rancherwriterpoet

Poetry, musings, reflections, life

Archive for the category “Poems”

LETTER FROM THE GOVERNMENT

This is not intended to be any type of political statement. I merely compiled all my tax information to send to my accountant for the preparation of my income taxes. I had this idea to write about it and it is meant to be a humorous article. Perhaps at this time of year, you may also get a chuckle from it. I hope you take it that way. Of course, if you have to pay any additional amounts, then you probably are not laughing. Sorry about that.

To the agencies listed in this poem, don’t bug my phone, don’t track my tweets, don’t publish my private information across FB or Instagram or the local newspaper. Don’t mention it to any television station and by all means do not send this viral on YouTube. Keep my name out of it. Thank you and I appreciate it.

Letter from the Government

I got this disgusting letter from the IRS today
Said I owed them money and soon I better pay
First of all, I ain’t so sure I owe them folks a dime
and what they took from me must surely be a crime.

I called The GAO about stuff their Office buys,
using all my money which ain’t no big surprise.
They offered no excuse and sent me on my way
They said that maybe it’s just time for me to pay.

The DHS is famous for the safety of the land
But they declined to help me with my simple payment plan.
They said that maybe I should call the DOC
But the DOC said not to bother, unless I pay a fee.

So I called upon the FBI to check for DNA
They mentioned I should maybe call up the CIA
The CIA then told me that my stuff is classified
Then they asked me what it was that I was trying to hide.

I hung up my telephone in case I’m being bugged
If I’m thinking otherwise, it’s possible I’ve been drugged.
It was suggested that I could call the DEA
But they’re known to share their files with the CIA.

I could keep this up all day and for many days to come
But all these folks in government, they all think I’m dumb
Like EPA AND FEMA or maybe FANNIE MAE
Then there’s POTUS and FLOTUS and of course the FAA.

And don’t forget the BEP, the most important one I know
They’re the ones responsible for printing all the dough.
Sirs, I need a little more to pay my past due tax amount.
That way the IRS can settle up my account.

ist2_5855720-income-taxes

Pete Robertson
Feb 2017

If you are so inclined you may check out this link to see where the government spends your money. It is a list of ALL (hopefully) government agencies that have a budget.I think you may be surprised at the length of this list.

http://ucsd.libguides.com/c.php?g=90902&p=584912

Christmas Dream

I had this weird and crazy dream again,
about an old grey-headed mirthful man.
he had a hoary look upon his placid face
yet not one whisker twisted out of place.

In my dream, he called my name
Curious to know was I to blame?
He said my name was on his naughty list
This Christmas, he’s sure my house he’ll miss.

In my dream I wonder, “Just who is this guy?”
I’m pretty all-fired sure we don’t see eye to eye
There’s no naughty stuff to which I will confess
And if my name is on your list you need to reassess.

In my dream, this stout and rotund chap
has caused a bit of anguish and somewhat of a flap.
These so-called naughty things he has inside his file?
nothing more than lies and frankly…, it just makes me smile.

it’s time to put this stupid dream on pause
What’s your name? I ask, He said…, it’s Clause.
First name’s Santa”, “just to be exact
Your numbers up, your Christmas bag’s not packed.

In my dream, I wonder can I fix this matter
Maybe leave some treats on a silver platter?
Perhaps a glass of golden chardonnay
would make this awkward crisis fade away.

But wine’s not guaranteed to fix your elfin case
You’re naughtier than me, he’s not coming to your place.
‘Cause in my dream, I see the lengthy “naughty” list
My name’s erased, but your name still exists.

So, here’s a plan that might not be too weird
go sit in Santa’s lap and smooth… his bushy beard
Check out the gleaming in his sparkling eyes
And if that doesn’t work, then simply improvise.

I won’t be describing all the intricate details
I can tell by observation, your tactics did prevail
I don’t know the tricks in your repertoire.
Somehow your name’s erased, and that was no small chore.

So, it looks to be a Merry Christmas after all.
with Christmas trees decked out in shiny Christmas balls
Be sure to leave him cookies, he’ll surely wear a smile
since he wiped our names from his lengthy file.

Merry Christmas
Pete Robertson
December 2013

P.S.

Glad we made it through this year and so we bid adieu
but Old Man Santa’s list will soon begin anew
I’m starting out from scratch to mend my naughty stuff
I hope you do as well, and hope that it’s enough.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

When I was Young

 

In the past few months, I have experienced the effects of an autoimmune disease known as RA. It certainly has been on my mind lately. It is a nasty ailment, affecting many people. It is incurable, however, with modern medicines it usually can be controlled. It is said that women are more likely to come down with RA than men. I remember my grandmother suffering from the effects of arthritis. Statistics show that a descendant of one with this disease is at an increased risk of developing RA. The statistics also show that most that do have this disease are usually between the ages of 40 and 60. When I was young, I considered these people to be old. Now, I am much older than that. However, age does not factor into whether or not one acquires RA, although,  we tend to associate it with the older generation.  I will not discriminate on the basis of age as I have great empathy for all  who suffer with this syndrome as I do.

This consequence brought to my mind, the evolution of age. This poem is a reminder of that process.

When I was Young

When I was young,
I reached out
To be picked up.
and cried until I was.
I crawled
until I could stand.
Then I stood… and fell…
and stood again
and crawled and stood again,
until I could walk.
I walked
and fell and got up
and fell again and stood
until I walked again,

When I was young
I mumbled and muttered
and tried to speak
And tried again
and cried again
when I could not…,
until I could speak.
and when my words
were misunderstood,
I cried again.
until I could be understood.
and the world around me
was so small
when I was young.

Now I am old
and the world around me
has magnified
and is no longer the same.
yet I do not see clearly
and I stand carefully,
and I fall and get up
and stumble again
and cry and try to speak
and mumble and cannot hear
and my words are misunderstood.
Maybe the world around me
Is not so big after all
just like when I was young.

Pete Robertson
©November 2012

I hope you have a wonderful (and pain-free) day.

Witness

As we near Easter Sunday, let us be reminded why we celebrate this day. It is a day of new beginnings, a day of remembrances and another opportunity to share that witness. As a writer, this is probably my favorite, at least in the top five. It dates back to 1992, however, the story line goes back to a most important time in the life of a Christian. I get goosebumps each time I read it. I sincerely hope you understand the true meaning of Easter as we celebrate life, both here and hereafter.

Sounds of cursing and anger fill the air.
And yet, He groans quietly.
The burden on His shoulders grows heavy
As He walks, stooped over slightly.

The flesh on His back… lay bare by the whip,
And His feet have swollen as well.
His vision is blurred by sweat mixed with blood.
He stumbled…and He fell.

The soldiers’ authority commands fear.
One man is conscripted for use.
“Carry the beam!” they directed the man.
For the young one is weak from abuse.

The young man moves slowly, climbing the hill.
His condition prevents a fast pace.
People are gathering to witness this scene,
For there’s something peculiar about this place.

I sense something special about this young man.
He seems so confident in His fate.
But others about Him don’t seem to care,
For they scorn Him and verbalize hate.

The instrument of death is placed on the ground.
The young man is secured to the post.
Spikes penetrate His hands… and His feet…
The soldiers stand back and boast.

clouds grow dark and they cover the sun,
Thunder breaks loudly and clear.
The ground begins cracking and groaning,
And the people who’ve gathered begin to fear.

In a loud voice, I hear Him cry out
In a language, I don’t understand.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani,*
There’s something unusual about this man…

——-

His death is complete and His body’s removed,
He’s placed in a borrowed tomb.
Grief and sadness overcome His friends
As they endure this period of gloom.

And now! Its the third day! His body isn’t here!
The story He told, really is true!
He died for atonement, was buried for sin,
Resurrected… for life anew.

I witness this scene as though I were there,
For it’s embedded completely in mind.
How Jesus… suffered and died,
Was raised, giving life for His kind.

                                                                                 Pete Robertson
Mark 15:34 NASB                                                                ©1992

Optimism

I like to think of myself as an eternal optimist. My glass is usually half-full as opposed to half-empty. Why do I think that? Because I believe, everything will eventually work itself out.
For example, it has been raining for about a week. Everyday! But tomorrow, the sun will shine. This is optimism.

Animals are natural optimists. Dogs persist in optimism. We do not own an Airedale however, one owns us. Alfie is an eternal optimist. Everything leads her to nirvana. Whether she wants to play ball, find it, or believes you have a treat in your pocket, she is always in the eternal optimism mode. We have a kennel of retired standard poodle show dogs. They are eternal optimists. I have no scientific knowledge that this is true, however, observing these canines on a daily basis leads me to believe that. I make this comparison; I think I am connected with these canines somewhere.

Sailors are optimists as well. Seems to me, one would have to be an optimist to sail into unknown waters. Else, why would one ever leave port? I was a sailor. I left port. I am an optimist.  Explorers have conquered the seas, or perhaps not so much conquer as gaining an understanding,thus making them optimists.

However, those who have been before us have left markers for us to follow. Road signs, if you will. These buoys of life guide us into the calm of knowledge. They offer us a way to sail. In that sense, we have optimism as we approach those guides.

So I wrote this poem because, optimistically, it makes good sense to me.

Optimism

Floating on an angry, seething sea
A buoy struggles against the rage,
against a tenable thread of sanctuary
as if seeking escape from peril,
all the while sustaining its mission.

The world thrives on provocation.
Incendiary actions conflict with care.
Angry seas indulge in harsh discord,
waters boil with intense aggravation,
yet a buoy of optimism stays fixed.

Though we may bobble in angry seas,
Drift back and forth like fastened buoys,
Just be mindful of the strands of shelter,
for markers exist in unbounded optimism
fastened to an Anchor of eternal refuge.

        Pete Robertson
March 2016

From the Highest of Heavens

“Some say we are in the Christmas season, but I say, God is never out of season. People sometimes take Him out of the box in December, put Him back in the box in January and leave Him there until Easter.
This is a reminder… as we celebrate the birth of Christ with family and friends; let us also take this time to reflect on our worship of Him throughout the year.

“The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is from the earth belongs to the earth, and speaks as one from the earth. The one who comes from heaven is above all”. John 3:31

And the Lord God Almighty said, “But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are too small to be among the army groups from Judah, from you will come one who will rule Israel for me. He comes from very old times, from days long ago.” Micah 5:2

In the highest of heavens,
Even, the heavens above the heavens,
The Most High sits on the glorious throne of the Lord God Almighty.
In the beginning and from Your splendid throne…
…You Were…
Before the equation of time became measurable,
…You Were God…
Before the flawless design of endless space
…You Existed…
Before cosmic matter came into being
…You were present…
Before God-breathed humanity was fashioned
…You Were…
Before NOTHING at ALL! …You Were…

And Even before all of this, my name…,
…MY NAME… was on your lips,
And my soul? MY SOUL? It was on your mind.
And love for me was in your heart,
Because? You Were…

And in that highest of heavens,
And at your right hand, sat your Son, Jesus,
with the Plan for my soul.
—You whispered my name—
And He said, “I’ll go!”
Then from that highest of heavens,
Down through the endless space,
in His measured time,
Brushing aside celestial spaces
and to save humanity…
In flesh, thru a virgin birth, He came…

And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth John 1:14

Here in the month of December, we celebrate the physical birth of the Lord Jesus Christ. But today isn’t His birthday, and neither is December the 25th. For we celebrate NOT the day He came, but THAT  He Came!

Some ask, was it real? I say my friends, yes, His Birth was indeed real and He is indeed real.

  Can you imagine God whispering to Jesus,
the names of EVERYONE ever created in His image? …
Even before the world existed?
God whispered Your name…Then He came…

Pete Robertson @ 2015

Me and My Friend Ben

This post is slightly different than most of my writings. As it says on my blog, I offer writings that contain poetry, short stories and other musings about life’s adventures. A few years back, I decided I would venture into the poetic world of “cowboy poetry”. I could fool myself into thinking I was a part of “the old west”, relive a time that has always been in my dreams. I have somewhat an envious position for those who live that lifestyle today. Of course, I am confident the reality of those times was not nearly as adventuresome as has been depicted in the books and movies. Nevertheless, it is a part of my makeup.

Born and raised in Texas I have an affinity for cowboys, not that all Texans have such an understanding; however, I grew up in an era that idolized the character. For me, there was nothing like riding horses all day long, chasing outlaws, rescuing the fair damsels in distress or helping out the rancher whose property was about to be taken from him by some evildoer.

Please bear in mind; I never did any of these things. But I wanted to.  In actuality, I got most of my information from old western comic books and Saturday matinees. Now these many years later, I still get goose bumps when I turn on the old western movies and transform myself into the character on screen. As Willie Nelson sang, “My heroes have always been cowboys”, I relate to that.

With that in mind, I wanted to post a  poem about a cowboy and his friend. It seems to transport me back to those days. Perhaps it may strike a chord with you.

Please understand, it is does not rank even close to the class of a “Baxter Black” or a “Red Steagall”, two of my favorite cowboy poets.

Me and Ben in the Summer of 1873

I laid my old friend Ben into his final rest,
Out here on the Texas plains, in the land he loved best.
We rode together for nigh on all his born years.
old cowboys ain’t s’posed to break down in tears.

There was times when we didn’t know no fear
Just me and Ben, on the wild frontier.
We’d brushed up against the wild Comanche
Late in the summer of sixty-three

We lived through that skirmish with a wing and a prayer
Got out of their way not a minute to spare.
I’m thinking those Indians misunderstood
but we outran their ponies as fast as we could.

We put up with sandstorms pitch darker than night
Got burned up in the noonday light
stormed over by rain clouds unleashing their wrath
and blinded by snowstorms covering our path

Outran the red wolves and jumped over snakes
We did all we could, what ever it takes.
We dodged all those tumbling tumbleweeds
Roaring cross the plains, scattering their seeds.

we chased after outlaws who picked the wrong side
tracking them lawbreakers with no place to hide
sometimes we disagreed about which way to go
most times, we went the way the winds blow.

We’ve crossed over the Pecos near Monahans
near by where Old Fort Stockton stands.
we rode by Fort Phantom Hill near Abilene
And all parts of Texas, most folks ain’t never seen.

But late in the summer of eighteen seventy-three
Old Ben slipped on his old bad knee.
He came down hard and his heart gave way
He died on the prairie right where he lay.

I miss the old days when we rode together,
me and my friend, in all kinds of weather.
but as sure as the blood flows down through my veins
Old Ben surely is riding ‘cross heaven’s plains

I ain’t no preacher speaking with no preacher’s goal
but some say that animals are born with no soul
I ain’t so sure that notion withstands the test
I’m thinking old Ben must surely be blessed.

                                         I’m wondering if heaven would really be heaven                                                                                 for a cowboy without his dear horse?                                     Cowboy

Just a Lonely Little Weed

A Lonely Little Weed

Just a lonely little weed
Swirling in the breeze
Spiraling toward the sun
Causing sniffles, if you please.

However brave and plucky
This wild plant wants to be
It causes all the allergies
That endlessly curses me.

I’d put this little weed to death
If I could but reach her height
But climbing up above the ground
Creates a bit more fright.

So I’ll just cough and whimper
Until she runs her course
And learn to keep my mouth shut tight
To keep from going hoarse.

Methinks this ballyhoo will end
In perhaps a week or two.
she’ll shrivel up and blow away
I can’t wait until she’s through.

This obnoxious little weed,
With gold upon her head
sprouting on a rooftop,
emerging from her bed.

A lonely weed

A Chicken Wrangler’s Poem

 

I got an invitation to write this cowboy rhyme,
‘bout the Chicken Wranglers who ride from time to time.
So I sat down in my cowboy corner and in my cowboy chair
I searched my cowboy brain and wrote this cowboy prayer.

“Lord, bless the Chicken Wranglers, the ones who ride the range
And keep them little chickens safe, away from critters strange.”

I wrote this with my trusty cowboy pen.

A Chicken Wrangler’s Poem

The old chicken wrangler moseyed out her back door
She had chickens to tend to and that’s always a chore,
They scratch and peck and preen and dig holes in the dirt
As the cantankerous old “Roo” just sidesteps while he flirts.

The old chicken wrangler or sometimes, “Rancherette”
Comes to see this “Roo” as something of a threat,
So, she speaks very softly, but she carries a big stick
‘cause this ornery old rooster is often just too quick.

He’s just about one of the best of the breed
Worth every nickel she’d spent on his seed.
He has all the makings of championship stock
Old Cap’n Kanga “Roo” reigns over his flock.

But a wrangler can’t have just one stud in his herd
And this chicken wrangler? She needs a brand new bird.
So from her Silkie flock way up on the hill
Comes a nice Blue cockerel that gives her quite a thrill.

This brand new Silkie rooster comes with Silkie chicks
Bringing with his hatch a brand new bag of tricks.
While pullets scratch and peck and preen and dig ‘round in the dirt
“Big Blue” is just a crowing, still learning how to flirt.

So a Chicken Wrangler’s work is almost never done
and cleaning all that poop ain’t never been much fun
But wrangle on they will ‘cause it’s built inside their genes
and just like kids, they love ‘em, even when they’re teens.

                                                                                 Pete Robertson                                                                                                               March 2015

I Feel a Little Poem Coming On

I thought I would post my last entry for the year, 2014, with a poem. I ask this question; What is it about the seasonal changes that seem to affect our psyche? I do not know, maybe you do.
The title of this poem has absolutely nothing to do with the contents; I simply liked the wording. So, with apologies to the gospel group “Three Bridges”, I borrowed the title from their song, “I Feel A Little Song Coming On.
Anyway,

I Feel a Little Poem Coming On

On this cold and gloomy morning,
The last few days of the year,
I stand gazing pensively,
from my front door across the pasture.
I see a few cows milling about,
Seemingly, with nothing on their mind
except eating the grass beneath their feet.

Brown grass withering amid patches of green
that sprang up after the fire,
like emeralds leaping from a lifeless painting.
Four hedge apples remain on the leafless branches
of the grand old Bois D’ Arc tree.
Three clustered together, one hanging alone, pitifully.
It is a lonely tree, standing dejected, sadly.

In the distance, the waters of a pond
Shimmer languidly from the wind.
Oblivious to its shrinking circumference
Unaware it is on the brink of disaster.
The drought has taken its toll.
Passing from summer to autumn to winter,
leaving spring far behind.

Outside my window a handful of Cardinals
flutter about pilfering from one another
any tidbit or crumb they find on the ground.
A murder of crows sit atop the Bois D’ Arc tree,
Omnivorous creatures, their eyes darting back and forth.
A Red Tail Hawk soars in the sunless currents above,
while his keen eyesight focuses sharply below.

The creatures of the insect world
Have long since relented to hereditary instincts
It is the changing of the guard.
As I stand before my window of opportunity
I witness the inevitable transformation
That once more rises to the forefront of life
And I am in awe.

Pete Robertson
© December 2014

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