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Open Poetry #40
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Preacher
| Open Poetry #40 |
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Preacher |
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SPIRIT Senior Member
since 2002-12-29
Posts 1745California Desert |
THE PREACHING MAN We felt him... long before we saw him, He came into the General Store, Asking directions to Ridge Cabin, The old preacher’s place. He was tall, six feet or more, Dressed all in black from head to toe. His attire topped by a long black coat, That way covered the top of his boots, In fact hit his ankles as he walked. A most expensive item...that flowing coat, Never seen one in our small town before, We were but a town in humble beginnings. He had an air of authority, Or maybe it was arrogance about him. Looked you square in the eyes, And you couldn’t help But be the first to turn away. Not the sort of person You would want to meet alone In a dark alley...was a thought of the first reckoning. Looked like he could hold his own, yet he wore no guns. Just who could this stranger be Wanting the old preacher’s place. The old preacher he had died Two full moons before, and then some. Ridge Cabin, always a dismal place, Had sat desolate and unattended Ever since then - we told the stranger this, He smiled, and in a ’sit up and take note’ voice Told us would be empty no more …he was the new preacher. He bought some staple supplies Loaded them in a rickety wagon, Being pulled by two tired-looking horses, Climbed up on the buckboard And said he hoped to see us Sunday. He would appreciate it, he said If we passed the word around...that church Would be back and running by then. Picnic baskets would be welcomed, By all those wishing to be neighborly And socialize after services. Tied to the back of the wagon Was the most magnificent stallion Any one of us had ever seen, Pure white with fire dark eyes And a mane and tail of great length. He left us scratching our fool heads, Never before seen a preaching man Who looked…or acted, like him. Young Jeb, a for sure troublemaker, Close to his twentieth year And a fast draw with his daddy’s Colts, Mouthed of as soon as the man left. I’m going to ride me that stallion, Maybe even own it one day, A preaching man don’t need No spirited animal like that. A man should own such an animal, And I aim to be that man. Always a loud-mouthed obnoxious young’un We all just kinda ignored Jeb, Although I filed his nonsense away In my mental file box, for future reference, In case the need should ever arise... for recollection. Curiosity filled the church the first Sunday, But the powerful, positive preaching Kept it filled every Sunday after that. No hellfire and brimstone sermonizing, Our lives became joy and glory filled As we basked in the loving word of God. A God we were getting to know for the first time. We loved to see the preaching man atop his white stallion, Was like man and horse had melded, become one, And that obnoxious young Jeb? Well! He was coveting that horse, And in reflecting back, I knew he would try something foolish. And for sure he didn’t let me down - he did. The Sunday picnic was well under way, We sat talking and laughing ‘neath the large elm trees, When we heard a ruckus from the stallion’s stall. That Jeb - the dang young fool - had tried to climb it’s back, Why! Anyone with a lick of sense Could tell this was a one man horse. An angel for the preacher, a hellion for anyone else. Jeb was filled with anger and too much hard cider, And was taking a whip to the rearing stallion, Whose hoofs were aiming to come down on top of the boy. We stood in silence not understanding Jeb’s stupidity And in awe at the way the preacher calmed down the animal. Well Jeb took of in a huff, embarrassed, But was soon back... toting his daddy’s guns, And calling out the preaching man to take him on. He called the man yella, and clucked like a chicken And would not let up tormenting the preacher, And all we did was stand around, not knowing what to do With our mouths wide open - like complete idiots. The preaching man turned, and went into his home, Never as much as uttering a sound, And we didn’t know that maybe Jeb wasn’t right. But when he came out he carried a poster And a hammer and nail in the one hand, While in the other he carried a well-worn gun belt With two of the largest guns ever seen by us here, And you would have to have been blind not to see How well notched they were. On the outside of the horses stall he hammered the poster, Motioned Jeb over to read it and then draw if he wanted to. Poor Jeb, he read it, his hands moved to his gun belt We stood in fear, and then in amazement He unbuckled it, and let it fall to the ground, Picked it up... turned around, got on his horse, Headed right back into town. We all clamored to see the poster, We recognized the name and the picture Was the preaching man in much younger days. A gun-slinger with a large price on his head, A young outlaw who had never been outdrawn. He’d paid his dues and then cleaned up his act, Medalled in the army, served well as Marshall Of dirty towns with criminal elements. He was also Jeb’s hero from a very early age, He’d always fashioned himself after the outlaw. When he disappeared no one knew where he went, But now we did, he came to our small town, He became our preaching man. He died, after nearly 20 years here with us, But Ridge Cabin won’t stay empty this time. Jeb, who is married with wife and young’uns, Is our new preaching man. Following his hero... to the end. |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Lots of talent here...reminded me of a movie on TV about gunslinging I recently watched starring Glenn Ford...he was trying to quit but gunslingers would come from far away to take his title...James |
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