Montana Living

Poems about life in Montana

A Day In April

August 18, 2009 in Critters, Montana Living | No comments

What a miserable day the weatherman has sent,
I don’t know what is wrong, with the old gent.
All night long the rain came down,
Anything but ducks would drown.

I was up this morning, at first daylight,
The snow was falling with all its’ might.
The trees were drooping, with the heavy stuff,
I don’t like to kick, but enough’s enough.

The deer were huddled beneath the thickest firs.
The looked dejected as beaten curs.
Too miserable to lie on the sodden ground,
So they just stood like ghosts around.

Not a single squirrel have I seen all day.
I suppose they are all tucked away.
In their cozy nests, so snug and warm,
Where the cold and wet, can’t do them harm.

I think they are smarter than us bipeds,
They know enough to stay in their comfy beds.
Hidden away in a hole so deep,
Where nothing is apt to disturb their sleep.

While we silly mortals, must be up and about,
Cussing the weather and staring out,
Through the windows, at the falling snow,
Wishing that we could be on the go.

Guess I am about as bad as all the rest,
At fuming and ranting, I’ve done my best.
But I’ve found it does no good to curse,
It’s a ‘hell of a day’, “but it could be worse”.

Copyright KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

Time Payment Plan

July 29, 2008 in Money, Montana Living | No comments

You and your wife, led a joyful life,

Until you started buying

On the installment plan, but now you can

Bills

 

There are payments due upon the car,

Also on the electric washer.

Due on everything, inside and out,

And the duns are getting harsher.

 

You are a wreck, your measly check

Just won’t go halfway ‘round.

That pay monthly pest, won’t let you rest,

‘Till you are underground.

 

But even then, the box you’re in,

And all your somber raiments,

The coat and vest, and all the rest,

Will be bought on easy payments.

 

KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

Hotter Than Hell

July 29, 2008 in Montana Living | No comments

I have lived thru a lot of winter cold

And a lot of summers heat.

But for downright torrid hotness,

This summer has them beat.

Hotter than Hell

Hotter than Hell

 

 

This shack is like a furnace,

With the door and windows open

I keep hoping for some rain

But I guess there is no use in hopin’

 

The weatherman keeps predicting rain.

In him I take no stock.

If I was lucky enough to have some eggs,

I could fry them on a rock.

 

The trees are looking wilted,

The grass is dry and brown.

If a fire was ever started,

It would really “go to town.”

 

Those forest service “jokers”

Would think that was a pretty pass,

For they would have to quit their easy chairs,

And bestir their lazy ass.

 

They don’t like to leave their easy chairs.

Nor sunburn their blessed necks.

All they want is lots of cold beer

And to draw their salary checks.

 

But I hope there will be no fires.

If there are, I wish them well.

For it is hot enough without them.

It is hotter than all hell.

 

 

KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

The Year the Huckleberries Failed

July 29, 2008 in Huckleberries, Montana Living | No comments

Huckleberries

Huckleberries

In this great state of Montana

We have the finest in the West,

And above all the other things,

I like Huckleberries best.

 

They make the very choicest jam

And most delicious pies,

They have stored up lots of flavor,

Beneath Montana’s sunny skies.

 

Most every year you can find some,

‘Though you may have to search awhile,

But if you like them as well as I do,

You will walk many a mile.

 

But there was one year I can remember,

When it rained, and snowed, and hailed,

Then froze, to cap the climax,

That year the huckleberries failed.

 

We searched high and low, far and wide,

But couldn’t find a single berry,

In all those patches, where in other years

We could pick all we could carry.

 

There were many long, sad faces,

There were tears in many eyes.

For everyone had been looking forward,

To those luscious, juicy pies.

 

There was mourning in every cabin

And all business was curtailed.

For no one had the heart to work,

The year the huckleberries failed.

 

Some had a quart or two,

Left from the year before.

They guarded them with a shotgun,

And put padlocks on every door.

 

They valued them above gold nuggets,

Wouldn’t have traded for the ‘crown jewels’,

For turning down some offers,

They were called thickheaded fools.

 

One man traded a quart of berries

For a brand new “Cadillac”,

Then after he thought it over,

Tried his best to trade back.

 

Some folks who made their living,

Picking berries for to sell,

Came back from their searching

With their nerves all shot to hell.

 

All the wild birds and beasts,

That dine on huckleberries,

Came down from the mountains

And ate all the chokecherries.

 

That also was an election year

And the ones who won the race,

Promised to bring the berries back,

The rest were in disgrace.

 

But sad to say, the winners

Fell down upon the job,

At making good their promises,

They sure did play hob.

 

Mothers tried to quiet their babies,

But it wasn’t any use.

For they one and all demanded,

Good old huckleberry juice.

 

It was sad to see the little tykes.

They were so wan and weak.

When one feed of huckleberries,

Would have put a dimple in each cheek.

 

It’s been many, many years now,

Since Montana was assailed

By all the worst elements of nature,

The year the huckleberries failed.

 

The preachers in all the churches,

Prayed to the “Almighty One” on high,

But they couldn’t get an answer

And they couldn’t tell us why.

 

The Indians held big powwows,

They called on their “Great Spirit” in the sky.

Their medicine man whooped and chanted.

They sure did make a try.

 

There was wailing in all the lodges

In every teepee and every shack,

But I guess the ‘medicine’ wasn’t working,

For it didn’t bring the berries back.

 

There is a moral to this story,

Gained from all those bitter tears.

When there is a big crop of berries,

Pick enough for several years.

 

If I live to be a hundred,

I’ll remember the hardships that prevailed

For everyone in Montana,

The year the huckleberries failed.

 

KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen