Montana

A good many times, when I am making rhymes
About one thing or another.
My mind goes back, to a little ‘clapboard’ shack,
Where I used to batch with my brother.

The roof was flat, you could throw a cat
Throrugh cracks in the floor and siding.
The windows were out, mice played about,
Under the floor, skunks were abiding.

I hope you understand, from the facts at hand,
We were very poor, but usually happy.
Though once in a while, we forgot to smile,
And our voices got loud and snappy.

Those days of yore, as I’ve said before,
Were full of trials and tribulations.
We just did our best, would joke and jest,
And laugh at our privations.

The good Lord knows, we didn’t see picture shows,
We ate cornmeal mush and dodgers.
We didn’t care, couldn’t afford to stare,
At the antics of ‘Roy Rogers’.

We didn’t drive fast cars, nor sit in bars,
Never got far from our humble quarters.
We didn’t use, socks in our shoes,
So we needed no fancy garters.

Our clothes were patched, our heads were thatched,
With hair both long and tangled.
We used worn out tools, had no use for schools,
We were wary of things newfangled.

We were afraid of girls, with their shining curls,
Their coy ways and fragrant powder
It seemed to us, they thought they must,
Talk loud, or a little louder.

I guess they weren’t too bad, if we had had,
Good clothes and lots of money.
They would have smiled ‘by heck’, and hugged our neck,
And fondly called us ‘honey’.

Now the years roll on, my brother is gone,
I am alone and lonely.
I look back now, and can see as how,
Things would be much different, ‘if only’.

Copyright KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

On a hill in Montana
Stands a weatherbeaten house.
In it there lives an old miner
With no kids and no spouse.

He never got married
And he never will.
For he is content as he is
Up there on his hill.

He has a few horses
And a faithful old dog.
He has no use whatever
For a chicken or a hog.

He works for his neighbor
To buy bacon and beans.
He is never without
A few bucks in his jeans.

He spends most of his time,
With fencin’ and such.
He is stiff with arthritis,
Doesn’t accomplish very much.

He gets tired of fencin’
And stackin” the hay.
He would rather go mining,
Though it mostly don’t pay.

It is interesting work
And gets in the blood.
He is happy when digging
In hardrock, or mud.

While he’s mining he works
Like a man half his age.
At other jobs he worries
Like a bird in a cage.

Though he never made a dime
While looking for ore.
He is always ready
To try it once more.

It isn’t likely at mining
He will ever get rich.
But it is a lot more fun
Than shoveling a ditch.

While sinking a shaft
In rock harder than hell.
He doesn’t get half as tired
As when he’s digging a well.

He is always hoping
Some highrade to find.
But you wouldn’t understand,
If you never have mined.

Though it is the searching and working
That makes him look old.
He is never so happy,
As when digging for gold.

For there is always a chance
That the very next round,
Will uncover great riches
In that old stubborn ground.

At last when he’s dead
And prayed over in church.
If he didn’t get rich,
He had the fun of the search.

Copyright KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

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

Fallen Tree

I have cut a million trees,

On a thousand hills

My tools have left their traces.

The mighty pine and tamarack

Have fallen in all sorts of places.

The fir, and larch, and towering spruce

Have bowed beneath my axe and saw.

They ‘bit the dust’, as I knew they must,

In weather both mild and raw.

From tiny seeds those trees had grown,

And reached toward the sky.

I got a mighty thrill, when I sent them down the hill

But I hated to see them die.

Now where they stood, there is only rotting wood,

Of stumps and limbs decaying.

But they furnish food, as nature meant they should,

For seeds that are dormant laying.

Now every year there’s a new crop,

Of seedlings slowly spreading.

They furnish cover, food and shade,

Where deer and elk are treading.

For years and years, with wedges, axe and ‘fiddle’

I could put those trees where I wanted them,

Exactly down the ‘middle’.

Then I bought a power saw, oh my! Oh law!

How quickly I could slay them.

One hundred a day, was nothing but play.

I sure committed mayhem.

Many narrow escapes I had, if the wind was bad,

Or when my partner was new and green,

When the snow was deep, or the hill was steep,

 It sure was tough and mean.

Sometimes they would crack and split,

But I never quite got hit

When they came down with a crash and clatter.

We would let out a yell,

And run like hell,

We knew enough to scatter,

When lunchtime came, we would build a fire,

And sit around in bunches,

With smoke in our eyes,

Telling clean stories, or lies,

While toasting our frozen lunches.

Those were good old days, in many ways,

Despite our trials and privations.

We were satisfied with what we had,

And “to hell” with other nations.

KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

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

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