Get Back Up!

So are YOU invincible? I am not. And contrary to what you might believe, neither are you. So PLEASE stay home if you can. And if you can’t, protect yourself and those around you. Practice reasonable pandemic etiquette.

I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t infect you if you return the favor. Fair? Just remember, none of us is invincible. Expect the unexpected.

Beware! April is National Poetry Month. And I write poetry sometimes, so I thought I’d share one of my poems with you. Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.

I created the following poem in late 2017 and published it a year later before most folks included the word “pandemic” in their daily vocabulary–well, at least in their (our) thoughts. But this might help distract and entertain you now. Yeah, I accidentally reread it this morning and had to share… nothin’ too heavy. Promise.

Even though you might not like poetry, check it out anyway. Below you’ll see an excerpt from an anthology of poems I published early last year. I’ll be relaunching the 2nd edition of “A Narrow Painted Road” in the coming months–a collection of my best poems, original images and essays. So here we go.

Ready to “Cowboy up?”

Get Back Up 

September 9, 2018

Author’s advice: Just enjoy. Feel your own best rhythm. It’s a rather simple piece, but it’s fun figuring out the slight rhythm variations as you read. Read at least twice, hopefully once aloud and proud. Get your cowboy on. Go ahead. It’s fun (says this kid from The City). Then go palm a big apple for your favorite Dapple Gray before reading the brief essay that follows. 

A lone rider’s one reborn companion, beside
the road, is born-again pain, from just one more short ride
of another cantankerous bull. Standing tall… in
reflection near the pens, stomps a bull with a grin.
One cocky young rider hums one thin sweet memory
of his young love back home, his time drifts in reverie.

Now one thing: young riders seem dead-bull’s-eye clear:
at no time does he have much time for dark fear,
he might choose a less bumpy path, he would declare,
but to ride a desk? A real God’s-truth awful scare!

The circuit’s in his blood, like his daddy’s before.
What else would he do, could he do? And what’s more,
why would he? What could compete with the roaring
bright Sunday night lights and eight sweet ticks of glory?

Naw, bull ridin’s a blood thing, along with the rest
of the life. Drinks always free, but friendships are tested:
the hardest. Them eight seconds just ain’t enough,
but more’n that? Salt-sweaty, leathery, tough!

The time for reflection is long past, 'a course.
Cinch up, boy, ride glory, collect the damn purse.
Reachin' some sky, for that high glory catcher,
but Bull puts him down hard now, no getting up after.

This here ride’s your last, young busted-up drifter,
your sweet love will mourn you, may be grown bitter…
You’re now on the sky road, alone you still ride.
Her arena now hollow...

                                             She’s died dry inside.

Poet’s Notes:

This city kid met a cowboy poet who was also a cowboy action shooter (don’t ask… it’s fascinating, but scary). This is different planet stuff, but he inspired me to write this playful piece. And when he read it, he grinned big!

In the introductory image, I painted a rodeo competitor in watercolor stretching his (her?) sore back muscles. Faceless, but we can relate, especially if we’re well-seasoned life-riders ourselves.

BT Blade and his partner Pam are from St. George, Utah. We met at a star party, a component of the Southwest Astronomy Festival on the summit of Cedar Breaks National Monument in Southwestern Utah. The night was so very dark up there at over 10,000 feet, but the conversation shown brilliant. 

As we pursue our passions in life, there is a price to be paid. Sometimes the price is a loss of relationships, sometimes the price takes a physical or spiritual or emotional toll. We may feel we have few or no choices in life, but we always have a choice, however small. Sometimes it’s a simple matter of facing our perceived fears and conquering them. We are able to muster the courage we’ve demonstrated elsewhere in our lives. We just need to conquer our doubt. 

The story is simple. A young bull rider is good at what he does. He gets hurt and doesn’t survive his injuries, leaving his young bride behind and alone. A simple story with straightforward characters deserves a simple rhythm and rhyme structure. Toss in a bit of country vernacular, et voila! A cowboy poem in anapestic tetrameter. 

In case you’re not aware, the reference to, “eight ticks to glory” speaks to the eight seconds a competitive bull rider needs to stay astride to remain in the running for the purse. 

A few metaphors and symbols drive home a few other points. For example, “a less bumpy path” suggests a less violent and less physically punishing career. “Sweet” and “young” echoed throughout the piece symbolize youth, exuberance, and a sense of invincibility. “Alone” and “lone” heavily echoed through the poem brings sharp focus to the solitary nature of the rider’s chosen profession. “Time”symbolizes the temporal nature of our brevity on this Earth that can end when you least expect it… maybe when you’re feeling your most invincible. 

Finally, the mood journeys from hopeful, to doubtful, to dismal, even existential. But hey, most cowboy stories end badly (“hurts so good”). 

So keep on keepin’ on, brothers and sisters! And stay off that bull!

Gene