I NEVER DID LIKE HIM FOR HIS BRAINS
        by Hilma (Volcano) Volk
 

It was our High School reunion -
My gawd the years fly quick -
An old memory walked through the door,
And he was lookin' kinda sick.

I'd studied the old yearbook
Memorizing each forgotten name.
Could it be? Nawh! It must be him.
There he was, my teenage flame.

Oh, he was a handsome devil then,
Cocky, bold and strong
A junior rodeo champion,
Oh my gawd we got along.

But I went on to college,
Missed him less and less each day.
While he took the rodeo circuit -
Rode rough stock in the P.R.C.A.

Now twenty years later there he stood
Lookin' twice as old as most
A bent up man in a bent up body T
hat could be giving up the ghost.

He told me I was lookin' good,
As he flashed a toothless grin.
And I wished I could say the same.
I blurted, "You stayed thin."

His left eye was kinda droopy,
And the right one wore a patch.
His nose faced northeast when he faced north,
And his ears no longer matched.

One elbow didn't bend quite right,
And that shoulder rather sagged.
When I asked him how he'd been I couldn't tell
if he bellyached or bragged.

He said, "Every rib's been busted,
An' my skull's been fractured twice.
Let's sit down while we talk,
I'm s'posed to keep this knee on ice.

"I split my spleen in Abilene,
Broke my elbow up in Pasco,
My collar bone in San Antone
Crushed each toe in old El Paso.

"I broke my jaw in Wichita,
Lost six more teeth in Tacoma T
hen in Medford, man I was gored
And spent three months in a coma.

"I don't let 'em know I'm hurtin' so
(A cowboy ain't supposed to complain)
But my muscles cramp when the weather's damp
Or when someone even mentions rain.

He said, "Heck," as he cracked his neck,
"You know, I'm still decidin',
But it may be true, in a year or two,
I just might give up bull ridin'." ---

Hilma (Volcano) Volk ©All rights reserved.

About the author..........Hilma (Volcano) Volk writes:


"Although I've lived a lot of places and done a lot of things, most of them are fuzzy remembrances by choice.

I have a B.S. (we all know what that stands for) from Michigan State University.

I worked with the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service for 8½ years. That ended me up in North Dakota where I pushed pencils over mounds of government reports about the wildlife we'd be managing if we didn't have so much paperwork. In my spare time I trained horses and helped neighbors hay and herd cattle.

Rather than spending a fourth winter in North Dakota I decided to take a hike. I left to backpack solo through the Rockies the Canadian border to New Mexico. There I coined the now popular phrase, “You know your feet are sore when you step in cow pies ‘cause they’re soft.”

After a few unfortunate events like my mom having a severe stroke, I owned and operated a riding stable for 4½ years, offering trail rides, wagon and sleigh rides, as well as lessons and horse training. The high cost of liability insurance caused the business to fold.

Since then I worked with delinquent teenagers on a wagon train, held a host of “manure type” jobs in many states, and was the wrangler at a guest ranch in Montana for four years. For the last 11 years I've been a professional, licensed massage therapist. Currently I live near Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.

During all this irrelevant stuff, I have entertained throughout six western states. .Most people, especially ones that think they know me well, are amazed at the transformation that takes place when I have a microphone in my hand. Give me an audience and I'm golden.

My works have appeared in numerous publications.  I have authored a book of cowboy poetry, "MANURE HAPPENS".

People don't know what to call me -- in reference to this poetry stuff I mean. Cowboy poet doesn't seem to fit. Cowgal or cowgirl poet sounds kind of fluffy. Cowboy poetess - now what the heck is that?

I prefer to call myself a rhyming storyteller. I like a broader genre. Call my work Country-Fried Baloney.

I've listened to literary poets, too sophisticated for rhyme or meter, reciting with their noses to pages in an almost monotonic drone, saying much and telling little with hidden meanings and layered suppositions. Yawn!

Works of the master storytellers, like Baxter Black and Robert Service are not sophisticated, but they are clever and brilliant. My heros.

My goal is to entertain. If there are any hidden meanings in my work, they are hidden from me as well. And when I'm before an audience, my poetry is neither read nor recited, it is performed.

My poems relate to wildlife, horses, mountain and country life and (of course) the ridiculous. And yes, every word of what I say is true (but not necessarily the sentences or paragraphs). You can read more of my cowboy poetry on my web site: http://www.ManureHappens.com .
                                                                                       Happy trails,
                                                                                    Hilma "Volcano" Volk

                                           

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