Paul Zarzyski
THE HORSEMAN, THE POET, THE CODE, THE HORSESizing up each other’s hearts, and caught
off guard by ripples of their own
reflections, the poet reveres the horseman
as high priest, the horseman beholds
the poet as wizard. In the round pen
with a gentle colt, the trinity of hearts
beats most lovingly because, with love,
nobody becomes the broken. They delight in the flying
lead change of fresh blood, fresh words,
circulating within horse, within horseman and poet,
within this circular cowboy universe
where no two boot heels or hooves – like stars,
like snowflakes or meteorites
or the blacksmith’s hammer striking hot iron –
have ever fallen with the same grace,
gravity, fervor, and force
exactly to the same circle. The two men agree that,
for strangers, they agree much
too eagerly. And then, wide-eyed, again
in harmony, they nod to the synchronized wisdom
of their mentors – Hugo, Dorrance – showing them how
it’s you feeling the horse, the poem,
and the poem, the horse, feeling you.
The horseman hands the poet an old bridle – worn
Jeremiah Watt bit and braided reins
he cowboyed with in five states. The poet
hands the horseman a thin book of works
he wrote between rodeos he rode in one-dream
three-bar towns. Seldom has either man known
an adios so slow. In unison they turn
toward the round corral, sudden wind
imitating the sound of wings. Angels – some say
ranahan angels, disguised as fresh western air,
will perch the circle of top rails. Hands still
clasped in their long good-bye,
horseman and poet come full-circle
to this message, to A Blessing, to friendship
lit at the withers between earth and sky.for Randy Rieman
from: All This Way For The Short Ride: Roughstock Sonnets
PUTTING THE RODEO TRY INTO COWBOY POETRYLet’s begin with the wildest landscape, space
inhabited by far more of them
than our own kind and, yes, we are talking
other hearts, other stars. Fall in love with all
that is new born – universe, seedling, dawn,
human, foal, calf. Love equally
the seasons, know each sky has meaning,
winter-out the big lonesomes, the endless
horizons our hopes sink beyond
once every minute, sometimes
seeming to never rise
again for air or light,
for life. Fall madly in love
with earth’s fickle ways. Heed
hard the cosmos cues, the most
miniscule pulsings, subtle nods – no heavy-
handed tap or poke, nothing muscular,
no near-death truths revealed, no telephone
or siren screaming us out of sleep
at 3 a.m. Forget revelation.
Forgive religion. Let’s believe instead in song
birds or Pegasus, the only angels
we’ll ever need. Erase for good
inspiration from our Random Bunk-
House Dictionaries, from our petty heads
and pretty ambitions. Poetry is not
the grace or blessing we pray for – Poetry
is the Goddess for whom
we croon. Sing and surely we shall see
how she loves our music in any key –
any color, any creed, any race, any breed. Rhyme
if the muse or mood moves us
to do so. Go slow. Walk
then trot, lope then rock
and roll for even a split second, our souls
in the thundergust middle, the whole
world suddenly getting western,
pitching a tizzy fit, our horses
come uncorked – just as we were
seriously beginning to think
we savvied the salty? To believe we could
ever turn the stampede,
like steers, into a milling
circle? Into a civil gathering of words?In Memory of Buck Ramsey
from: Wolf Tracks on the Welcome Mat