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Poem for Friday

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Saddletramp

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We've got the ground covered with snow, the winds a-blowin' and calves a-comin,. I know it's sorta rushing the season with this poem but it let's us know green grass is around the corner.
This is the title poem on my second CD.

Call of the Wagon
By Marty Blocker
© 2004


The old hand finished tying his bedroll. He’d added a blanket or two.
Cause he knew that he’d be needin’ them long ‘fore the season was thru.

He warbagged his liniment and aspirin. Knowing his mettle’d be put to the test.
Once more he’d be going on roundup. He’d have to give it his best.

His cronies wondered “What are ya thinkin’? The wagons’ a young man’s game.”
The days are too long and the ground’s too hard for an old coot stoved up and lame.

Yeah, last year should have been his last one. Was it stubbornness or just pride?
That makes old dogs prove to the pups, the old-timers can still rope and ride.

Was it jinglin’ the cavvy to the rope corral or swappin’ old stories and braggin’?
Just once more, he’ll follow that sirens song, and answer the call of the wagon.

The young man slammed the tailgate gave his Mom a hug and a smile.
Shook his Dads hard callused hand it’d be the last time for awhile.

Long before school had let out he’d been huntin’ a job on a ranch.
Out West, some wagon boss somewhere was willing to give him a chance.

Long ago something turned inside him. He wanted to buckaroo.
Was it adventure or dreams that he sought, or something he had to prove.

Had no idea of what lay ahead or if he could even make a hand.
Should be careful of what you pray for, if you wanna follow a cowboy band.

He gave them plowed fields one more look, seemed like time was a laggin’.
But even then in that dusty wind he could hear the call of the wagon.

She watched him load up his saddle. She’d just got done patching his jeans.
She knew he’d be gone when calving was through, and the grass turned hard and green.

With the kids and the chores and water to watch she’d have plenty to do.
Again he promised he’d be back long before the first cuttin’ would bloom.

Ah, she knew he’d stay if she asked him, All she’d have to do is insist.
Was it ridin’ them colts or draggin’ those calves that he couldn’t resist.

Was it being amongst men of his own kind, that made him ride into the fray.
Or being out there one on one with his God, that enticed him to get away.

So she just hides a tear as she watched the little boy behind his pa’s spurs a-taggin'.
Knowing he dreamt of when he’d go with Dad and follow the call of the wagon.
 

nr

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Does this mean you've joined the old hand, Ben-Gay age group, Saddle Tramp, or are you just feeling futuristic?
Liked your poem. Keep scratching away.
 

ranchwife

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saddletramp and sw----two of the most talented poets i can think of who do not have their name in lights (such as baxter black)....keep 'em coming, saddletramp!! your writings are worth their weight in gold :D
 

Jinglebob

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Ranchwife;
Saddletramp has had his names in light. I seen 'em! And I'll bet he's a better hand than Bax too, tho I ain't never worked around stock with Baxter.
 

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