Pale Rider

I changed the title from The Forth Horseman, to Pale Rider when I learned that DLP had used it previously.

The snow was on the mountain

When he took his ride to town.

The moon was coming out as

The sun was going down.

He had his collar up to

Brave the cold hard wind this night

But nothing could protect him

From the battles or the light.

 

T’was a hard trail from Missouri

To the West in ‘69

Wagon trains carried settlers,

Dreams too strong for dying.

They crossed the deep green river on

Rafts they made of wood,

Built strong prairie schooners from

The banks where shade trees stood.

 

They dreamed of golden nuggets

Lying bare in sparkling sand

Waiting to be gathered in

A worn out blistered hand.

They crossed the snowcapped Rockies

And braved Death Valley’s heat,

And buried their weakened loved ones

In the sands beneath their feet.

 

They found themselves in Bodie

Amidst the miners who

Had found their Él Dorado

In the hills washed through the slough.

Their father had sought his fortune

In this town up in the hills

His promise was to send for them

When a strike would pay the bills.

 

He came this night for vengeance

For the daughter and the son

Who’d been taken by the evil ones,

The devil’s deeds they’d done.

The dapple grey, a strong beast

Standing seventeen five at post

Was fearless in his carriage,

He was agile as a ghost

 

It bore the scars of battle

From many a hard fought fight

Now carried a pale rider,

Ascended this moonlit night.

Four shoes forged of silver, and

Slobber chains of gold,

Never stopping, charging forward,

Moon shadows growing old.

 

He found the two who took his child,

His lovely daughter, Nell

They were cowering in the dark

In their own pathetic hell.

Loathsome in their depravity,

Manifesting of the mark

The darker side of humanity,

Its demons they do hark.

 

Their time has come; his will be done,

For this he could be made,

To foul their flesh with certain death

And stain the Spanish blade.

The Belduque flashed, a scream let out

And laying on the ground

Was the manhood of the men

And no blood was ever found.

 

He left the Grey to finish them

As he made his way through town

Searching for the others who

Had beaten his brave son down.

Lingering at the entrance

Behind the swinging doors

They laid in wait like cowards,

Drinking with their w****s.

 

The time of reckoning upon them,

This minute was their last

He pulled the Colt and felt the jolt

Of the bullets from his past.

The blood was pouring from his chest;

He thought his night was done,

When the Colt belched fire on the pyre

Of men who’d thought they won.

 

The headman was the last man

To stand against the night

He braved the cold and truth be told

He knew he’d win this fight.

The father staggered forward,

His life’s blood growing cold

The dawn would soon be breaking

And his soul was growing old.

 

He stood before the headman,

Who was smiling in the dim,

He knew this night was over

And he’d soon be through with him.

The father dropped his pistol

As it fired its last shot

His quirt lashed out and took the head

That fate had not forgot.

 

Bodie is now a ghost town

Up in the Sierra hills

Where tourists wander and look about

Where bad men once made kills.

If you chance to go there;

Be sure your life’s in order           

For the cemetery’s open and

has room for one more boarder.

Author's Note

Bodie was a wild west boom town in northern California whose gold strike in the 1870's attracted many dangerous scoundrels. They were known as the Bad Men of Bodie.

Reviews

[Lady B]

Love, love, love the way you presented this poem visions traveled alone with each line and verse
great powerful write thanks for sharing and thanks for comment on my poem as well.

[Clayton Bardwell]

Thank you B. I sometimes worry that it might be too dark.

[Relic]

An excellent poem. It's clear you took a great deal of careful effort to accomplish this. Great work.

[Clayton Bardwell]

Relic! You're back. Yeah, dude, that's good to see.

Thanks

[Relic]

You're welcome Clayton.

[Rachelle]

Wordsmith! Now you've got me curious about American history...

BTW, we, too, were under Spain for about 400 years....part of the Galleon Trade... and lots of gold here, too. Prehistoric records suggest that even slaves owned gold and even children during the pre-Hispanic era could identify the quality of gold just by looking at a piece. Lots of gold that funded Spain during the period came from my country.

[Clayton Bardwell]

That is most interesting! I didn't know the Philippines was rich in gold or that it was plundered by Spain. I'd like to read up on that. Is there a particular book that would help.

[Rachelle]

Don't really know if it's available in the West. Local history books. Will look for one and scan.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I think this is the best format for storytelling in the form of poetry. I was held enraptured from beginning to end. It's a wonderful storyline with a beautifully fluid grace.

[Clayton Bardwell]

What a pleasure it is to find you here upon this lonely page and to read your lovely words.

[Clayton Bardwell]

I love the fact to read through your eyes my friend, and to be back for the 10th time on your poem, to let it fully land in my Dutch brain. You brought me there, I saw a little story, movie through well spelled poetry, and that's an art. This is so detailed, and you did much effort to make it real in this, I needed more time to review. I'm glad I've saved your piece, for I always come back, even if it takes a while.

I think personally it's a shame, that such good writers as you, don't get what they deserve, and from my point of view, I will ever support.

You made me travel, go back into the history of America, a thing we yearn for in Europe, a thing, we don't learn in all details, (because our own history has priority) which I dissagree. For I think each and ever past moments, need to be spread. This is truly a gem, and I'm happy to have read it. Thank you my friend.

- Elisa

[Clayton Bardwell]

And what a lovely brain it is. I forget that not everyone reads from the same perspective as an American. I must go to Europe some day and visit my roots.

But today we go to Bodie. My grandson is coming to visit. He is three next month. He will love it.

Thanks for taking the time and effort to make a wonderful review.

Your work is beautiful Clayton... it was my pleasure to be here. - Elisa