RAMBLIN'

I'm old and

it's getting late;

still up, but

who can blame me?

Outside, under these

juicy Texas stars,

the wind's gone still,

and the animals too;

except for Goldie,

who trots back and forth

along the fence to stop

and snort at old Coyote

out by the road.

The last of my bourbon

is warm and makes a nice

swirl in the glass like the

sky-wheel over my head.

Terry died a while back,

a Renaissance cowboy,

man-o-man, could he play

those blues! Roped, branded

did day-work; built saddles,

too. He was a man, one like

they used to make westerns

about. My best friend...

I dumped his ashes off an

overlook into the Palo Duro.

He rests easy on the side

of that cliff where, if I close

my eyes, I can hear him, 

"Down in the Alley just

you an’ me, we’ll have a

party till half pas’ three...”

This cold wind tunnels

under my jacket and

reaches for my bones. Two

more sips and I’ll head in.

On the horizon there is an

outlaw gang of clouds

making a run to the east,

taking turns with bolts of

blue bullets., saving their

twisters for when they get

to Oklahoma.

My room is empty, and

my bed, too, since Alice

ran off, the owl she painted

on that piece of old barn-wood,

a reminder of younger days.

Those icy winter nights, her long

thigh against mine when the fire

would die so in the morning our

breath would hang like smoke

above our heads, just like

it does tonight.

Reviews

[Lorry]

Isn't it a pity that we wait for age to start our thoughts rambling and only find how comfortable a fit it is, instead of all that energy we wasted in our youth.
I'm not saying all of it was a complete waste, but maybe if when we were young we had listened to the old 'uns, we could have slowed our roll a little and taken in more of what is abundant around us and never ran around like blue arsed flies thinking we could run til we dropped.
As you ponder all, I see you have learned the most valuable lesson there is, to park your a*s and enjoy being, while thinking of those now gone.
I wonder if any of the now generations wish they were cowboys, once they stop being kids and using fingers as guns.
Or do they all just hope to be middle management in coffee houses now?
It's only when you're old you can get away with saying sentences like the next one, but I truly do despair for those young uns! 😊

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"Alice doesn't live here anymore" but her memory does...and the singing cowboy...
you create a real mood here, Vol.
The last of the bourbon, the last of the old singing cowboys...and all of the celebrities I grew up with, one after another are passing...Tina Turner, Ed Ames...who's next?
j.

[Vol]

Jake,
I’m with you man!
Even though I recognize there were many injustices in the times of our youth, there was much to recommend them as well. Things seemed to operate based on logic; we were able to trust out authorities, and loved our country, but not our government. Our culture was building on a deeper level of thought, just look at the serious political speeches and movies of the thirties, forties and fifties, compared to the cotton candy of today. The trouble is, you can never go home, because it ain't there,,,
We were contemporaries of Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Tolkien; Camus, Sartre, and Baldwin; Picasso, Dali, and O’Keefe; Frost, Sandburg, and Bukowski. Who is alive today that can hold a candle to any of these? I have a professor friend who says we are the last literary generation, and I can see no reason to argue…
End of rant.
Vol

[Vol]

Jake,
I’m with you man!
Even though I recognize there were many injustices in the times of our youth, there was much to recommend them as well. Things seemed to operate based on logic; we were able to trust out authorities, and loved our country, but not our government. Our culture was building on a deeper level of thought, just look at the serious political speeches and movies of the thirties, forties and fifties, compared to the cotton candy of today. The trouble is, you can never go home, because it ain't there,,,
We were contemporaries of Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Tolkien; Camus, Sartre, and Baldwin; Picasso, Dali, and O’Keefe; Frost, Sandburg, and Bukowski. Who is alive today that can hold a candle to any of these? I have a professor friend who says we are the last literary generation, and I can see no reason to argue…
End of rant.
Vol