-- In memory of Buck Ramsey
Let'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 the big lonesomes, the endless
horizons our hopes sink beyond
once every minute, sometimes
seeming never to rise
again for air or light,
for life. Fall madly in love
with the earth's fickle ways. Heed
hard the cosmos cues, the most
minuscule 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
bird, 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 middle
of the whole storming world
getting western, throwing a tizzy fit,
our horses come-uncorked, just
as we were beginning to seriously think
we could turn the stampeding
words into a calm
milling herd of steers?
Paul Zarzyski
More cowboy poetry here.
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