Heartspun Dreamscape: Doc Dale Hayes

PROFESSOR & COWBOY POET

Dr. Dale Hayes passed away on April 22, 2020, at the age of 82

years. We were honored to have him write on our blog back then

and I preserved some of his work, though I could not retrieve

all of it because social media blocked me from saving it. He was

a fine and talented gentleman I enjoyed talking to many times

after he contacted me to share his poetry. Rest In Peace. The video above is in memory of Doc.

He was survived by wife Eva and children, Lorinda, Heather, Jason, Justin, and their families.

Nesbitt, Manitoba, Canada

Way back when, he tried rodeoing for a while but a blindbucker convinced him he was a school teacher and since those many years ago his non-job focus has been on studying and recording tales of the cowboy way. He came by his love of western storytelling and cowboy poetry as a result of sitting in on bunk house bull sessions in Northern Arizona back in the late ’40s.

"Doc" Hayes is a professor at a public university in Manitoba, Canada. He runs a small grazing operation for cattle of relatives and neighbors back in the bush near Nesbitt, Manitoba and, each year travels to different gatherings and poetry festivals around North America. Way back when, he tried rodeoing for a while but a blindbucker convinced him he was a school teacher and so since those many years ago his non-job focus has been on studying and recording tales of the cowboy way. He came by his love of western storytelling and cowboy poetry as a result of sitting in on bunk house bull sessions in Northern Arizona back in the late '40s. For over forty years he has collected cowboy stories and remembrances of Canadian and American cowboys that often serve as a basis for his poetry. He has had several books of poetry, academic and western, published and his recent cd-rom Conversations With an Old Horse is made up of his own original poetry and several selected stories of the "Old West," backed up by several good traditional western musicians.

Dale “Doc” Hayes – Cowboy Poet

Dale “Doc” Hayes
Brandon, Manitoba
Phone 204-725-2215
URL: www.dochayes.org
Email: dochayes@wcgwave.ca

Happily retired now, “Doc” Hayes was a professor at a public university in Manitoba, Canada. He also ran a small grazing operation of cattle in the bush near Nesbitt, Manitoba. With more time to focus on his poetry and writing, “Doc” continues to travel to different gatherings and poetry festivals around North America.

Way back when, he tried rodeoing for a while but a blindbucker convinced him he was a school teacher and since then his focus has been on studying and recording tales of the cowboy way. He came by his love of western storytelling and cowboy poetry as a result of sitting in on bunk house bull sessions in Northern Arizona back in the late ’40s.

For over forty years he has collected cowboy stories and remembrances of Canadian and American cowboys that often serve as a basis for his poetry. He has had several books of poetry published and two CDs made up of his own original poetry. “Doc” Hayes has spoken at over 400 educational and organizational training and motivational meetings.

He has been featured at many of the major western gatherings in both Canada and the United States. “Doc” is the producer and host of the Brandon Cowboy Poetry Gathering and the Canadian Cowboy Christmas. He has been featured on both regional and national television shows on Cowboy Poetry. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets and the Academy of Western Artists.

Accuracy in the Medium

"He said he was a cowboy poet and I guess he looked the part.

He walked the walk and he talked the talk,

'Cause when he recited it came from down deep in the heart.

He thrilled the crowds and gloried in the thunderous applause,

Whether he was roping the bear or pulling the thorn out of the cougar's claws.

He excelled at heading the herd and doing all that

While his wild rag flapped in the wind and he waved his Stetson hat.

He was "cowboyed up" and he swore he could put the bacon in the pan.

I believed him until I heard him orating on

About the renegade steer that was untouched by human hand!"

permission before using a poem in any form.

The Day Old Ned Learned to Fly

It was a hot August, late summer, 1899,
and things on the 2BarH were going right fine.
My father was a young feller just pushing nine years
And getting his first learning about horses and steers.
The 2BarH, truth be told, was more farm than ranch
As grandpa ploughed 400 acres on Codeaway Branch.
That Saturday afternoon, grandma was using a wooden spoon
To stir up an apple pie when grandpa shouted, pointing up to the sky,
As it turned black and a roaring twister touched down
And where outhouse had stood was just a hole in the ground.
2 hired hands, six kids, grandpa and wife in the storm cellar
listening to the big whirlwind rip, snort, shreik, and beller.
My Dad put his eye to a crack in the storm cellar door
to watch the barn fly away leaving nothing but plank floor.
In the corral, riding horses and the Percherons Nell and Ned
Had watched the storm a coming with terror and dread.
Old Ned, a placid, gentle fellow weighing up near a ton,
Had got kind of owly when he saw what the twister had done
And started off at a Percheron trot when the wind made a decision
To pick him up gently and with studied simple precision
Teach Old Ned the basics of introductory flight.
First it was level flying and then gentle turns to the right.
As he made a trip around what had been barnyard,
With the wind keeping it simple, nothing really hard,
And then came basics of rapid ascent and up Old Ned went
Like a bottle rocket as gently he spun in the tornado's pocket.
The twister observin' closely how well Ned had done
Next taught him spins and a hundred feet off the ground he spun.
Then with practiced ease that twisted ornery wind
Decided that it was about time for the lesson's end
But first Old Ned needed to learn about acrobatic flight
So a simple barrel roll, a loop the loop and a hard wing over to the right
Followed by inverted-that's upside down-descent to just off the ground
And an approach stall that left Ned deposited gently on a mound
Of barn shoveling and stable sweepings flat on his back
All four feet in the air and leaning against the tool shack.
Well that feisty wind had rearranged the 2BarH just a might
But the house was untouched and the cattle were all right.
It took grandpa quite a while to get Ned upright;
Even with Nell comin' over and helpin' with a nip and a bite.
In a week or two Ned was pretty much him self once again,
That is until he was pulling a wagon and it started to rain.
When the wind proceeded to blow and frisk up quite a bit
He simply laid down and started blowing bubbles and spit.
To Ned it was obvious it was same as that August day
And he was convinced the wind was coming back to say
He was slated for advanced flight training, to ascend like before
So Old Ned laid down. He didn't want to fly any more.
He laid there 'til the rain and the wind were past, shivering
And 'til his dying day, when rains came, he was a short ton of quivering
Great big gentle horse who, against his will, had learned to fly
Four years before the Wright brothers made their first try.

© 2004, Dale "Doc" Hayes. All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission
Doc told us what inspired this poem: "It is based on my father's viewing of a flying lesson given to a Percheron, owned by my grandfather, when a tornado tore their ranch apart in 1899."

A Gift for Mary Lou

It was the depths of the depression
and he was glad to have a job of any kind.
$30.00 dollars a month, bunk house and grub
was not big money but it was the best he could find.
Ranches were having a rough time of it
and a lot of ranchers had folded in and quit
but Old Hiram Jones, who owned the 2 Bar M
back in a canyon off of Sedona Creek,
had hired him on and he was riding out seven days a week.
Each month he sent home $28.00 to Mary Lou
to keep the kids fed and to see them through.
It was Christmas and he was riding down Prescott way.
Mr. Jones was a good man and he’d said
“Go see your wife, son, but be back New Year’s Day.”
Hank had only had money to buy Millie a little doll
and Jessie just one little tiny soldier made of tin.
No Christmas present for Mary Lou, once again.
She’d understand and, sure enough,
there’d be a scarf or a sweater for him she’d knit
but no present for her hung heavy and he worried about it.
“Dear Lord, I just wish I had something nice for her.”
Ah, well! Not this Christmas but next one, for sure!
The ride over the mountain had been right tough
and bitter cold as his old leather coat wasn’t warm enough.
He was glad to ride down into the lower valley at last,
particularly knowing the hour to his spread would go fast.
He passed through the village and by the general store
and he wrestled once again, once more,
with the want and the need to get something for Mary Lou
but he had only 4 cents in his old jeans. What would that do?
As he rode out of the village, he was deep in thought on
what he would say to her
and his thoughts and eyes both seem to blur.
Suddenly his mind startled as from behind he heard
A merry shout and a kindly spoken word:
“Good morning, young cowhand!
Merry Christmas to you and to yours!”
Riding up next to him was an antique of an old man
showing the wear of many years from the battered hat
down to his old Spanish spurs.
“Good morning back to you, Sir! I trust you are well!”
Yep! Thank you, young feller. With your kind permission
I’ll ride with you for a spell
On out to just past the old Spanish Mission."
The old man’s Sorrell settled in at an easy pace
and a smile lit up the deeply tanned weathered face.
“You look a tad worn for a fellow’s got the world by the tail
Hank laughed about that as they rode along the trail.
“I’m going home to see my wife, daughter, and my little boy.”
Then, for some reason, he told about the doll and little tin toy.
“What’d you get for your wife,” asked the old man.
“That’s all I could do as it was all the money I had to hand.”
“Too bad, young feller. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
With that he reached down on the off side of his mare
and hauled up a tie of flowers so grand they’d make you stare.
Where had the old man got such flowers at that time of year?
In the high mountain desert the ground was frozen solid
up to a hundred miles from there.
“They’re silk,” said the old man. I ordered ‘em from back New York way.
She loves flowers. Yes Sir! She loves flowers, my Anna Mae.”
“They’re right nice, sir!” Hank said with a wistful glance.
They rode in silence to the trail leading off to Hank’s ranch.
“Well, sir. I turn off here, so I wish a fine Christmas to you and your Anna Mae.”
“Thank you, lad! I’m just going a little further up this way.”
Then the old man held out the flowers, saying “Take these for your Mary Lou.”
“I couldn’t do that, sir. I’m grateful and it’s real fine of you.”
“Don’t you argue with your elders. Take them, young man!”
“I can tell you for sure that my Anna Mae will understand!”
“She’s had flowers going on thirty Christmases, pretty near
And that wife of your’s deserves something special this year.”
Haltingly and with tears in his eye, Hank took the bouquet,
said his goodbye and rode up the trail on his homeward way.
The old man smiled and urged his horse on down the trail.
Hank topped the ridge, looking back as the light started to fail
and by straining his eyes and focussing real hard
he could see the old man ride into the untended grave yard
at the abandoned old Spanish church ground.
He dismounted beside a weathered cross on a grave mound
and kneeling, holding his hat in his hand,
he explained to Anna Mae, and he was right, she did understand.

Thirty Christmases later,
Mary Lou told her grandchildren the best
Christmas she ever had after marrying Hank
and moving out West
was the one when she got the silk flower bouquet
and how happy it had made her that Christmas day.

Hank never told her that he’d stopped at the general store
and inquired after the old wrangler
whose flowers for Anna Mae had warmed Mary Lou
down to the core.

Anna Mae had died nine years before, taken by the flu,
and her husband, Luther, had died the next year, in 1922,
when he and his big Sorrell horse had been swept away
in a coulee flooded by a cloud burst on Christmas Day.

© 12/2000 ”Doc” Dale Hayes, All rights Reserved

The Day Old Ned Learned to Fly

It was a hot August, late summer, 1899,
and things on the 2BarH were going right fine.
My father was a young feller just pushing nine years
And getting his first learning about horses and steers.
The 2BarH, truth be told, was more farm than ranch
As grandpa ploughed 400 acres on Codeaway Branch.
That Saturday afternoon, grandma was using a wooden spoon
To stir up an apple pie when grandpa shouted, pointing up to the sky,
As it turned black and a roaring twister touched down
And where outhouse had stood was just a hole in the ground.
2 hired hands, six kids, grandpa and wife in the storm cellar
listening to the big whirlwind rip, snort, shreik, and beller.
My Dad put his eye to a crack in the storm cellar door
to watch the barn fly away leaving nothing but plank floor.
In the corral, riding horses and the Percherons Nell and Ned
Had watched the storm a coming with terror and dread.
Old Ned, a placid, gentle fellow weighing up near a ton,
Had got kind of owly when he saw what the twister had done
And started off at a Percheron trot when the wind made a decision
To pick him up gently and with studied simple precision
Teach Old Ned the basics of introductory flight.
First it was level flying and then gentle turns to the right.
As he made a trip around what had been barnyard,
With the wind keeping it simple, nothing really hard,
And then came basics of rapid ascent and up Old Ned went
Like a bottle rocket as gently he spun in the tornado's pocket.
The twister observin' closely how well Ned had done
Next taught him spins and a hundred feet off the ground he spun.
Then with practiced ease that twisted ornery wind
Decided that it was about time for the lesson's end
But first Old Ned needed to learn about acrobatic flight
So a simple barrel roll, a loop the loop and a hard wing over to the right
Followed by inverted-that's upside down-descent to just off the ground
And an approach stall that left Ned deposited gently on a mound
Of barn shoveling and stable sweepings flat on his back
All four feet in the air and leaning against the tool shack.
Well that feisty wind had rearranged the 2BarH just a might
But the house was untouched and the cattle were all right.
It took grandpa quite a while to get Ned upright;
Even with Nell comin' over and helpin' with a nip and a bite.
In a week or two Ned was pretty much him self once again,
That is until he was pulling a wagon and it started to rain.
When the wind proceeded to blow and frisk up quite a bit
He simply laid down and started blowing bubbles and spit.
To Ned it was obvious it was same as that August day
And he was convinced the wind was coming back to say
He was slated for advanced flight training, to ascend like before
So Old Ned laid down. He didn't want to fly any more.
He laid there 'til the rain and the wind were past, shivering
And 'til his dying day, when rains came, he was a short ton of quivering
Great big gentle horse who, against his will, had learned to fly
Four years before the Wright brothers made their first try.

© 2004, Dale "Doc" Hayes. All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission
Doc told us what inspired this poem: "It is based on my father's viewing of a flying lesson given to a Percheron, owned by my grandfather, when a tornado tore their ranch apart in 1899."

Your First Ride on a One Man Merry Go 'Round
or
(The Sloan's Liniment Archives)

Remember first you ever held a horse's head while your pard tended to the"kack"
and found yourself swinging in circles like a one man merry go round,
coming loose, coming down and coming to think of a broken back?
Pulling yourself up, swaying, wondering what was moving the ground
But knowing your job and knowing you had to get to it
You grabbed him once again, held on 'til your pard was able to do it.
There that horse stood, shivering all over, and shaking like a leaf.
Saddled for the first time, eyes glaring, hating you boys for putting it on
Promising you in that moment how he was going to give you grief.
In that glare, you knew he was wishing you to Hell and gone.
Your pard caught him, and then, with silent prayer, you swung up in the saddle
And raked hard, scratching tracks from neck to rump and back to neck.
Pile driving, spine crunching ride that caused your bones to rattle.
And ended in a dust cloud and an awe inspiring example of a goodly wreck,
That horse down on his side, hard, your leg pinched deep in the corral dirt.
You weren't dusted. You rode him down. You were bruised but not really hurt.
He staggered up and trotted, you can still see that trot, saddle dragging, blowing snot,
Trying to bite them on the rails and stopping over to the other side of that pen.
Glaring back, same as telling you "Come on, Cowboy! You ain't got it to do it again!"
That night, in your bunk, you contemplated the stink of Sloan's Liniment and a thousand aches,
You pushed past your pain and thought: "Horse you were wrong. I got what it takes!"
And you still remember what the foreman said, 'fore he blew out the coal oil light.
"You did a good job, kid, with that horse today. Yep! You did all right!"

© Dale "Doc" Hayes 4/2002. All Rights Reserved
(Dedicated to Sunny Hancock)
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission

Doc told us: "Back when I was a young feller in Flagstaff, Arizona in the mid '40s, my Dad used to do business with the Kellum Ranch near there. I used to ride along with him and that is where I got my first interests in cowboy stories and poetry. Many years later, when I was first getting into cowboy poetry, I was introduced to Sunny Hancock, by way of Chris Isaacs. In talking with Sunny I found he had started out with the Kellums and as Sunny and Chris have been two of my main inspirations, I occasionally run a poem for one or the other of those two fine poets and great examples of what this trade is all about. This poem is a reflection on some of my own experiences many, read that many/many, years ago, before I settled in and became a university professor but it really reflects on the generation just before me and is written as a tribute to those cowboys I used to dream of becoming when I was a young feller."

Summer Pasture

Old catamount lies up a top a granite rock and casts a hungry eye on that summer stock
Out there in the summer pasture.
Mares with foals and the herd boss' crew gives him pause as he knows what they can do
Out there in that summer pasture.
Once in younger life he'd been kicked and struck and he remembers his big cat's luck
Out there in a summer pasture.
When a herd boss and crew caught him cold when he tried to take a pinto foal
Out there in a summer pasture.
He still bears scars from when twelve to one, those mares and stallion put him on the run
In that summer pasture.
Thinks about what he can do up there high where the mountain scrapes the sky,
Way above the summer pasture.
So he takes his scarred and scraggly hide and goes up where no cowhand can ride,
Far from the summer pasture.
The herd grazes content in tall green grass, getting fat and watching time pass,
Living good in the summer pasture.
I take my eye off the rifle scope and watch that old cat move away at a lope,
Away from the summer pasture.
My Savage slides back in the leather and I look to the West to check the weather
Moving toward the summer pasture.
Better get up my lean to and collect some sticks, stir up a fire and see what I can fix
For supper above the summer pasture.
First I'll feed and water Ranger and Old Bob, good old horses for a hard old job,
Checking the summer pasture.
I'll fix some bacon and biskits and some coffee and enjoy as good as it gits,
Minding the summer pasture.
I'll be in my soogan, rolled up tight, sound asleep before the rain falls tonight,
On the summer pasture.
Tomorrow, if things go the way they should I'll ride through the aspen wood
To the next summer pasture.
There we built a little tar paper shack and it'll be good to be getting back
To that summer pasture.
There I'll sleep on an old army bed and on goose down pillow I'll rest my head
Tomorrow night in a summer pasture.
Next morning, I'll check to make sure the cows and calves haven't come to grief
In that summer pasture.

How can you explain how good it is, living this way?
Out there, you and your horse, at the break of day,
Tending the summer pasture.

Blessed of God in a most uncommon and special way,
Free as it is possible to be in this modern day,
Tending the summer pasture.

© 2004, Dale "Doc" Hayes. All Rights Reserved
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission

Cowboy Poets: Minstrels of the West

"Cowboy Poets: Minstrels of the West" makes you want to pack a bag and head north. The video's beautifully filmed performances and stunning scenery make for great armchair traveling to three top Canadian gatherings in Manitoba, Alberta, and British Columbia. The film opens with lush panoramas graced by "When Cowboys Rode as Kings" by Ben Crane (written by poet Bryn Thiessen); the song itself is worth the price of the video. The opening gathering scenes show Manitoba professor and poet Dale (Doc) Hayes reciting his "Shorty," with performances of the poem at all three gatherings artfully spliced together. And it just gets better in this professional, well-edited production that has aired on Canadian television.

You have a front-row seat and a free ticket to shows that include American and Canadian AWA-nominated poets Chris Isaacs, Mike Puhallo, and Thiessen, all giving polished performances of classics and their own work. Puhallo's recitation of his "Sacred Orb" as he saddles his horse is unforgettable. There is plenty of humor and a good selection of serious poetry. Excellent musical talent includes performances by Juanita Clayton (with an autobiographical yodeling song), Ray Martin (award-winning Manitoba musician) and Ed Brown (also an artist and poet).

There's a wonderful growing trend of poets, musicians, and fans crossing borders among gatherings in the U. S. and Canada, and this video should go a long way toward encouraging those migrations. The video is available postpaid for $25.00 (US); Shadowland Productions, 51070 Range Road 221, Sherwood Park, Alberta, Canada T8E 1G8; 866-269-2698

Review by Margo Metegrano, CowboyPoetry.com

COWBOY POETS: MINSTRELS OF THE WEST

A Video Collection of Cowboy Poetry and Music – Volume 1

What is the definition of cowboy poetry? Dale (Doc) Hayes explains it best: He recalls being in a poetry competition at a gathering in Alberta, Canada. "I felt I had the competition aced. Though the fellow sitting next me was feeling pretty confident, too. A mutual friend of ours got up and did a couple of poems. He wasn't a very dynamic poet, but a darn good one. Then he started doing this poem about having to put down his 14-year-old blue healer dog. I tell ya, a minute into the poem, and every woman in that audience was crying and most of the men were blowin' their noses, and I hit my friend in the ribs and said I think we just lost this poetry competition. Because he was talking about the everyday experience of a person’s life and that's what cowboy poetry is all about."
Cowboy Poets-Minstrels of the West is a video collection of cowboy poetry and music. It is volume 1 of a series featuring some of Canada's finest, with a visit from an American icon. Forty-eight minutes of laughter and tears with poetry by Dale (Doc) Hayes, Mike Puhallo, Will Rogers Award Nominee and rancher- turned-poet, Bryn Thiessen.
This production was produced in the summer of 2001, over the course of 10 days and three poetry gatherings. We visited the 2nd Annual Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Brandon, Manitoba; the Pincher Creek Gathering in Alberta (largest in Canada); and a Cowboy Festival held at the Historic O'Keefe Ranch located near Vernon, BC.
While producing this video, Hired Gun Productions put together a documentary, also titled Cowboy Poets-Minstrels of the West. This documentary will air across Canada in early 2002 on the Global Network. The US broadcast date is pending.

Cowboy Poets-Minstrels of the West

A Collection of Cowboy Poetry and Music - Volume 1

is available now for only $25.00 (US)

includes shipping and handling and applicable taxes.

Call 1-866-269-2698 to order by VISA

or mail a certified check or money order to:

Cowboy Poets

c/o Shadowland Productions

51070 Range Road 221

Sherwood Park, Alberta, Canada T8E 1G8

Doc's poetry the links were broken. I am

determined to contact his publisher to

get the poetry and permissions.

Short Cut

The Woman's Side of the Story

Blowing Snow

The Modern-Day Value of the Tom Mix Ranch

Like Water and the Duck's Back

In Spite of All!