Willard

Sometimes I get to thinkin',
life, it ain't been all that good.
It should have been some easier,
And then I recollect it could

be my fate to have lived in L.A.,
Denver, Des Moines or Chicago.
Crowded in a concrete jungle,
and then I would never know

the easy gaited good feel of a horse,
breakin' into a long strided lope.
I wouldn't be knowin' horse sense savvy,
and I'd not learned to handle a rope.

I wouldn't know the satisfaction
of seeing a calf take its first meal.
I'd never known the heartache and pain,
that comes from having to deal

with sickness and death invading the herd,
to which all my hopes and plans are tied.
When all I could do just wasn't enough.
Didn't seem to matter how hard I tried.

I couldn't see the sun break over the ridge,
or smell clean earth after a summer rain.
I wouldn't have known long lonely quiet,
and I couldn't have had a chance to train

my young ones in the way of the range,
and watch each, their skills perfect.
And see them come to care for the land,
as I, with love and nurturing respect.

I couldn't lean over the corral fence,
just gazin' out across the land,
Feelin' free and mighty thankful,
and thinkin' and tryin' to understand

How folks could live all crowded up,
Like a bunch of cattle in a pen.
Seems like they'd get plumb proddy
And wanta break out, but then

I get to thinkin' that's good,
anyway far as I can see.
Folks stay packed in their cities,
it leaves more room for me.

If I'd lived in the city, I wouldn't know the pride
of a hard day's work on my own place.
And fretting about all left undone,
when I couldn't keep up the pace.

I couldn't have heard a coyote howl,
or heard a meadow lark sing.
I wouldn't have had concern for cattle,
That raging snowstorms bring.

I wouldn't have known the serenity of
watching long evening shadows change.
And challenge the heat of a summer day,
as twilight lays claim to the range.

Lost Trails
by Willard Hollopeter © 2002

I hear pots and kettles clangin',
And I hear old cookie shout,
"come and get it boys,
or I'm gonna throw it out."

We gather round the fire, sippin' coffee,
Strong, 'bout as hot as it can get.
We take our fill of breakfast,
The best I have ever et.

The kid has wrangled in the remuda,
Brought them in on a lope.
The boss steps in the rope corral,
A big loop in his rope.

The first dim light of morning
Ain't a' helpin' much,
In pickin' out his chosen mount,
In seein' color, marks and such.

His long twine snags the horse
Out of the others, bunched and turnin'.
He grins and says "Get mounted boys,
Lets move out, daylight's burnin'".

Each man ropes a horse
From his allotted string.
We saddle them and mount,
Then the spurs begin to sing.

The chilly mornin's makin" "em hump.
those ponies ain't wantin' to be rode.
They do some pretty fair buckin'
But nary a cowboy gets throwd.

The boss leads out on the circle
To gather in the cattle that day.
And I figure when I hit my soogan,
I'll sure enough have earned my pay.

I was born some too late,
To know if I Had what it took
To fill the boots of those old cowboys
I read about in western books.

But I can dream of bein' in
This picture in my mind.
A scene from out of the past,
Just a 'travelin' back in time.