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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
Summer Heat
Douglas Polk
the heat king,
unable to be knocked from his perch,
day after day,
the challengers hurled down the mountain,
or the haystack,
King of the Mountain,
a child's game the heat has mastered,
cows bawl as the tanks run dry,
an angry mob,
undecided about what action they should take,
just mill around and stew in the heat,
the sun climbs the sky,
the same as the temperature on the thermometer,
and the fire in Dad's eyes,
while trying to get the pumpjack going,
I, the youngest,
am elected to climb the windmill tower,
and turn the blades by hand,
praying all the while,
for the breeze to blow,
or the pumpjack to go,
upon my perch the old mill seems to shiver in the heat,
threatening to fall down,
a tired old man,
ready to rest,
hearing my prayers answered,
the gas engine on the pumpjack sputters,
and comes to life,
the mob of cows seem to cheer.
Explosions
Douglas Polk
a beehive in the hay field,
explodes with bees,
when the mower's sickle hits,
sending angry bees in every direction,
I lift the blade and drive away,
checking for Dad,
hoping he doesn't see my cowardice,
he is at the creek,
blowing up beaver dams,
his dynamiting skills from the war,
quite practical in the dead of summer,
when the beavers hog the creek,
leaving the hay ground dry,
bees and dynamite,
explosions enough for one work day,
hoping Dad's temper will wait for tomorrow,
or at least until I can mow my next pass,
when my courage returns.
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