I became a writer of cowboy poetry and wild west stories after retiring twenty years ago from a thirty-year career in hairdressing.

My inspiration, sense of humor, and lingo are the result of being raised on a ranch in a small town in eastern Washington. There I was privy to the hardscrabble life of real cowboys.

I followed Cowboy Gatherings & Rodeos for years hocking my books & doing stage recitals of my poetry.

I've also written, and had published, several articles in Country and Reminisce magazines. Plus, I've had many poems and essays published on the internet, and in special edition sections of papers and western magazines.

Tamara Hillman.....Western author & poetess

Best of the Old West

Best of the Old West If you are longing for those heroes of the Old West who could lasso a stallion, bulldog a heifer, ride herd night an' day, tell the biggest lies 'round a campfire, charm the ladies, an' who you would trust with your very life, well, this is the book for you!

Ordering

Order by check or money order. Email Tamara Hillman.

Books are $10.00 each, plus tax and shipping.

My address is:

Tamara Hillman
13310 W. Castle Rock Dr.
Sun City West, AZ 85375

Make sure to send me your return address when ordering...

Orders will be shipped within 24 hours of payment.

Thanx! Tamara

The Heart of Me

The Heart of Me; Poems from the Soul It took ten years to gather enough poetry I'd written outside my usual genre' of cowboy poetry to complete this book which I am proud to introduce....But don't think it's a book of meaningless words that constitute some weird, free verse poetry. Remember, I am country from the top of my frazzled, curly head to the bottom of my usually bare feet!

These poems tell a story much like my cowboy poems do.

You will relate to my own true-life experiences, and also many imaginary characters and tales on these 133 pages. $17 postpaid.

Ordering

Order by check or money order. Email Tamara Hillman.

Books are $10.00 each, plus tax and shipping.

My address is:

Tamara Hillman
13310 W. Castle Rock Dr.
Sun City West, AZ 85375

Make sure to send me your return address when ordering...

Orders will be shipped within 24 hours of payment.

Thanx! Tamara

Tales of BS Scruggs

When a young Hollywood mogul wrecks his car while traversing the Texas prairie, it is up to an old Cowpoke named Bull (BS) Scruggs to get the young man's life back on track. Ride along as things go from bumpy to downright hilarious as two worlds collide in the small town of Cobalt, Texas. This is a modern-day Western novel with all the trimmings from a Cowboy Poetess on top of her game.

Tamara Hillman does not get her inspiration from Western Movies when it comes to Cowboy Poetry. Born and raised in a small town in Washington state, she was in the company of real American Cowboys. You can find articles by the author in Country and Reminisce magazines regarding the ranch lifestyle and the challenges that come with it.

Tamara has appeared at the Wickenburg Cowboy Christmas gathering. If you enjoy Cowboy Poetry and the culture that goes with it, you have probably been exposed to her work. Don't miss out on a novel by one of the masters.

Ordering

Order by check or money order. Email Tamara Hillman.

Books are $10.00 each, plus tax and shipping.

My address is:

Tamara Hillman
13310 W. Castle Rock Dr.
Sun City West, AZ 85375

Make sure to send me your return address when ordering...

Orders will be shipped within 24 hours of payment.

Thanx! Tamara

Heroes and Villains of the

Old West

Heroes & Villains of the Old West is made up of true-life stories in poetry form, of American heroes we all are familiar with since our childhoods among both whites and Indians who helped settle the western frontier. There also is an "Unsung Heroes" section in the book telling stories of people who have been heroes clear into the early twentieth century....... 170 pages (Great read for ages 8 to 98.)

Ordering

Order by check or money order. Email Tamara Hillman.

Books are $15.00 each, plus tax and shipping.

My address is:

Tamara Hillman
13310 W. Castle Rock Dr.
Sun City West, AZ 85375

Make sure to send me your return address when ordering...

Orders will be shipped within 24 hours of payment.

Thanx! Tamara

Except where noted, $10.00 per book (including tax for Arizona state purchases), plus shipping.......$3.00 for two......$1.80 for one.

Dusty Trails

This book is a true rendition of the hardscrabble life of cowboys.

The lingo and tales are a view from the saddle that describe cowboys and their work in every way.

Weather, snakes, stampedes, and rodeos will all capture your interest and the heart of these courageous men.

If you are a real cowboy or cowgirl, this is the book for you, and for those who know a real cowboy or girl, it would make a wonderful gift. (75 pages)

Ordering

Order by check or money order. Email Tamara Hillman.

Books are $10.00 each, plus tax and shipping.

My address is:

Tamara Hillman
13310 W. Castle Rock Dr.
Sun City West, AZ 85375

Make sure to send me your return address when ordering...

Orders will be shipped within 24 hours of payment.

Thanx! Tamara

Pure Country

This book is just what the title implies, PURE COUNTRY, reminiscent poetry and prose. It is a bit gentler in rhyme than cowboy poetry in so much as it lacks the lingo, but keeps it's country charm from first page till last.

To those raised in the country, this book will take you down memory lane, and to those raised elsewhere, it will give you a true feel for country life.

(60 pages)

Ordering

Order by check or money order. Email Tamara Hillman.

Books are $10.00 each, plus tax and shipping.

My address is:

Tamara Hillman
13310 W. Castle Rock Dr.
Sun City West, AZ 85375

Make sure to send me your return address when ordering...

Orders will be shipped within 24 hours of payment.

Thanx! Tamara

Intriguing Works and Poetry by Tamara Hillman

I never cared…

I never cared if you were "gay" or whatever acronym you chose to call yourself, until you started shoving it down my throat

I never cared what color you were, as long as you were a good human being, until you started blaming me for your problems.

I never cared about your political affiliation until you started to condemn me for mine.

I never cared where you were from in this great Republic until you began condemning people based on where they were born, and the history that made them who they are.

I have never cared if you were well off or poor because (I've been both) until you started calling me names for working hard and bettering myself.

I've never cared if your beliefs are different than mine. Until you said my beliefs are all wrong.

I've never cared if you don't like guns until you tried to take mine away.

Now, I care!!!

I've given you all the tolerance I have to give. This is no longer my problem. It's your problem. You can still fix it. It's not too late, but it better be soon.

I'm usually a very patient person, but I've run completely out. There are literally Millions of people just like me who are sick of your Anti American crap! We've had enough!

America is the greatest country on earth, and if you don't like it here, you can leave. We are done caring about your misguided feelings.

You don't have the right to enjoy American freedoms if you are trying to take that right away from me and your fellow Americans.

The right that comes with being a “citizen” does not give you the right to infringe on my rights.

If you want to be a “subject”, owned by the elite, that’s your decision. Go back to England where you can live under a monarchy with Kings & Queens who can lop off your heads at will, or tell you how to worship your God. (Your ancestors left England to find religious Freedom & human rights given only by God to each & every one of us.)

Up to now, I’ve endured your tirades, but I strongly urge you to read the REAL history of the Revolutionary War, and learn what happens when Patriots take up arms.

I strongly advise you also to read the 2nd Amendment where it states; We, as a people, can legally take up arms, & form a militia against an overthrow of the people by YOU & the GOVERNMENT of these United States.

The Majority of us have had it!!! Lock & Load....

Antebellum

I walk the lane 'neath giant oaks,
vast canopies of green, and view the mansion at path's end,
a sight I've never seen.

 My mind begins to picture
those precious days of old,
the owner of this grand house
with history yet foretold.

 Of Southern Belles in ball gowns,
young men in dapper dress,
music of the harpsichord
as folks poseur their best.

 Dancing, singing, merriment
revere lives without care
as servants carry laden trays
of fancy food and fare.

 But all the glories of this time
were soon to be forgot
with civil war uprisings,
and horrors that men wrought.

 Land was scourged, mansions burned,
or plundered of their ware,
soldiers stripped the wealth from them
and pillaged without care.

 "The black man needs his freedom,"
was the battle cry,
and thousands chose to take a side
for which they'd surely die.

 Brother fought 'gainst brother,
father against son,
I wonder if they felt for naught 
when the war was done.

 Now standing 'neath the foliage
at this mansion tall and grand,
I question, "Was it worth it,
for them to take a stand?"

 Guess we'll never know the answer,
today it seems too late,
but let us long remember
what happens when men hate.

© Tamara Hillman

More of Tamara's Poetry

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

The task ahead is mighty,
each cowboy knows his lot,

it's win or lose the bounty,

an' go up or down a slot.

He straddles the great Brahma
inside the narrow chute,
pulls his hat down good 'n tight
before he gives the boot.

Ties his hand to the bell-rope,
secures it once or twice,
then scoots himself above it,
while the bull ain't actin' nice.

The critter snorts 'n paws the dirt
just waitin' to dismount
the cowboy sittin' on his back
before eight seconds count.

Then rider gives a signal,
it's us'lly just a nod,
an' the keeper of the gate pulls wide,
an' runs thru' muck 'n sod.

Out comes the bull like lightenin',
he's movin' awful fast,
twistin' an' a turnin'
in hopes the guy won't last.

Dirt 'n dust is flyin' as
that bull spins round an' round,
up an' down he's leapin'
to land rider on the ground.

The cowboy keeps his free arm
swingin' in the air,
it's man 'n beast contestin'
an' it's do, or die, or dare.

The buzzer fin'lly screeches,
an' the rider just wants down,
he jumps clear of the killer bull,
an' hides behind a clown.

He's hopin' for a buckle,
an' that championship pay,
but if he just breaks even,
he'll try another day,

'Cause rodeoin's in his blood,
he knows no other life,
an' very few are lucky
with an understandin' wife.

Folks scratch their heads in wonder
at what makes a person ride
but only he can answer
'cause it's somethin' deep inside.

Is the cowboy brave or crazy,
they just can't say for sure,
but they stare in sheer amazement
when he gives that bull the spur.

The crowds 'll keep on comin'
as long as cowboys choose
to ride the frightful Brahmas,
competin', win or lose.

Ranch Hand

I been slappin' leather
since I was just a lad.

Ain't never know'd no better,

an' for that I'm kinda glad.

I love the life a ropin',
an' brandin' all them critters.
Thoughts a ever settlin' down
just give this man the jitters.

Bustin' bronchs, breakin' ribs,
it's a rough n' tumble life.
Ain't got time for kids an' such,
or takin' of a wife.

Wide-open spaces are my home,
no walls to close me in.
Makin' due on beans an' pork,
and coffee from a tin.

Winds a blowin' mournful tunes,
at times a lightnin' storm,
not needin' many blankets,
got ol' Shep to keep me warm.

Driftin' 'cross the prairie,
only workin' here and there,
don't want for any valuables,
live life without much care.

I hate responsibility,
ranch foreman ain't my style.
Don't wanna boss my buddies,
just work with 'em awhile.

Ridin' fence, I favor
'cept when winter's closin' in,
then I find the bunkhouse
sure makes a cozy den.

I never do get lonesome,
cowboys meet up now and then
to share a jug a whiskey,
and play a hand a Gin.

Now, if I was to give advice,
don't know where I'd begin,
but maybe just to tell ya
for your hair is gettin' thin,

Don't wish for ever livin'
bigger than God's plan,
just be content if all ya are
is a mangy old ranch hand.

© 2001, Tamara Hillman

I feel the chill of it on my cheeks, and the heat on my backside standing close to the old tire we set afire for warmth.

In my mind's eye, I see crystals frozen to tree limbs and smell the freshness of clean, white snow.

I hear cars traveling the lower road, and the echo of voices rising from the valley floor—no doubt, moms calling their children home to steaming cups of hot chocolate before returning to the hill.

Oh, the feeling of serenity and innocents, I glean from those wonderful memories of a carefree childhood in winter.

What great fun—sleigh riding off Cemetery Hill!

O’ Please, let’s go sledding over the hills,

recapture our youth with laughter and spills.

Let’s go to the top of each snowy glide,

then sail on the wind as we slip, and we slide.

With arms wrapped around you, I’ll hang on tight—

we’ll build a bon-fire on this cold winter’s night.

Yes, let’s go sledding on mountains so high

pulling our sleds way up to the sky.

We’ll swoop, and we’ll squeal down hill and dell,

as we hear far below—the ringing church bell.

And when we’re soaking wet, and finally give up,

we’ll drink hot chocolate in a shiny tin cup.

We’ll return to the fireplace in our warm abode,

put on flannel jammies last Christmas I sewed.

Then snuggle deep under Granny’s old quilt—

saying our prayers to relieve us of guilt.

*******

Let’s pretend we’re the youngsters we used to be

though you're sixty-five, and I’m sixty-three.

Tamara Hillman

Ranch Hand Friends by Rick Unger

The bond of the cowboy and his dog is strong. Check the eyes on his best friend.

Image result for cowboy ranch hand image

Ol' Blue

One eye was brown, the other blue,

Australian Shepherd his breed,

a workin' dog with one helluva nip

to the heels a cattle and steed.

Just a little fur ball when I got him

but I well remember the time,
he could out run 'n outsmart the lot,
an' make 'em all turn on a dime.

Those cold prairie nights, sleepin' under the stars,
that dog would warm my old bones.
I'd play my mouth-harp to settle the herd
while he sang in soft muffled tones.

Last winter there came a fierce blizzard,
we were caught in a mighty snowdrift.
Ol' Blue hunkered down, an' just held his ground,
an' saved us both from descendin' a cliff.

They talk about loyal in people,
an' I suppose there are quite a few,
but I trusted my life, even more than a wife
to that mangy ol' dog name of Blue.

His muzzle finally was grayin',
an' his gate turned to limpin' 'n slow,
but no matter the job I was doin',
he'd follow wherever I'd go.

One mornin', I rose from my dreamin',
but Ol' Blue just didn't get up.
I saw in his bed that slumberin' head,
an' thought sure he resembled a pup.

Now, cryin' just ain't in my nature,
nor whinin' 'bout things I can't change,
but I gotta confess, my heart broke at best
an' was sad 'n plenty deranged.

I laid him to rest on the prairie
for the coyotes to sing him a song,
'cause no dog was quite so deservin'
to live on this earth for so long.

Now if there's a Heaven for doggies,
I'm sure that's where Blue is today;
waggin' his tail, an' just proud as hell
of the work that he done without pay.

Grew up a country bumpkin,
known the freedom that entails.

Worked hard to make a livin',

walked down some dusty trails.

Ma and Pa was rough on me,
said it was for my good,
but I lit out real early
just to prove to them I could.

Did some drinkin' in my early days,

an' had a wife or two,

but now I just got my ol' horse

an' an ornery dog named Blue.

I've lived the life I wanted,
an' done most ever' thing,
have few regrets or heartaches,
so I really cain't complain.

The sky's my roof above me,
an' a camp fire keeps me warm.
My bed is straw an' saddlebags,
and bath, a country storm.

Drink water from the rivers clear
that fill from creek an' stream.
Eat jerky, hard tack biscuits,
and drink coffee without cream.

Ain't no call for cussin'
'cause no ones 'round to hear.
My temper done got simmered
an' replaced with dad-blame fear.

My hair is gettin' gray now,
bones creak more ever' day,
but I can still punch cattle,
brand them doggies, an' buck hay.

If I should die tomorrow,
I'll be glad to meet that train,
for God's seen fit in all His grace
to let me have the reins.

I'll ride them clouds in heaven,
an' sleep in if I please.
I'll praise the Lord before me,
as I get down on my knees.

All my troubles will be over,
won't even mind the rain,
'cause God'll keep me sheltered
from all this earthly pain.

So, let me never be forgettin'
how grand a life I've had,
'cause I've loved ever' minute,
an' it sure ain't been that bad!

© 2001, Tamara Hillman

Old White Chest/Poem/Tamara Hillman

OLD WHITE CHEST

In the bottom drawer

of the old white chest,

she keeps memories

she loves best.

Some preserved

from days of youth—

pictures, emblems,

flags of truth.

Cards and notes

discolored—saved,

a broken romance,

trials once braved.

It holds sad memories,

a child now lost—

through personal items,

she counts the cost.

Her life, not measured

in this small space,

or genealogies

one might trace,

Or in those things,

there tucked away

where she finds solace

on a quiet day.

But thru’ the years

she has been blessed,

viewing her treasures

in the old white chest.

Tamara Hillman

Storm clouds are gatherin'

as I saddle ol' Buck,

I'll get that fence mended

with speed an' some luck

Out here on the prairie,
where land meets the sky,
the lightenin' can get fierce
an' strike too near by

Storms come up quick
an' ya better seek shelter,
rain, sleet, an' hail
make ya run helter-skelter

Cattle get restless,
they sometimes stampede,
an' ya need hardened rovers
ridin' drag, an' the lead

Today I'll be watchin'
them clouds o're my head
'cause storms on the praire
are the worst, it's been said

So I pack up my gear,
my slicker n' such,
slouch hat, an' long coat,
hope I won't need 'em much

Tie a scarf 'round my neck
to keep out the dust
case them dirt-devils twirl
an' kick up a fuss

It's seven miles out,
I'll be workin' all day,
an' I better make haste
or there'll be hell to pay

The skies turnin' dark
an' clouds are now black
as I ease on ol' Buck,
he snorts an' rares back

Guess he smells trouble
out there on the range
so we'd best get the job done
for the weather does change

We reach destination,
I unload my stuff,
I'm stretchin' barbed wire
over ground that is rough

I work like the devil,
I plum bust my tail,
an' just as I finish
comes the lightenin' an' hail

I leap on ol' Buck
in my slicker an' coat,
the strikes are so close
my heart's in my throat

We head for the ranch
on the gallop an' run,
rain pours down my collar,
it sure ain't no fun

But just as we reach
the last mile of fence
there's fire in the sky
an' smoke starts to commence

Along the horizon
flames are now leapin',
straight up my spine
them chills are a creepin'

'Cause I see at the ranch,
the barn is on fire,
men pass water pails
an' it's my first desire

To prod ol' Buck faster
as we come 'round the bend,
if we lose them prize horses
it'll be 'most a sin

But my heart starts to quiet,
they've all been set free
an' are runnin' about,
makes me holler with glee

I jump off my horse
an' we all put it out,
then slap each one's back,
whistle an' shout

That's how we work
out here on the range,
we help one another,
to some that seems strange

But Cowboys 'll survive,
it's part of our creed
to buck bails, an' ride herd,
an' do a good deed

I'm proud to be one,
I won't hang my head,
ain't no man I envy
or life I'd choose instead.

Ranchin' ain't easy,
an' it don't get no better
when chores are plum awful
on account of the weather

Storm clouds start gatherin'
above the horizon,
I dig out long-handles,
I hate 'em like pi'son

A cold wind starts blowin',
chills a man to the bone,
the future is troublin'
out here on my own

The house starts to creak
but stands up to the storm,
another log on the fire
keeps it cozy and warm

I pull on my old coat
'n boots-pretty worn,
turn up my collar,
an' head for the barn

Snows blowin' sideways
an' stingin' my face,
I think I'm half crazy
to stay on this place

Wind keeps a howlin'
snows pile up an' drift,
if I don't find them cattle'
they may fall off some cliff

With my trusty old horse,
we herd some to corral,
we've been long together
so he's more like a pal

This task is repeated,
in hastened routine,
while the storm grows
more fierce, angry, an' mean

I take to my bed
in wee hours of morn,
tired an' half froze,
wish I'd never been born

The fire's dyin' down,
burrow deep in my quilt,
complain to my maker,
an' feel plum fulla guilt

'Cause I know He saved me
from that terrible storm
as my limbs start to thaw,
an' body gets warm

Last thing on my mind
as I drift off to sleep,
"Lord, I'm sure grateful
this cowboy you keep."

© 2004, Tamara Hillman

Most times he's been a rider,
he knows the bulls so well,
he zigs an' zags around 'em
before the cowboys yell

The critter's bent on killin' him
an' the man upon his back,
that's why the clown in funny clothes
sets out to quick distract

He wears a red bandana
an' cut off Wrangler jeans,
cowboy boots up to the knee,
a polka-dot shirt of green

A big ol' hat, pulled way down low,
an' face paint, red 'n white,
he dances 'round the angry bull,
to give the crowd a fright

Folks come an' pay their money
to watch the rodeo,
an' are never disappointed
when the clown gives them a show

Clowns also are protective
of cowboys ridin' bronc's,
then, after dust is settled,
they meet in honky-tonks

It's not an' easy livin',
they're always on the road,
an' most admit it punishment
for wild-oats they have sowed

These men are always roughnecks,
where do they get the nerve
to stand in front of Brahmas,
roll in barrels, dodge 'n swerve

They represent true bravery,
let's give those clowns their due,
but when the rodeo's over
I'll sure bet they're black an' blue.

AUGUST DAYS

The crickets are noisy as I lay down my head,

But I won’t get much rest in this hot, humid bed.

Today’s sun beat down on meadow and field,

But I dare not neglect this grain crop soon to yield.

My horse-team worked hard to finish it all,

And I thought a few times they might flounder and fall,

But we sweated it out ‘til ..noon..’s dinner bell,

And I knew we must finish ‘cause ya never can tell

When rain clouds might gather, and have a cloud burst,

Ruin the grain, tho’ it might quench my thirst.

Ma brought out some lunch, and we sat in the shade

Wolfin’ down sandwiches she had fresh made.

A slight breeze swept thru’ as we sat ‘neath that tree

Watching grasshoppers fly high, and soar free.

And I saw God’s creations in life all around

Just sittin’ there restin’ on that dusty ground,

And tho’ it was hot, and not fit for mankind

On this August day bustin’ my poor behind,

I got down on my knees, no I didn’t forget

Tho’ still hot and sticky, covered with sweat,

And I thanked the dear Lord for His grace, and His love,

Knowin’ He sees me from His place up above.

Yep, some months ol’ Sol makes life really hot,

But I know who to thank for the blessin’s I got.

Tamara Hillman

All the leaves have fallen,

desertin' all the trees,

a chill wind is a-callin',

winter whispers on the breeze

Autumn is the season,
reckon it's the best of all,
my sleep may be the reason
'cause I catch up in the fall

The clock, I'm watchin' close,
too soon its gettin' dark,
and early in the mornin'
ol' Reb, he starts to bark

I done all the fence mended,
the wood is cut and stacked,
now, I can hunker down a spell,
just let myself lean back.

MOONLIT RIDE

Across the prairie—far and wide,

the maiden took a moonlit ride...

She chose to venture late at night,

avoiding shadows—taking flight,

To live courageous as in dreams,

freeing her spirit, or so it seems.

Escaping mundane chores of day,

loosing her mount to gallop away,

Covering earth with lightning speed,

hooves pounding fast to fill her need.

Thru’ the forest, thru’ the glen,

beyond the places known to men,

Over mountains majestic high,

seeking porticos in the sky.

As moonlight streamed across the way

in glorious brightness—much like day,

She rode like the wind away from home,

craving her freedom—a chance to roam.

For dawn and sunshine soon would break,

and from their beds the masses wake,

Ending a night of perfect bliss

horse and maiden soon would miss—

Until full moon came with the tide,

coaxing her out for a another ride.

Tamara Hillman

With nostrils flared and wind in mane,

the steeds ran wild across the plain

Quick to find secluded pools

to drink from waters clear and cool

They roamed the valleys, plateaus high,
and danced across a midnight sky
***In spring, the foals would join the herd,
upon sweet grass their births occurred

But none was greater born to mare,
with golden mane and reddish hair
Wyoming Red, his given name,
wild horse of legends claim to fame

Broad of shoulder, strong proud head,
coat that glowed like molten lead
Stamping, prancing, snorting steed,
driving herd with lightning speed

With swift action, bold and brave,
his harem horses to be saved
Mighty blaze with wary stare,
rearing hooves, and white teeth bared

Met his foe with furious fire,
and rankled every suitor's ire
***
Men tried to capture, rope and tame,
this stallions stalwart, stocky frame
With lassos circling o're the stud,
stark fury racing thru' his blood

The stallion let no lariat
touch his long, sweat-glistened neck
Instead, he whinnied great alarm
to keep his mares from any harm
***
And now, those days have come and gone,
but the legend of old Red lives on
Folks claim he prances on a cloud,
and say when thunder gets too loud

"Fear not that roar heard overhead!
It's just the hoof beats of old Red."

Today we buried ol' Travis,

a better dog you never seen,

intelligent, strong, an' good-natured

with eyes that were wary an' keen

It hurt me to lay him to rest now,
an' I know I'm gonna shed tears,
but I can't fault God for the takin'
I shared with that dog sixteen years

***
I remember when I first saw Travis,
just a little fur-ball at the time,
we both felt an instant connection,
I knew that cow-dog would be mine

I couldn't resist his free spirit,
golden eyes that were so fulla care,
nor could I foresee his devotion,
or all the good times we would share

From that very first trip to our homestead,
my pickup he claimed as his own,
whenever the truck left these acres,
he was goin' wherever it roamed

As a watch dog, there never was better,
no coyote would dare cross this land,
he'd be out there barkin' an' chasin',
an' run off the whole yippin' band

An' when Mr. Cougar come prowlin',
ol' Travis would raise such a fuss,
he knew not to nab the mean bugger
but would bark till it woke both of us

Now, Ranch hands have got an' old sayin'
'bout workin' as hard as a dog,
an' I can sure vouch for ol' Travis,
he could even herd cattle in fog

His muzzle was startin' to gray
an' he had quite a limp t'ward the end,
but whenever I'd head out to do chores,
I could count on some help from my friend

***
I sure ain't alone in my grievin',
the wife took Trav's death pretty hard,
he was also her lifelong companion,
an' would follow her out in the yard

I know that we're both gonna miss him,
this place'll seem empty an' bare,
I'll miss fillin' his bowl in the kitchen,
an' him sleepin' right next to my chair

My throat's just plum' fulla the achin',
an' I'll bust out in tears any time,
but I ain't ashamed a my feelin's,
'cause most dogs, well, they ain't worth a dime

But Travis was just somethin' special,
best cow-dog I ever did see,
an' wherever God sends dogs when passin',
that's the place where I wanna be.

© 2006, Tamara Hillman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Dedicated to Jack Barnes, Denver Colorado

We wait at the line,

my horse is plum' hyped,

I sweat thru' my new shirt,

snap pockets, gold striped

We fly thru' the rope gate
when I hear buzzer's sound,
gotta charge to that first barrel
an' make a clean round

My horse leans in close
an' her hooves kick up dirt
as we do figure eights
an' I whip with my quirt

The wind feels like sixty
as it slaps at my face,
wanna win that prize money
placin' first in this race

The rootin' an' hollerin
is all meant for me,
as I circle the last barrel,
the crowd shouts with glee

Now they're all on their feet
as my hat goes a flyin',
heart beatin' so fast,
I think that I'm dyin'

Back thru' the gate
my horse stops with a slide,
as I pull back the reins
from one hell of a ride

The gals are a slappin'
my back as it ends,
shoutin' 'n claimin'
they're all my best friends

The next girl speeds out
an' she makes a good show,
her pony's fast runnin'
but down a barrel goes

Second was cinched
by the first rider out,
the one just before me
knew what racin's about

The next, an' the next
try to keep up the pace
but time counts against 'em,
one takes only third place

But I took the ribbon
an' prize money too,
I got plum' excited
but between me 'n you--

Tonight, at the bar,
as we all sip our beer
all that's important is
competin' next year.

© 2006, Tamara Hillman

I'll not forget the winter

of nineteen twenty-eight,

the autumn was so glorious,

an' snows came on real late.

It wasn't 'til December,

the ground turned frosty white,

an' my feet felt chilly floorboards

when rising in the night.

We lived way back in Kansas

on a farm-not big, but small.

Pa could barely make the payments

to keep the house an' all.

We kids were just like stair steps,

there were nine in just twelve years—

t'was an honor to be oldest,

but no time for baby tears.

Each child had chores an' duties,

an' knew what must be done-

Mine was milking, feeding stock

before the morning sun.

Then breakfast with hot biscuits,

to start our day out right,

there'd be no rest till evening,

stretching into dark of night.

Each day we'd walk to school an' back,

or maybe ride old Pete.

After loading younger kids,

I mostly used my feet.

But I recall quite clearly

that warm December day,

no snow-an' sun bright shining

as we played along the way.

We got to school before the bell—

an' quickly took our seat,

an' from the old pot-bellied stove,

we felt the warming heat.

By afternoon, the sky turned black,

outside the darkened room.

Our teacher lit some candles

to stanch the dreary gloom.

The wind was softly swirling

outside the wooden door,

but it soon became a mighty howl

with whooshing, then a roar.

The little ones were fearful,

an' our teacher, Lila Load,

gathered them together

for a story to be told.

We older ones kept busy

quickly stoking up the fire,

but as the winds grew greater,

our fate became most dire.

The roof was lifted off the school—

the blizzard blew in snow,

Miss Load rushed to the cloakroom

to prepare us fast to go.

She said to get dressed warmly

in coats, an' hats, in haste,

then tie the long rope hanging there

around each other's waist.

It seemed a long few minutes

'til all were tethered there,

an' we waded out in deep snows

with only hope an' prayer.

The horses that had been tied,

were loose an' far had scattered—

so we trudged the path now covered

some in clothes quite worn 'n tattered.

Miss Lila led the trail down hill—

proclaiming it the way,

an' never lost her courage

struggling thru' the drifts that day.

The little ones-we carried

after just a quarter mile,

their teeth began to chatter

an' no longer showed a smile.

The wind—so loud, nobody spoke—

the snow piled fence post high,

an' clouds hung black an' fearsome,

in that ominous dark sky.

We waded two more hours

'til it was near nightfall,

then spied a well-lit farmhouse

amidst the stormy squall.

Our knock would go unanswered

until we pushed right in,

for the blizzard raged an' howled so,

it made an awful din.

The widow lady, Mary Sheen,

stepped back in shocked belief,

then rushed to help the children

before they came to grief.

Each child was wrapped in blankets,

by the stove they were moved close,

as we all thanked God above us

for finding a great host.

Hot food, an' apple cider

soon thawed our group—eleven,

but I'll not forget that last mile,

an' how close we came to Heaven.

They say he was the devil,
in whispers, not out loud—
the Brahma bull no one could ride,
his name was ol' Black Cloud.

Many a cowboy mounted up,
an' many a cowboy tried,
but the bull was like white lightnin',
an' a couple cowboys died.

Snortin' an' a slobberin',
red-fire burnin' in each eye,
bellerin' to each rider,
"Better kiss yer kin goodbye!"

Off his back the cowboys flew,
landin' hard upon the ground,
then scramblin', if they's able
'fore ol' Black Cloud turned around—

As if dismountin' everyone
from atop his hairy hide
weren't enough to brag about—
round an' round he'd stride;

Shakin' back 'n forth his head
as if to tell the crowd,
"I'm givin' ya fair warnin',
don't mess with ol' Black Cloud!"

No cowboy heard the buzzer,
tho' he sometimes rang their bell—
the bull they tried so hard to ride,
was shot straight outta hell.

***
I hear they pastured Black Cloud
an' put him out to breed,
hopin' that he'd pass along
his hellish devil's seed.

For there never was a Brahma,
retired with such a score,
as the bull, Black Cloud from Texas—
he tossed all ninety-four...

© 2007, Tamara Hillman

(Advice from an old bull rider to a young upstart)

Just look in them eyes-all angry an' mean,
horns juttin' out each side a his bean.

An' that hump on his neck-ya better beware,
you'll be wishin' right quick ya could hang on there.

See them huge muscles ripplin' at flank,
they got the power of a Sherman Tank.

An' don't underestimate them knobby knees—
they can turn on a dime anytime they please.

Those cloven hooves can stomp ya good
if ya ain't quick enough to scoot when ya should.

An' that mighty rear will twist 'n turn—
make ya yell for Mama when your legs start ta burn.

That boney tail, it'll swish 'n sway—
rap ya upside the head in the dust 'n fray.

He's a half ton killer-got the temper to prove it,
so hop up there, an' git right to it.

But if ya got any sense in your noggin at all,
you'll git in that truck, an' down the road you'll haul.

Just look him over, ya little son-of-a-gun,
then take off them spurs, an' run kid-run!

© 2007, Tamara Hillman

Advice from a Cowboy's Wife

We know their reputations—
real cowboy’s tried ‘n true.

But don’t trifle with their feelin’s

‘cause they’ll play it straight with you.

Now, cowboys ain’t for talkin’—
no excuse—the job ain’t done.
He’ll ask ya to keep up the pace,
an’ accept life on the run.

He expects a workin’ critter—
loyal—by his side
just like his horse an’ faithful dog,
or ticks on a longhorn’s hide.

He’ll give ya time—if he’s got it,
won’t grumble ‘bout goin’ to church,
but don’t be late with his supper,
or leave the poor guy in the lurch.

‘Cause rules are made for follerin’.
In his world, they just gotta be—
From sunup ‘til the sun goes down,
his backside’s all you’ll see.

You’ll work like a dog durin’ harvest—
don’t count on rest any season.
Pull calves in spring—never wear a ring
‘cause it’s "risky" is his reason.

There’s dishes to do—tho’ you’ve got the flu,
there’ll be no rest for the weary—
So, grit your teeth, take the grief,
an’ for heaven sakes, don’t get teary.

You’ll learn how to drive a tractor,
an’ maybe even buck bails,
pray the rain don’t come early,
nor wind that blows up a gale.

With hair that’s frazzled an’ dirty,
black soot on your upper lip,
he’ll be by your side—ya got nothin’ to hide
for looks, he don’t give a lick.
He thinks of you as his partner,
so take the good with the bad—
You’ve replaced his "good timin’" buddies,
for the best life he’s ever had.

Sure, he’ll sit an’ tell of the old days,
get that far away look in his eye,
but tho’ your long tresses are gray now,
he’ll stick with ya—do or die.

When older—his legs will be crooked,
his back will be bent—mostly sore,
but be glad ya married a cowboy
‘cause he’ll love ya, gal, that’s for shor’.

© 2010, Tamara Hillman

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

by Tamara Hillman

Just look at that coyote

lurkin’ a far over there,

he reminds me of my younger days

when I had nary a care.

It didn’t matter the season—

snow or summer sun,

I lived my life plum’ for myself

an was an ornery son-of-a-gun.

Only foraged for food in my gut

an’ clothes to fit my need,

an’ a dog who loved me spite of it all,

an’ a wild horse for my steed.

I wondered ‘cross the country

an’ stopped but now & then,

hung my hat in a bunkhouse

when needin’ rest from sin.

I scuttled about from ranch to ranch—

pay poor, an’ work was mean,

hours from sunup ‘til darkness,

an’ like that coyote, I was lean,

But I never got discouraged

‘cause I was livin’ single

‘til a filly down ol’ Texas way

taught me how to mingle.

I’m still like that ol’ coyote

but in a different way,

got six kids an’ a pretty wife

who gave my life some sway.

I settled on a gnarly ranch—

a place to call my own,

an’ work the place from dusk ‘til dawn

with nary a grunt nor groan.

‘Cause now, ya see, that ol’ coyote

has matured into a fox,

I’ll not be freezin’ in the snow,

nor livin’ in a box.

I got me a real warm fire now,

a dog layin’ by my chair,

six kids an’ a wife who love me

an’ I sure ain’t got no cares.

Windowpanes are glistening—

ice crystals circling ‘round,

reflecting peaceful images

of home secure and sound.

Warm and cozy by the fire,

my eyes behold a scene

of snowflakes light and fleecy,

floating softly—most serene.

The wind stirs up such bluster,

the snow swirls in great drifts.

I feel the warmth here by the hearth,

my soul takes flight and lifts—

For outside powdery snowflakes

blanket o’re the bare,

transforming distant mountains

encircling village square.

Fascinating, tiny flakes—

each shape unique and white,

illuminating sunbeams

with glorious hues of light.

I’ll burrow ‘neath my quilts tonight,

embracing winter’s sleep,

and by morn’ I shall awaken

to snows piled high and deep.

Cowboys & Cell Phones

Cowboy life is dyin’,
you can see it more an’ more—

his clothes are never dirty,

an’ he don’t git saddle sore.

His jeans have got a real nice crease,
no sweat-stain on his hat,
he don’t hangout in barrooms,
an’ he’s mostly growin’ fat.

He seldom enters rodeos,
or crosses prairies far an’ wide,
but you can bet top dollar,
he’s got a cell phone by his side.

I wonder who’d be callin’—
his boss about a storm,
or a gal he met in town last week
wantin’ him to keep her warm?

Or maybe ‘bout the calvin’
that starts in early spring,
or could it be the brandin’
why they’re givin’ him a ring?

I doubt it’s ‘bout those pack-mules
he should ready by the fall,
or mendin’ fence, an’ ridin’ herd,
or muckin’ out some stalls.

An’ if he has to load a bull
to drive to the next town,
it’ll be in that new Chevy truck
with a diesel engine sound.

Most don’t chew tabaccy,
or learn quite how to spit,
but he can use that cell phone,
an’ check his e-mail for a hit.

I hate to see it happen—
cowboys gettin’ kinda soft,
no more sleepin’ underneath the stars,
but in a cabin—with a loft!

I don’t wanna hear these cowboys say,
“It sure ain’t like it used to,”
when every time I see one,
his cell’s stuck to him like glue.

The only cowboy history
will be written in these lines.
Real cowboys dyed out long ago
with changin’ of the times.

© 2010, Tamara Hillman

Tamara told us, "I actually was at one of our Arizona Cowboy Gatherings when I noticed all these sure 'nough, real cowboys in their usual garb, topped off with a wide brimmed hat. Every single one of them also had a cell phone hung on his hand-tooled leather belt. At that point, I knew cowboy life was dyin'..."

Dad's Boots

I gently held my father’s hand
while sittin’ near his bed,
strokin’ soft the white hair
now unruly on his head.

His boots sat in the corner

all rough an’ weather-worn,

remindin’ me of all the ways

he taught me without scorn.

Just sittin’ at our table
each night when day was thru’,
bowin’ tired an’ weary head
to give our Lord His due.

His risin’ every mornin’
‘fore hearin’ rooster’s crow,
gettin’ chores done early
‘cause he had some fields to sow.

Workin’ hard for little,
but always takin’ pride
in what he could accomplish
for his children an’ his bride.

Not complainin’—not unloadin’
the worries he might have
‘bout the weather, nor the plowin’,
or nursin’ sickly calves.

His boots bring back old memories,
sittin’ there so still,
as if the man who walked in them
had fin’lly lost his will.

But, if I know my dad at all,
his spirit will live on
in the lives of all his children
with each an’ every dawn.

We’ll start our day like he did—
with purpose in each step,
be honest in our dealin’s,
not excusin’ any debt.

Those boots are lined an’ wrinkled
just like his weathered face—
he meets God now with dignity,
and honor—no disgrace.

© 2006, Tamara Hillman

Mournin' a Cowboy

He had to go—
it was his fated lot
to ride broncs in the rodeo,
take his licks—win the pot.

He hated to let go
kissing her at the door,
tussling hair of his two sons,
wanting one hour more.

She watched his old truck
as he drove down the lane
saying a prayer
he’d come home once again.

As years had gone by,
she’d watch an’ wait—
dust twirling behind him
till he’d stop at the gate.

A place waited in Cheyenne
to draw his saddle bronc,
ride that critter to ground,
or ‘til buzzer might honk.

He’d make his mark,
bring a thrill to the crowd,
but knew in his heart,
t’was to make his gal proud.

Just one more big purse
an’ he could retire,
go back to the ranch,
find some wranglers to hire.

Along about sunset,
he pulled into town,
surveyed the landscape
of the rodeo grounds.

Tomorrow he’d be there
with chaps an’ with spurs
to contest with cowboys
an’ watch the dust stir.

The next day he rose
at his usual time—
long before dawn
as he’d done since his prime.

By quarter to eight,
he drew for the horse
he’d have to unravel,
an’ defeat in due course.

He took a deep breath
as he read ‘Crazy Pete’,
a horse most men hated
since most he’d unseat.

He couldn’t be bothered
with the loss of his luck.
He’d still have to win
to take home a few bucks.

********

The phone started ringing—
he promised he’d call.
She hoped he would say
he’d made a big haul.

But the voice wasn’t his
that called her by name,
to tell her he’d passed,
there was no one to blame.

Just a horse an’ his rider—
the two had to meet,
beast against man
as they strove to compete.

His mind had been set
on this horse he’d defeat,
but her world was shattered
‘neath the hooves of old Pete.

Some folks might say – about our swing,

"It’s just an old and rusting thing,"

but I remember all the ways

that old porch swing would fill our days

Upon that swing now hanging still,

moon rising o’er the distant hill,

Mama rested – sipping tea,

and sang sweet lullabies to me

With silent rocking, dreams were sough

on summer days when it was hot,

games we played while resting there,

chess and checkers moved on squares

Women gathered ‘round the swing'

to share the latest gossiping,

while sewing patches on our jeans,

or maybe popping garden beans

Men returning from the field

would wait there for the evening meal,

at end of day – their work complete,

old Rex, our dog, lay at their feet

Granny, sometimes shedding tears,

recalling friends lost through the years,

would pass the hours on our porch

swinging gently back and forth

We courted on that creaking swing,

first love softly blossoming,

sneaking kisses in the night

veiled in shadows of moonlight

Worn and weathered that old seat

has served us well – its use replete,

we now rock babes with curly hair,

soothing them with loving care

Remembering yet those days of old,

in summer heat or winter cold,

how we chanced to tarry there

making memories we could share.

Tamara Hillman

2008

First Snow

First SnowThe signs are all around me— skies are suddenly gray-white, and I smell snow is coming, maybe on this very night…

************************

What is this ambiance of awe when viewing those first flakes swirling softly t’ward the earth— a white blanket soon to make? It’s not as tho’, these many years, I’ve not witnessed this same scene— snow piling high on field and trees, and grass no longer green.

There is no explanation for the pleasure I now feel as I listen to this old house creak, and think it no big deal. The warmth and coziness inside is multiplied ten-fold, and I treasure it above those things bought with purest gold. Each flake serves such purpose as it tumbles to the ground covering seeds and crops to yield while making nary a sound. Protection from the temperatures dipping way down low— snow insulating ground from frost spread liberally e’re it goes.

And I, like many others, who endure long months of snow, get weary of it later on when it curtails where I go. But oh, thru’ frosted window pane reflecting fireplace glow, it fills my heart with wonder, as I welcome the first snow. Tamara Hillman ©2011

Christmas In Our Town

Fond memories serve me as changes abound, and snowy white flurries now cover the ground. Thanksgiving dinner we finished in haste, stuffing ourselves with turkey we'd baste. Decorations wee then strung across our main street, warm greetings, best wishes from people we meet. Houses are well lit with lights all aglow, and hung over doorways you'll find mistletoe. Trees in the windows are beautifully shaped, shining most glorious with ornaments draped. Soon cherished loved ones will all gather 'round renewing old friendships they made in this town. Children excited and full of such laughter will treasure these moments to last ever after. On Eve of Chistmas they'll surely not sleep awaiting old Santa down chimney to creep. Fun, joy, and pleasure will be ours again celebrating the birth of the One without sin. We welcome this time and always remember why we return home the month of December.

Cowboy/Country Christmas

My mind begins to wander
to them days of long ago,

I'd hear the bells on jingle-sleighs
an' feel the cold, wet snow

My pony'd start to whinny
with breath that I could see
as we rode up in the mountains
to fetch a Christmas tree

Our fingers were kept busy
stringin' berries for that tree,
popcorn, stars, an' candles—
it was quite a site to see

I remember our log cabin
that set down by the lake,
an' think of sacrifices
my folks sure had to make

I think about my mother
preparin' special treats,
an' hangin' up the stockin's
she took right off our feet

An' dear ol' Dad a workin'
to build that favored toy,
fullfillin' all the fancy dreams
of each child, girl or boy

I smell the goose Mom cooked us,
an' taste the punkin' pie,
the turnip greens an' taters
piled half way to the sky

I hear the Christmas blessin',
heads bowed before the meal,
hopin' all our guests agreed
'bout how it made us feel

"Cause we were taught the reason
why we celebrate
the Christ Child bein' born that day,
it weren't just chance nor fate

An' when I hold my children,
though Christmas ain't the same—
I'll teach 'em 'bout that Holy Day
an' to revere His name.

© 2006, Tamara Hillman

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS UNDER THE SNOW

I see them warm and glowing

tho’ covered with snow in the night…

red and yellow, green and blue—

those glorious Christmas lights.

Lights strung along our fence line,

on rooftop, bush, and trees—

muted by storms in the darkness

they shine bright in the heart of me.

Florescent in beautiful colors—

reminiscent of the day

when Christ was born our Savior

to wash our sins away.

So, keep those Christmas lights burning

for folks who may pass by,

reminding them of the holiday

celebrating the One on high.

Tamara Hillman

I ain’t got no family,
so my buddies fill the gap

of a pretty wife who loves me,

an’ kiddies on my lap.

The ol’ bunkhouse is home to me—
it shelters best it can,
tho’ not like havin’ a real home,
but it serves this workin’ man.
When ranchin’ slows in fall,
an’ winter chills the ground,
wind is blowin’ thru’ the door
an’ snow piles all around,
It’s time to oil those bridles,
saddles an’ the like—
we huddle ‘round the woodstove,
an hear tall-tales from Ike.
Soon, Christmas Day is nearin’,
an’ we make each one a gift—
ain’t never somethin’ fancy,
but it gives a guy a lift.
We hang our socks on clothesline
stretched above the stove—
no hearth above a fireplace
with socks our mother wove.
Me an’ my friends celebrate
across this barren land.
We hoist a tree to decorate,
an’ do the best we can.
The lady of the ranch house,
bakes cookies, an’ a cake,
to bring to us on Christmas Eve
so we too can celebrate.
We remember on this wondrous day
the Lord brought forth His Son
so’s we could be forgiven
on this earth since life’s begun.
With no hats, we bow our heads,
an’ get ourselves set straight.
Each takes his turn a prayin’
‘bout sinfulness we hate.
‘Cause, we fellers use some language
of which we ain’t so proud,
an’ fight at Gin too often,
sometimes gittin’ awful loud.
We drinks a bit, an’ dances lots
in bars, an’ ol’ Grange halls,
chase the ladies now an’ then,
an Lordy, that ain’t all.
But on this day, our mamas
come back to our dim minds,
an’ we remember that small church
where our hearts was so entwined.
Where we’d hear there was an’ afterlife,
an’ pledge our sinful souls
to try an’ be like Jesus
in our daily life an’ goals.
It comes my turn for prayin’,
I clear my throat, an’ start
tryin’ to speak to the Father
with somethin’ from the heart…

I say, “Lord, if you’re listenin’
to this cowboy who’s dern rough,
I’m askin’ your forgiveness
an’ prayin’ that’s enough."

© 2010, Tamara Hillman

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

A Soldier's Christmas Wish

This year, at the holidays of course, I miss home, surrounded by sand dunes, and Iraqi mosque-domes. But I willingly came to guard against fear— not let terrorist conquer everything I hold dear. I know my mom worries about me over here away from family, and good Christmas cheer. And while I do miss the fun and the fare, I know I am fighting for reasons most share— For Freedom, for Justice, for our forefather’s plan, for choices—God-given, to every man. And for all you protester in the streets of your city, looking upon me with hatred and pity, I’m fighting for you to have that skewed right to act like a fool— burn our flag in plain sight, For our children to prosper without boot in their back, and patriots guiding them, to stay on the right track! It’s not just our training, but a true state of mind— to be honest and faithful, and love all mankind. I’d gladly lay down all I can give— my life and my soul so that others may live. And to let every man pray to the God he sees fit, tho, I may not agree, he’s entitled to it. My sons and my daughters may not know it yet, but I fight for their future, and have no regret. So celebrate Christmas in your own merry way, and please send a prayer we’ll come home one day— When this war is over, we’ve finally won, we’ve conquered the terrorists— sent ‘em all on the run. Americas worth it— all this sacrifice, and, Mom, don’t you worry ‘cause I wouldn’t think twice. I’d do it again— even die in the sand for Freedom and Liberty, for we MUST take a stand. “Merry Christmas—Blessed New Year,” to all, I now say, and, “Thank you, dear Jesus— have a Happy Birthday!” Tamara Hillman ©2010

My mind begins to wander

to them days of long ago.

I’d hear the bells on jingle-sleighs

and feel the cold wet snow.

My pony’d start to whinny

with breath that I could see,

as we rode up in the mountains

to fetch a Christmas tree

Our fingers were kept busy stringin’

berries for that tree,
popcorn, stars, n’ candles…

it was quite a sight to see.

I remember our log cabin

that set down by the lake,

and think of sacrifices
my folks sure had to make

I think about my mother preparin’ special treats,
an’ hangin’ up our stockin’s she took right off our feet.

An’ dear ol’ Dad a workin’ta build that favored toy,

fullfillin’ all the fancy dreams of each child, girl or boy

. I smell the goose Mom cooked us an’ taste the punkin’ pie,

the turnip greens an’ taters piled almost to the sky

I hear the Christmas blessin’, heads bowed before the meal,

hopin’ all our guests agreed ‘bout how it made us feel.

‘

Cause we were taught the reason why we celebrate

the Christ child bein’ born that day, it weren’t just chance nor fate.

An’ when I hold my children, though Christmas ain’t the same,

I’ll teach ‘em ‘bout that holy day an’ to revere His precious name.

There’ll be one missing Christmas,

one place at table---bare,

one smiling face we’ll yearn for

just knowing you’re not there

One present left beneath the tree

after all have been passed out,

with pretty ribbon posed atop---

a heartfelt gift, no doubt

Voices soft, diminished,

we’ll sing a Christmas song,

hoping next year’s easier

for you haven’t been gone long

The joy of your great laughter

as the children gathered ‘round---

your spirit more like ‘Peter Pan’

in revelry and sound

The snow outside---light falling,

of which you were so fond,

swift on skis and snowboard,

and skating on the pond

Cozy by a crackling fire

we’ll surely quiet sit,

recalling times your lengthy frame

would stretch in front of it

We’ll have to gather all our faith

and be of one accord,

knowing you are safe with Him---

spending Christmas with our Lord…

Missing you at Christmas poem by Tamara Hillman.

MORE FROM TAMARA HILLMAN!!!

Attack On America

Terror has gripped us with hideous sights that stay in our memories thru' long days and nights. Our flags are at half-mast, a nation that cares will all join together in grieving and prayers. Hearts are now heavy, a war has begun, we know there'll be losses of fathers and sons. Women will now serve on those foreign shores, mothers and daughters will sacrifice more. Those who are age-ed remember wars past, of many men dying for peace that must last. Terrorist strikes tried hard to succeed in wrenching our country's patriotism and creed- But there'll be no glory in what they have done to the greatest of nations under this planet's sun. They failed in their mission, we won't be denied, the right to retaliate now justified. So, people unite, be proud, also brave, they cannot defeat us for power they crave. Oh beautiful America, you always shall be a beacon in darkness, the land of the free.
© Tamara Hillman

First Snow

The signs are all around me— skies are suddenly gray-white, and I smell snow is coming, maybe on this very night… ************************ What is this ambiance of awe when viewing those first flakes swirling softly t’ward the earth— a white blanket soon to make? It’s not as tho’, these many years, I’ve not witnessed this same scene— snow piling high on field and trees, and grass no longer green. There is no explanation for the pleasure I now feel as I listen to this old house creak, and think it no big deal. The warmth and coziness inside is multiplied ten-fold, and I treasure it above those things bought with purest gold. Each flake serves such purpose as it tumbles to the ground covering seeds and crops to yield while making nary a sound. Protection from the temperatures dipping way down low— snow insulating ground from frost spread liberally e’re it goes. And I, like many others, who endure long months of snow, get weary of it later on when it curtails where I go. But oh, thru’ frosted window pane reflecting fireplace glow, it fills my heart with wonder, as I welcome the first snow. Tamara Hillman ©2011

Dark Days

Gray soldier-stones now guard my child through seasons lost. There is no sunshine, only rain. Gray skies weep— My soul weeps. Life is no more… Understanding shall not come Separation forever—I cannot conceive. Eternity, Eternity! I wait for death’s reunion. Dark days dwell in my heart … A soldier has fallen. Tamara Hillman ©2002

Whispers of the Devil

Do you hear them, Mom? he asked. I was busy doing a household task, but I stopped to listen seeing sweat on his forehead begin to glisten. The room was quiet, and I’d say, even cool, his lips trembled— at each corner was drool. I paid close attention to absolutely no sound for there was just silence—no one else around. He turned to me with pathetic, red eyes, my antenna went up—this was no surprise. “The Devil,” he said, “He’s whispering to me, saying, “Go get your fix so you can fly free.” I’d heard it before, I’d paid a high price between acting on ‘Tough Love’, and playing real nice. I knew not this stranger—the results were the same I was worn to a frazzle—tired of this game. I’d done sleepless nights, I’d walked the cold floor, prayed he’d survive—I just wanted more. More of the child I’d once bore, and loved thinking him perfect—my gift from above. I’d sent him to church, and parochial school, the teachers all loved him—he obeyed every rule. Public school was different—a new bag of tricks. Soon he was looking for his next cocaine-fix. We fought and we begged him to take a new path, but he was not scared of our Lord’s promised wrath. To be ultra popular was his only goal, and he would not worry ‘bout his darkened soul. We had to let go, let him go his own way for he rebelled an average of ten times a day. Our home was disrupted—there was no peace to be had. When he left our house, we rejoiced and were glad. We told him the one thing he could never do, if he left our home, and made himself a fool, was return to the nest anytime he might please— not even with promises on bended knees. He’d have to be clean of the drugs he so craved, prove for certain he was no longer enslaved to the Whispers of Satan, the stealing and lies— the endless tears in both his parent’s eyes. I know that he tried, and sometimes was sincere, but too soon that old Devil had him by the ear. He’d return to the stranger I never knew, not the kind-hearted boy I adored as he grew. I wanted to believe him—when he said he’d get clean, but junkies say things they don’t really mean. They have to come back from a world not their own— back to reality with proof they have shown. Until then, I say, “Don't feel defeated, or small. You’ve done what you could, and now that is all. Give it to God, he is still in control. He knows your child’s heart, and he owns their soul.” Tamara Hillman @2011

Dad-Blame Politicians!

An ol’ cowboy once told me, “Son, keep yor’ Saddle straight— cinched up tight ‘n squared away, an’ don’t depend on fate. For if yor’ a straight shooter, yor’ life will be real tame. A handshake will be good ‘nough ta trust yor’ family name.” Now, I went along believin’ the whole world thought like that, but fifty years have come ‘n gone with politicians gettin’ fat! They get upon that barren stump, an’ swear to make things right, but what I know ‘bout them folks, makes me lose sleep at night. Empty promises an’ shoutin’ ‘bout things they’re gonna CHANGE— folks aren’t really thinkin’ how their life—they’ll rearrange. It’s all about the poor folks, minorities ‘n such— money from the rich guy, an’ taxes that ain’t much. But when I get ta figurin’ what will happen later on, like when factories an’ plants close, an’ rich guys are all gone— Who’s gonna pay the wages to feed my kids and ma? I ain’t forgot DEPRESSION times, an’ anguish that I saw. An’ derned if I can figure out why some folks are on the DOLE— Could it be a case a LAZY, an’ a life without no goal? If no one in DC’s lyin’, an’ the old ways never was, I guess I’d give ‘em latitude in their promises an’ buzz. But I been ‘round just long enough to know what’s right ‘n wrong— an’ I ain’t taken in so much, nor followin’ the throng. There’s one more thing I gotta say ‘bout EVIL in this world, “Ya don’t kill a grizzly with sweet talk, an’ screamin’ like a girl.” Men fought an’ died to keep us safe, an’ let our FREEDOM ring— that there’s the tune I’m followin’— the anthem that I'll sing! Tamara Hillman ©2008

Night of Wolves

In days of old, when nights grew cold, men told a dreadful tale of Trapper Jim—how they buried him on a night the wolves did wail. It seems at the time, Jim was checking his line, and stopped to camp for the night— He heard a sound as wolves gathered round which gave him an awful fright. His horse and mule were no one’s fool— they whinnied and brayed at the moon for they knew their fate, it was much too late, they would all be devoured soon. There was nowhere to run in the midnight sun, escape was the man’s one desire— Like ghosts in the night, wolves sprang and took flight as their shadows danced in the fire. He pulled up his rifle, but nary a trifle would be left of him there alone— His friends would find him, the man they called Jim, just a hank of hair and a bone. Now, no one can say what happened that day as the trapper knelt there in the dark, but men say today, it happened that way, and the tale is true—not a lark. And they tell of wolves with cloven hooves that prowl and chase in a pack, of forbidden grounds where devilish sounds are heard if you turn your back. The story is clear if you’ll just lend an ear to the tale of Trapper Jim’s fate— Don’t tramp on his grave, nor pretend to be brave, or you’ll find it might be too late. Tamara Hillman ©2007

Reflections In the Mirror

Age 6….. Passing the mirror, she pulls at her cheeks, sticks out her tongue— blonde ringlets encircle a freckled face. 13….. The mirror beckons— She stops to preen, hating wavy hair that tumbles into her eyes… She wonders, “Am I pretty?” 18….. A young lady, ready to meet life’s challenges reflected now— Anxious to leave home, and parent rules. 24….. A bride in white, smiling at her reflection in the mirror— Mother, in the doorway, proudly holds her veil. 30….. Carpooling, PTA, soccer games, late dinners— this is her world… No time to fret over crow’s feet in the mirror. 40….. Does life begin at 40? The mirror doesn’t lie… Maturity shows in her face. Was ‘Self’ lost between motherhood and mid-life? 50….. She discovers his affair… Tearfully calls Mom— Can she forgive? Out of shape, distraught, she sobs in front of the mirror. 60….. Freedom, a time to just BE! Comfortable in her own skin— with time to pursue her own wants and needs. Life is good! 70….. Passing the hall mirror in her usual flurry, she glimpses her likeness, suddenly realizing— she’s the image of her mother. Tamara Hillman ©2006

Shame of Silence

In the year, nineteen an’ thirty-nine, in a small town that seemed not to care, a little girl tried her very best to dress well, and groom her dark hair. She’d fight for her life—whatever it took, an’ survive her father so cruel, her heart would stay strong , she’d try hard to belong in this town, and much harder—in school. Her mama had passed on to Heaven— five years since she’d breathed her last breath… Daddy had tried to hide how he cried, but then chose to live life in the past. He drank every day of the week then, and worked—but seldom, at most. His life seemed meaningless—useless, lacking life goals he might boast. Food was quite scarce in the cupboards, and her thin arms and legs bore the tale of bruises and stripes from the whippings she received every week without fail. She was only a girl in the fourth grade but her will and good marks got her thru’— nobody would come to her rescue, in those days—t’was the wrong thing to do. Her dresses were hand-me-down clothing with ties hanging loose in the back— bright calico colors were faded but worn proud no matter their lack. She tried hard to comb her long tresses and bathe whenever she could, but water was heated on a potbellied stove, and Dad wouldn’t chopped any wood. The house, feeling cold and so lonely, was never fresh cleaned as before, looking neglected and run down— crooked shutters and broken screen door. Kids teased her at school on the playground, and shunned her when seen about town. Her soul was burdened with sorrow, and her eyes looked sad-blue tho’ dark brown. Suspicion and rumors abounded but folks minded their business back then— they stayed out of another man’s family no matter his obvious sin. She struggled each day in her hard life, making plans for a future to live but fate was cruel and decisive— too soon, she had no more to give… The town had just turned a blind eye— neglected to care for this child, protect the poor girl who lived in their midst, and was known to be quite meek and mild. Now, a grave lies stark—unattended, her birth date and death carved in stone— murdered by her drunken father, ignored by a town—left alone. (dedicated to Donna who survived abuse) Tamara Hillman ©2007

The Awakening

Thinking only of myself, at times, I walked away with no regrets or afterthought— my ego gone astray… No looking back, no apologies, just a cold, cold heart of clay. No guilt, regrets or any angst, I forged through life alone, thinking I could still climb heights tho’ dreadful seeds I’d sown… But now, I know the sad truth— for much I must atone. I made it not alone in life, my path—not always straight… Listening to the old and wise my fate to contemplate — I find, my friend, that in the end, I must walk thru' that gate. Age has made me wiser, life has been my guide— learning from these lessons, my ego set aside. God became my mentor— and turned the raging tide. I go now to the injured, forgiveness—make my plea… fill my mouth with humbleness to set my conscience free, strive to love my fellow man for selfishness must flee.

This Small Town

As I view flat prairie with mountain range beyond, morning sunshine warms me and I know by afternoon, fierce storms may gather without warning. I envy not the urban dweller rushing to and fro amidst stark cement barriers. Yes, small town life suits me… I’ll not trade nights laying head on pillow as moonlight pierces the darkness and coyotes cry to the far reaches like their ancestors before…No, never! I could not, would not, give up the freedom found in these open spaces where peaceful Amish plow behind horses harnessed in leather strap. I proudly tell inquisitors, I met my husband dancing at the old grange hall, then settled on the ranch his kin claimed and worked three generations back. I feel safe, protected here among friends in this quaint little town. Crime is not a factor—not a priority one deals with on a daily basis. Trips to market bring no snarled traffic, no changing lights of red, yellow, green. Welcome is felt, not heard from silent voices behind familiar smiling eyes. On unpaved roads I return as dust fills nose and eyes, making me sneeze but it’s joy rather than nuisance as I jog along in our old pickup truck. Here the family is strong, unified—respect for elders required, blending generations of those who tamed the land before us. Sunday church services overflow with scrubbed and shining faces as preachers spread harmony and warnings from the Good Book. Camaraderie and sportsmanship are taught in this small town. Proud parents gather in crowds to support their team at each and every event. Discipline and morals form traditional characteristics of the region, and authority is respected on all levels, patriotism honored. Our children do not stray to the bright lights of the city vandalizing, joining lost souls seeking acceptance on mean streets. Early evening sounds of slumber echo thru’ thin walls of this old farmhouse for morning chores greet our kids, us, in this game of sweet survival. No, I do not envy city folks or opportunities I may have missed therein, nor do I allow them to bring me scorn, or take pity on my soul. I gain my worth from one greater, wiser, more forgiving than mere mortals… I hear the voice of my Creator, and I follow where He leads.

Parkinson's

This frail age-ed woman who stands before you was once someone vital with life to live too. I was once young and pretty, a new bride to be, not always trembling as life slipped from me. A mother of several, and proud of them all, not this unsteady woman trying hard not to fall. I walked with my head high viewing the world, dancing till dawn as I waltzed and I twirled. My husband—my equal as we toiled side-by-side, back then not a burden to keep up with his stride. Now my body betrays me with shaking and trembles like that leaf in the wind I know it resembles. Pain on the faces of those loving me still make me cry out to have back my free will. My mind is a jumble where once it was clear, quick with the memories I held oh so dear. I hate Parkinson’s! It’s stolen my youth! It takes away smiles, hides emotional truths. The doctors are puzzled—a cure they can’t find. Most of the medicine plays tricks with my mind. So please don’t ignore me like I don’t exist, deep in my heart I still long to be kissed. Don’t stare at me and see just the disease for I’m the same woman wanting only to please. Accept that I’m here within this frozen shell, inside of this tomb madly ringing the bell. Footnote: The last line depicts the bygone practice of a person sitting alertly by the grave of a friend or family member on the night of their burial to listen for the ringing of a bell that was perched atop the ground with a string strung back to the inside of the coffin, tied securely around the deceased’s finger. This guaranteed if someone had fallen into a coma and was only thought to be dead, they would not be buried alive. Before embalming was practiced, burials ensued quickly after death, and mistakes were sometimes made.

Night Blossoms

NIGHT BLOSSOMS Scents of blossoms fill the air, fresh, pungent odors everywhere, and as I slumber in my bed, smells nourish senses in my head Essence of crimson, colors sweet, moonbeams golden at my feet, with window open, there to dream, enlightened of spring, or so it seems Epiphanies of wondrous things, bequeathed of God, my soul doth sing…

The Way of It

Is it the spirit within us, or is it adventure we seek to travel beyond the wild side, not stay in our traces quite meek? The way of the wild is our nature, challenges—mountaintop high, searching for life’s rich fulfillment, or looking to God asking, “Why?” As children, we see things so different, no bonds to hold back the mind, no fears, no woes, no self-conscience— only true ties that bind. From birth we are tested and labeled to conform to a socialized scale, maybe for better or worse—I don’t know, but sometimes it seems much like hell. Torment and guilt put us under— not always from what we have done, but rather from what we were taught as right or wrong since life’s begun. Stresses unleashed on our ego, competing for goals to succeed— but is it to bathe in the glory, or is it for purpose and need? Let me live free as the creatures on Earth and under the sea— my soul needs rest from life’s sorrows— my person wants just to be me.

The Measure

What is the measure of failure or success? Is it by our heart's standard, or the world's? Is one's passion deemed failure or success by forces beyond the ego's perimeters? Where lies the truth? Are we to be stabbed with failure's painful sword, or should we not revel in the sweet ecstacy of success? What is the measure?

Antique Mirror

Oval in shape, large in size, filigree edges framing lives. Reflecting faces similar to mine, different shapes, costume design. Thru' the ages capturing change, fleeting moments, coiffure arranged. Hung in houses, bought and sold, sometimes new, sometimes old. Left in storage, forgotten in dust, family inheritance, offered in Trust. Reaching maturity, it's value unique now that this mirror is considered antique.

The Dance

She carries dinner and sweet tea to her man in the field as purple hews of sunset streak down mountain sides. An evening breeze is welcomed, cooling the damp dress clinging to her shape in the shadow of night. Darkness settles over Heaven and Earth, bare feet caress rich soil as bodies held tight in rhythmic embrace-- dance.

Fragments of a Life

Just fragments of a life, a day, an hour... No time to bide, face the truth, just bury reality in recesses of the mind. Bits and pieces of a life strung together like pearls lightly touched, then hurriedly put aside, never worn, never appreciated. Scattered images and tales, some true, some exaggerated, never hesitating, never pollinating, fluttering away on futile wings. Flashes of lives touched, no structure, no conformity, breeding confusion, disrespect, never independence Like a puzzle once begun, never finished, pieces missing, long forgotten, fearing the completed picture. Fragments of a life, wishing, hoping for a pleasant end, praying to God, yet never listening for His answer.

Depth of the Well

Slowly I am lowered to the bottom of the well. Light from above grows dim. Darkness envelops me. I sink deeper, drowning in waters of hopeless dispair. Robe and slippers- my only comfort. Personal hygiene- too great a task. Only the empty shell of me exists. Gloom and foreboding taunt me. Mind and soul are weary. Sleep far too many hours. Social reclusiveness-my refuge, my shield from burdening acquaintance. I am encompassed in lonliness and fear. Floating alone in dark waters, I wonder, will the rope of life be lowered, will I escape this tangle of paranoia, and rise again from the depths? **** Rescued at last by tiny, pill life-rings, I grab hold... Suddenly, gray walls shine brightly. Daylight streams in from above. I begin to slowly climb out. At well's edge, I find relief; Free of torment. Free from the depths of depression.

The Sea

Gently, silent waters lap soft against the shore, kissing stones and pebbles, retreating then once more. Blue to gray, colors blend, combining sea and sky, merging joy with sorrow beheld in each mind's eye. Seasons bring harsh changes, waves rage against the land, some see the storms as fierce, while others think them grand. Deep in the depths of darkness, the sea will measure man, taking ships to the bottom, breath from his lungs, if it can. Some only find grave danger in those waters vast and free, tho' others seeking pleasure, find pure serenity.

Travis

Today I buried ol' Travis, a better dog you never seen, intelligent, strong, an' good natured with eyes that were wary and keen. It hurt me to lay him to rest now, an' I know I'm gonna shed tears, but I can't fault God for the takin' 'cause I shared with that dog sixteen years. I remember when I first saw Travis, just a little fur ball at the time, we both felt an instant connection, an' I knew that cowdog would be mine. I couldn't resist his free spirit, golden eyes that were so fulla care, nor could I forsee his devotion, or all the good times we would share. From the very first trip to our homestead, my pickup he claimed as his own, whenever that truck left our acres, he was goin' wherever it roamed. As a watch dog there never was better, no coyote would dare cross this land, he'd be out there barkin' an' chasin', an' run off the whole yippin' band. An' when Mr. Cougar come callin', ol' Travis would raise such a fuss, he knew not to nab the mean bugger, but would bark till it woke both of us. Ranch hands have got an' ol' sayin' 'bout workin' as hard as a dog, an' I can sure vouch for ol' Travis, he could herd cattle even in fog. His muzzle was startin' to turn gray, an' he had quite a limp t'ward the end, but whenever I'd head out to do chores, I could count on some help from my friend. Now, I ain't alone in my grievin', the wife took Trav's death pretty hard, he was also her life long companion, an' would follow her out in the yard. I know that we're both gonna miss him, this place'll seem empty an bare, I'll miss fillin' his bowl in the kitchen, an' him sleepin' right next to my chair. My throat's just plum' fulla the achin', an' I'll bust out in tears anytime, but I ain't ashamed a my feelin's, 'cause most dogs, well, they ain't worth a dime. But Travis was just somethin' special, best cowdog I ever did see, an' wherever God sends dogs when passin', that's the place where I wanna be.

T-Bone

T-Bone was our camp cook when we went on the trail, whiskered an' b-grizzled with a wit that never failed. He took no guff from anyone, not even the boss man, 'cause he controlled his eaten too when he rattled those tin pans. He made bakin' powder biscuits 'n beans most ever' day, an' swore the meal was hardy an' kept hunger pains away. He always brewed black coffee, you could cut it with a knife, an' had a squaw he took along, he claimed she was his wife. We'd cross wide open prairie an' ford the ragin' stream, while T-Bone would maneuver that bedraggled two-mule team. Chuck wagon, he kept well supplied, not only with our grub, but also with some medicines, liniments, an' rub. He allowed we tie our horses to the wagon wheels to eat, if we was still on duty, an' not long upon our feet. That cook was most obligin' in the middle of a storm, he'd break out extra blankets just to try an' keep us warm. Sometimes we'd get to teasin' an' call him Mother Hen, 'cause he always was a fussin' an' keepin' track a men. They say ol' T-Bone's mother was a barroom girl from town, an' he never had no daddy, at least, none come around. But he musta had some learnin' 'bout the good Lord up above 'cause our cooky was a Godly man that filled his heart with love. We laid the man to rest today an' many tears was shed, 'cause ever'one loved T-Bone, an' hate the fact he's dead.

Love Eternal

Daylight draws to a close as puple shadows dance along mountain tops. Arms intertwined, we walk the dark path home, yellow porch light beckoning as bounder chases ahead. Another day has ended but life goes on... Our love is eternal

Moonlit Ride

Across the prairie, far and wide, the maiden took a moonlit ride... She chose to venture late at night, avoiding shadows, taking flight, to live courageous as in dreams, freeing her spirit, or so it seems. Escaping mundane chores of day, loosing her mount to gallop away, covering earth with lightning speed, hooves pounding fast to fill her need. Through the forest, through the glen, beyond the places known to men, over mountains majestic, high, seeking porticos in the sky. As moonlight streamed across the field in glorious brightness, much to yield, she rode like the wind away from home, craving her freedom, a chance to roam. For dawn and sunshine soon would break, and from their beds the masses wake, ending a night of perfect bliss horse and maiden soon would miss- Untll full moon came with the tide, coaxing her out for a another ride...

Moonlit Snow

Full moon rises with luminous essence falling on fresh snow reflecting a myriad of twinkles. Torch light radiance blankets meadow and field, exuding the shadowy lustre of an imposter twilight. Refracting moonbeams encompass forests, dancing with flickering light thru' Evergreen trees. Moonlight emulates day, illuminating the midnight hour... Translucent colors diffuse the dawn, shimmering on fresh snow with sparkles of morning light.

October Mist

Homesick in this month, October, for old friends I now most yearn. Take me back to that warm hearth where my soul seeks quick return. Trapped here in this asphalt jungle, longing for frsh air and field, farm with bulging barn and silo storing many crops of yeild. October mist on morning meadow, calming peace at early day, recalls to mind the harvest season, life lived in a better way. Cowbells clanging on far paths, heavy chores by morning sun, weary heads that rest on pillow when a long day's work is done. Soon the weather will be changing, time to linger, rake the leaves, cut firewood, mend the fences, thoughts that force my heart to grieve. Take me to that place I wandered, carefree dreamer, just a child. Let those memories be my future. Take me from this city wild.

Winds of Love

Chinook winds whisper softly as lover's breath in spring promises of wanton lust desires of passion bring. Summer winds brush rosy cheeks, his hands smooth tousled hair. Rapturous murmurs in the night- her perfume lingers there. Autumn winds blow dry leaves fulfilling nature's need, amassing beds on forest floor, accepting fruitful seed. But beware, the winds of winter blow harsh and bitter cold, tearing at the heart and soul as countless tears unfold.

Winter

House stands in mock defiance of blustery winds that blow, ice crystals pelting windowpanes, precede the winter snow. Barren limbs stretch to sky, frost hardened furrowed fields await the winter season, anxious for spring yields. Landscapes agonize for change, snow flurries soon appear, covering white dear Mother Earth at closing of each year. Rosy cheeked with numbing lips, we bundle 'gainst the cold, frozen ponds bid winter games that never shall grow old. Nestled 'neath Granny's quilts while fireplace crackles warm, tranquil peace now settles thru' winter wind and storm.

Old Homesteads

Passing thru' the farmlands, my mind begins to roam for along the way we travel lie abandoned, country homes. Weather-beaten, gray and leaning, often twenty miles from town, I wonder how they're standing, why they haven't tumbled down. Rock foundations old and crumbling, all the windows broken out, peeling paint and floral paper droop from walls, I have no doubt. Families settled in these places in days that long have past. Were they determined people facing up to any task? How many children born there with no doctor to attend, just neighbor helping neighbor, giving comfort to a friend? I envision fields of ripe grain blowing freely in the wind, waiting for the harvest to be cut and gathered in. Cattle that were grazing in meadows wet with dew, orchards on the hillside where fruits of plenty grew. Father toiling endless hours from dawn till fading light, never stopping but for meals, feeling weary-worn each night. Children laughing, playing games made up in days of old, not minding change of season, summer heat, nor winter cold. Did they study by the fieplace, or light the kerosene to read the family bible, the message there to glean? Were there deaths and sorrows within those walls and beams, or did they just give up the land, forget about their dreams? Why would they leave those places, where did they choose to go, were they broken by the hardships of life struggles, pain, and woe? Artists scenes are left to capture, and I hope that they will show, the years and untold stories of those homesteads long ago.

Country School

The little brick school house where Mama used to go, sets quietly atop the hill thru' summer heat and snow. The bell on top is silent now, the window shutters tight, the door is weather-beaten, and floors an awful sight. The old stove is still standing in the center of the room, Lilac bushes, long forgot, beside brick walls still bloom. Blackboards stretch across one end stained with dust and chalk, memories those walls would tell if only they could talk. Honored places are now faded where president pictures hung, Pledge of Allegiance always said when morning bell was rung. There's a hitchin' post for horses the children rode to school, no bus for transportation then to learn the Golden Rule. Discipline was taught there, honor and respect, to take responsibility, not leave one's youth unchecked. The old place holds the secrets of bygone days that passed, of children growing tall and straight with rules of life to last . That dear old country school where younsters sought their goal within those walls of mortared brick now stands empty of its soul.

Granny's Blossoms

Beside the old house on the northern side, where Granny's flowers did abide, Red roses flourished, orange Poppies too, and tall Holly Hocks of crimson grew. Dahlias, Iris, Snap Dragons of blue, plus beautiful Asters covered in dew. Great hues of color with greenery fine, I'll always remember those blossoms divine.

Veteran's Honor

We honor our veterans and give them their due, words can't express thanks for trials they went through. Our young men complied trusting other men's orders, relying on training to protect allied borders. Missing most holidays and family events, questioning not the places they went. While they sat in foxholes, dirty and cold, we were protected by those brave and bold. Many saw action, some gave their lives, never returning to husbands and wives. While we took for granted our freedom and flag, veterans saw buddies sent home in a bag. So, honor our veterans and give them their due, words can't express thanks for trials they went through.

Life Ain'T Easy, Son

When strollin' by the ol' saloon, on chairs they kept outside, I spied a dried up, lonsome sort folks walked by, but eyed. He had a faithful doggie with head laid on his knee. The ol' man stroked him softly, kind, devotedly. I stopped an' took a seat nearby, then shared a cut of chaw. I thought his story might be good- he reminded me of Pa. I asked just where he hailed from, he didn't bat an' eye- looked off in space, took one deep breath, prob'ly thinkin' up a lie. Come from ever'where, Son, been places you ain't dreamed. I settled back to listen. He relaxed a bit it seemed. An Indian fighter, I once was, rode with the Cavalry. Met ol' Yeller Hair himself in eighteen, sixty-three. Was wagon master for some folks seekin' land to claim, leavin' homes an' fam'lies east- thought the West they'd tame. Had a wife I sure 'nough loved, two daughters an' a son, the cholera took 'em all one year, my driftin' then begun. Did some drovin' 'hind the herds, eatin' miles a dust, catchin' strays, an' keepin' watch for rustlers we could bust. Owned a ranch in Texas but never got no rain, the drought, it lasted six years, no reason to remain. I killed a man in Denver, the bugger had it comin', he kicked my dog, stole my horse, broke the guitar I was strummin'. Cut trees out in Wyomin', lumber-jacked a bit. Camp bully always threatnin', my throat he'd like to slit. I rode the rails a piece back then, an' dern near froze my tail, sittin' in them boxcars thru' rain, an' wind, an' hail. Now, I'm nigh on eighty, an' comin' to my end. I thank ya Son for listenin' , ya seem 'most like a friend. I reckon that I've lived some, an' ain't sure now I'm done, I just take one day at a time 'cause life ain't easy, Son.

Aging (Sonnet)

Of youth, I dare not say ado, yet wait upon the willing heart that I be spared that visit standing at the Pearly Gates, I bide my time, not hurried to go there. For on this Earth I tarry not to die, believing soul and body to unite, hence, the tongue in silence gives no cry, with my Lord I stand in glorious light. Grim Reaper, oh dreaded one, be not proud for many, not I alone, must now fight to keep our youth in the maddening crowd, and know that never we should fear the night. Alas, 'tis not from aging I dispair but from telling mirror I must beware.

Moonscapes (Cinquain)

Cresent, curved sliver hangs in starry darkness- a wisp of light filling the night with peace.

The Mist (Haiku)

Foggy mist hovers o'er pond in fall's early dawn dissolving to day.

Walk Beside Me

You've left my world yet your aura lingers still, I feel your ever presence believing it's your will, To never quite desert me, crossing to the other side, leaving just an open wound of grief I must abide. I see you in a shadow from the corner of my eye, and feel you sitting near me in the bedroom when I cry. You walk with arms around me as we tarry in the lane, remembering the early years of love that shall remain. Death can never separate two hearts that beat as one for God brought us together, His will on Earth was done. My hands reach out for yours now in a grasp that we may share all that life has left me until I join you there.

Whispers On the Wind

Wind blowing gently 'cross brow and cheek, whispers soft, revealing secrets that we keep. Wind can be our master, even our best friend, taking us to places we have never been. Wind beyond horizons, billowing in sails, whispering in dreams- poems we've yet to tell. Wind sweeping beaches, swaying tallest trees, moving to the rhythms of gulls and bumblebees. Wind pushing clouds fast across the sky, children seeing images as they hurry by. Wind bringing memories tearing at the heart, deepening the wound of lovers torn apart. If only we would listen, we surely could depend on messages from Heaven that whisper on the wind.

Irish (Limerick)

How far I have come from dear Ireland, from Erin to the "Land of the Free." My heart, left on that shore, I shall visit no more, and my image they shall never see...

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T-Winks

Ranch Hand Friends by Rick Unger

Old White Chest/Poem/Tamara Hillman

Christmas In Our Town

A Soldier's Christmas Wish

Attack On America

First Snow

Dark Days

Whispers of the Devil

Dad-Blame Politicians!

Night of Wolves

Reflections In the Mirror

Shame of Silence

The Awakening

This Small Town

Parkinson's

Night Blossoms

The Way of It

The Measure

Antique Mirror

The Dance

Fragments of a Life

Depth of the Well

The Sea

Travis

T-Bone

Love Eternal

Moonlit Ride

Moonlit Snow

October Mist

Winds of Love

Winter

Old Homesteads

Country School

Granny's Blossoms

Veteran's Honor

Life Ain'T Easy, Son

Aging (Sonnet)

Moonscapes (Cinquain)

The Mist (Haiku)

Walk Beside Me

Whispers On the Wind

Irish (Limerick)