blue, it's always new.
Raise you eyes and in the distance
Snow capped peaks loom into view.
But the ghost town's old and weathered.
Crumbling shacks all in a row.
All that's left is bones of buildings
That have died long years ago.
Here and there a board that dangles,
One more swing before it drops.
All about are cupping shingles,
As they cling to bleeched roof tops.
Now the night has spread its blanket
And the air is cool and sweet.
Close your eyes and listen briefly
To the sounds along the street.
There's a hustle, there's a rustle,
Is it sounds of shuffling feet?
And a distant violin
That's playing music soft and sweet?
Do we hear the sound of people?
Is the town alive at last?
No, it's just the evening breeze
That whispers stories of the past.
Just how long 'till all is rotted?
Every plank and every door.
Just how long? Perhaps forever,
'Till the ghost town is no more.
Monument Valley
You are driving on one of Arizona's many scenic routes and the sign says "Monument Valley." You take a quick glance off to the right and what you see is breathtaking. Suddenly you seem to be in a different world. You are struck with a desire to further study this place.
At the first opportunity you pull off the highway and park. You walk to the right-of-way fence and stand facing an enormous flat valley. Mostly bare, it has stretches of smooth sand and broken pieces of rock scattered around, a few gullies winding along, grooved there by summer torrents of rain and melting snows of spring. The edges of these gullies are sparsely lined with small bushes and delicately colored flowers, all in good tast to blend with the surroundings.
Standing about on the floor of this valley are many majestic monuments of stone, impressive in their heights and casting dark shadows at their feet. Some of these monuments are placed far apart and stand alone. Others are closer together and some are in groups. THey all stand aloof like giants and seem to say, "This land is ours and reverence is required here." They have been sculpured by the hands of nature, which hands alone possess the skill and force to handle the tools required to accomplish such a task. The tools are time, patience, raindrops, snowflakes, freezing nights in winter, sun parched days in summer, wind and time--time--patience and time.
Then to yourself you say, "So this is Monument Valley?" You turn to leave and then you stop. Enchantment draws you back to view once more the scene that captures you. You stand in awe, your senses all alert and eager to grasp and savor the sweet silent of that moment.
At the first opportunity you pull off the highway and park. You walk to the right-of-way fence and stand facing an enormous flat valley. Mostly bare, it has stretches of smooth sand and broken pieces of rock scattered around, a few gullies winding along, grooved there by summer torrents of rain and melting snows of spring. The edges of these gullies are sparsely lined with small bushes and delicately colored flowers, all in good tast to blend with the surroundings.
Standing about on the floor of this valley are many majestic monuments of stone, impressive in their heights and casting dark shadows at their feet. Some of these monuments are placed far apart and stand alone. Others are closer together and some are in groups. THey all stand aloof like giants and seem to say, "This land is ours and reverence is required here." They have been sculpured by the hands of nature, which hands alone possess the skill and force to handle the tools required to accomplish such a task. The tools are time, patience, raindrops, snowflakes, freezing nights in winter, sun parched days in summer, wind and time--time--patience and time.
Then to yourself you say, "So this is Monument Valley?" You turn to leave and then you stop. Enchantment draws you back to view once more the scene that captures you. You stand in awe, your senses all alert and eager to grasp and savor the sweet silent of that moment.