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Tried and True
| Open Poetry #1 |
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Tried and True |
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H. Arlequin Member
since 1999-08-23
Posts 210 |
Tried and True Sire, sibling, uncle plus a friend, One at a time, avalanche with no end, Blood feud genesis, each insisting, Pressing, unavoidably persisting, He, never attacking, was victorious, Always. Shallow triumphs, injurious To his future, the sum of their cost The dear one he'd protect, he lost, The wages of his gun in the streets. A dusty heat, smiled its remorse, The capricious breeze, (both horse And his taciturn friend washed in Its dehydrating aridity), Austin Stockyard born and bred, a smell Its own, gave no relief to a well Traveled rider or his pal, Jake, Save for the thought of a steak, A bath, whisky and clean sheets. Old Tuson, with a menacing past, Was far away and he on his last Legs, (unwilling that his repute Should ruin a t-bone cut to suit A king, thick, au jus), decided To go in at dusk. Want, (presided Over an irregular kingdom used To forced abstinence), unloosed Mirages of a buffet's sweetmeats. The expected storm, hit with fury, Stale animal sweat, a bad brewery To the nose, streaked them both Long before the livery. A troth, Real and unspoken, Jake first Attended to, unsaddled, nursed, Rubbed and fed, before he, wet Chaps unbuckled, poncho to let Dry, then his own hunger's treats. Six bits for the room, and another For supper, a robust gal, Mother Hulda, proprietor and chief cook, (Morning maid and whatever it took To make the place go, except for Entertainment, there, the scepter Of the queen drew the line) knew Him, for years knew him to be true To his word in a world of cheats. The few who called him Owen Lister, Were good friends; to most, mister, And they said it with a broad smile For it was wisdom, best not to rile A latent ferocity! Whether daytime Or dark, kicking the dog's a crime, If terrified of a bark! When alone, He was left alone, visiage of stone The norm, not a companion one greets. Belly content, full and now, aglow, Nursing a half-tumbler of Old Crow, The aches, from weeks in the saddle (Worse than those a longhorn cattle Puncher endured in spring), bespoke Age, a body whose bones he broke More than once and poorly treated Too often, in winter to be heated Cold nights, when neuralgia mistreats. His movements belied pain present At all, fluid, feline-like, absent Hints of the loss of coordination Between hand and gun...degradation, If even miniscule, a death knell. Yet, he knew, only time would tell Before one of the neophytes, fame On his mind, imbibed bravado, came For a finale to his life's defeats. Death was not something he feared, Shunned or thought of. It appeared As an inevitable, life's opposite And equal gift, to him, requisite Revanche, a preordained conclusion. It was not an unwelcome intrusion, Nothingness was better than pain. Lonliness was such an old refrain From it every man at last retreats. Compromise was not a mastered art In him, he operated as if the part To blend the blacks and whites fate Capriciously left out, or was late Developing. Life, right or wrong, Up or down, simpler for the strong- Willed, he took as it came, trouble Head on. He'd burst many a bubble Blown his way, to forstall repeats. Glass at the dregs, luxury of a bed Calling, the morrow's recital ahead, The fresh smell, usual night sounds, Digestive apathy, beneficent bounds Blessing the moment, checking Jake, His drying gear for safety's sake, Before first light, he'd ride out East, where he could stop, in about A weeks ride, after energy depletes. Two days, a hundred miles, eastward, Camped for the night, last westward Rays of a crimson sky, bidding adieu To the day, tossing last of the few Dregs in the pot, on a hissing fire, He reflected on what others admire In harth and home, family, friends, The same place to lie when day ends, Loved ones...the pulse a heart beats. How did he, to an insociable place And time, come effortlessly, a pace Not directly his choosing? Emotion Was not foreign to him! The devotion Of a young heart he had given to one Who had returned it, she was the sun Of his universe, he, her joy of life. But for her father, she'd be a wife, Mother of children...his love treats. To the victor the spoils? The more The victor, the more he lost. Score His love, her family, lost, the sin Not actions, guilt feelings within. Others came, died. A saving defense, Non-existent, although the offence, Not his. Was he not defending? Right Of might, right of life, which plight Championed? What rogue Fate unseats? A week from Austin, into The Glade He rode, alert. The thud, (sound made Known a split second before the shot Rang out, Jake, yawing right to spot The source), he never heard. The lurch Dumped him, he knew it not. A church Of green, his last and first. Crime, To Jake, a new rider, to the man, time Unmeasured by watch or handgun feats. So died Owen Lister, a serious man On the errand, some won't understand. Being true to himself and the Right, Little affected Fate's finale, insight Inferring that ends with sad conclusions Result from self-perpetuating illusions, Thus, "Tried and True", may nothing accrue. Destiny, gunman or saint faces up to, Else a fool his own future defeats. --H.Arlequin |
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| © Copyright 1999 H. Arlequin - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Nan
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-20
Posts 21191Cape Cod Massachusetts USA |
A great deal of Tried & True effort went into this one....Read it, my friends....  ------------------ Nay, if our wits run the Wild-Goose chase, I am done: For thou hast more of the Wild-Goose in one of thy wits, Than I am sure I have in my whole five. ~ ²1592 Wm. Shakespeare ~ Romeo & Juliet ~ ii. iv. 75 |
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Seymour Tabin Member Empyrean
since 1999-07-07
Posts 31720Tamarac Fla |
Arlequin, I agree with Nan. You have an epic here. |
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snow in summer Member
since 1999-08-28
Posts 67 |
Nice job of story telling in this poem. I like the image you constructed about the parts that blend black and white being left out in his make up. In the end he sounds like a very lonely man who gave up too much for too little gain. How can the principles he lives by be right (and worth never compromising) if in the end he lives his life so alone and so cut off from the rest of his fellows? |
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