rancherwriterpoet

Poetry, musings, reflections, life

Archive for the tag “Poet”

The Day of the Storm

This winter of 2015/2016 has been one for the record books. I do not believe I have ever experienced the ups and downs, twists and turns and such variable temperatures as the season has brought us so far this year. I believe that you, the reader, no matter where you live, may have gone through much of the same.

I felt a little poem coming on to support my assumption. This week, in Texas, and especially North Texas where I live, has been very wet and stormy, with high winds, tornadoes and flash flooding. Thus far, it has been as described.                                         My poem illustrates only one day. I simply called it,

The Day of the Storm

The morning breaks silently
with a formidable mist in the air.
Still, the forthcoming day
will bring unenviable clamor.
lightning will flaunt the heavens
Thunder will roar across the sky.

As the morning comes to a close
the orderliness of routine
will inconveniently cease to exist.
marauding winds will subdue the calm.
Unforgiving and intolerant
The rage in the air will angrily erupt.

Midday illustrates fearfulness
Yet it is serene calmness that
Placates a few, alarms several,
Even concerns many, for
the disarray will have its day
And the rains will stalk the stillness.

The night will bring more turmoil
Darkness and storms convey fear
Anxiety will increasingly intensify
As the hours, dwindle away
We search for reassurance
That will put our minds at ease.

and the annual seasonal events
will share the tranquility with
the turbulence and the tension.
Yet the serenity of composure
Will abide in the comfort of
knowing Who is in control.

Pete Robertson
March 2016

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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

Catching up with Technology

Finally, the day arrived. The “Rancherette” and the “Rancherwriterpoet” both made an important trip to Dr. G., the dermatologist. There was much trepidation in the eyes of one of the participants. That participant shall remain nameless for fear of retribution if her name is revealed.

In researching for this article, I find that those who eventually will become more, shall we say advanced in age, usually are the ones who will make this journey to their own personal Doctor G., the dermatologist. That age falls somewhere between puberty and senility, and not to be confused with virility.

So off we went. We live in a rural area, so it is about an hour’s drive to his location. We usually make a day of it and visit the local shops and restaurants that are not available to us where we live.

Since the “Rancherette” has been having difficulty with her cell phone not charging properly, she decided to check in at the phone store. On a side note, remember when they were actually called mobile phones and rested in a bag and had a cord? For that matter, remember when there were no portable phones at all? And what ever happened to the “tele” part of the word? Television is now TV, telegraph is now IM, (I looked that up, Instant Messaging.) and telemarketer, well, that is still used, however at one time they were called aluminum salesmen. No offense to any retired aluminum salesmen. But you get my drift.

Anyway, as we entered the “phone” store, there were several sales associates standing at the door. Very courteously, they opened the doors for us. Our time was limited because of our appointment with Dr. G., the dermatologist, so when we entered I remarked to the “Rancherette”, choose a sales person who looks “geeky”.

“Why?” she asked.  “They will know much more about what you want” I replied. I mean no disrespect for “geeks” are very intelligent when it comes to electronics, computers and all that nerdy stuff.

A very nice young man, probably in his early twenties, very early twenties, volunteered to help us. The “Rancherette” immediately began her requests. She asked questions that I did not know and he gave answers that I did not know. It was very clear they were speaking in a language of which I was unfamiliar. I learned later it is called “geek” language.

At this point, let me inform you that I have an old “flip” TELEphone. It rings with an actual TELEphone ring. It does not have a QWERTY keyboard, in fact, no keyboard at all. I have a computer for that. I am not profoundly literate about that either. I learned to type on a Royall typewriter, before electricity. My flip TELEphone does not IM or TEXT or take pictures. I have a Kodak
camera for taking pictures. It does not play music. I have a transistor radio for that. It does not have the capability of playing videos. I finally broke down and bought a used VCR for that. That set me back 20 bucks. I understand there is now a device that plays something called DVD’s.  I’ll discuss those inventions at a later date.

The “Rancherette” and the “Geek”, (sounds like a movie or country music song) must have hit it off. I remember she called him a geek and he took it as a compliment.

Once she made her choice, he whipped out his trusty tablet, (I do not mean the Big Chief tablets I used when I was much younger)

Big Chief

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and begun touching symbols and icons and lo and behold, her TELEphone information was staring us in the face on his tablet. After much discussion, they made the deal, and he began moving her data from her old TELEphone to her new TELEphone. Most people use only the …phone portion of the word. AND he saved her three bucks in the process. I knew this kid was good. I liked him.

So, I have a new respect for “geeks’. They have such knowledge. For example, they can form a series of binary digits on a physical storage medium in order to manipulate the data in any central processing unit even though the executable programs are stored in separate location, especially in the clouds.                                         And I have no idea what I just said.

We finally left the store to make our way to Dr. G’s office, but stopped for lunch at a local “Cajun” restaurant. Delightful and spicy, just what we needed. The “Rancherette” was so excited about her new TELEphone, she was beside herself. Could not put it down. One would have thought she had just got a new Barbie doll for Christmas. I was never that excited on Christmas morning.

After arriving at  Dr. G’s office, and being seated in his special recliner, the participant who previously was distressed had an epiphany.  Dr. G. informed that person that there was absolutely nothing to worry about, for whatever was concerning that person, was of a benign nature. It is related to heredity and basically comes from the aging process. You know, somewhere between puberty and senility, not to be confused with virility.

Phone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All in all, it was a good day. It also helps if one gets a new …phone.

Not Just Another Day

Veterans Day, originally known as Armistice Day, commemorates the end of World War I. It was declared over in 1918 at the 11th hour on the 11th day of November, the 11th month. That date is a day set aside to honor not only those veterans of WWI, but also, all veterans, men and women, who served in any war. It includes those who also served in peacetime.

Even though this poem is written in the masculine gender, in no way does it overlook the women who also served, even in the Civil War.
This poem is my effort to commemorate those brave men and women who honored me with their call to duty. I hope you find my efforts to do so an encouragement for you to do the same.

Not Just Another Day

Entwining filament into fiber,
Twisting the yarn into fabric,
the master weaver unites the nature
of his creation with the strength
of his morality.

Out of loyalty to his convictions
he strives for triumph, for success.
he does so, because it is ingrained,
fixed, and deep-rooted
in his character.

The fabric of the master soldier
Is linked with a thread of passion
and a strand of patriotism.
Bonded together, they form a shield,
a shield of honor.

In times past, the master soldier
has faced his adversaries
with courage, with daring,
with bravery and even fear.
His efforts do not go unnoticed.

I offer a mark of distinction to each
Of those who brave the unknown,
who risk their very existence
to stand for the principles of freedom.
I honor those who have served.

                                                                                                 Pete Robertson                                                                                                                                          November 11, 2014

November 11, 2014

Officially, A Rancher

In order for this to be explored in context, I must repeat a portion of my first blog, “Puttering around East Texas”, published in May 2011. You may check the archives if you wish to read the entire blog.

In that blog, I said this:

“I have one of those quite placid names. It evokes no imagination, no illusions, nothing that would conjure up an interest in reading the words before you.  Thus, it became rather difficult to name my blog. I certainly want others to read what I have to say, (as if I really had something to say).

However, in order to do that, the name must immediately grab the reader’s attention. Therefore, it must be “unique”. I settled on rancher, writer, poet.

First, I am not a rancher; I just thought it sounded good. I am however, a writer and a poet. You, the reader, will have to decide if I can use the adjective, “good”.

 

I have these images of a cowboy roping and riding with a six-gun at his side. He wears a cowboy hat, a plaid shirt and denims. He sits tall in the saddle and talks funny. He hustles his cattle across the wide-open range, disperses rustlers and evil land grabbers, and is always trying to protect the fair maidens from harm. He has sons named Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe.  To me, that is a rancher.

Well, now it is official. I am, at last a rancher, at least by marriage. My wife and I were married in May 2009; however, until recently I did not realize I had married a “rancherette”. I knew that she was a dog breeder and an animal lover when I married her. I am fine with that. With eight Standard Poodles, and a couple of rescue dogs, we were in the “business”; however, I do not think this qualifies me as a “rancher”.

Thus, I was unprepared for what “the rancherette” did next. Did you know, one could order twenty-five chickens online? They mail them to you.  They arrive at the post office. They come in a little box with holes in the side. United States Priority Mail. To the post office. Two-day delivery. The postmaster called this morning and said the birds had arrived, could we come pick them up because they were cheeping and wanting to come home.

I thought perhaps they could have given them flight plans and flown, but they don’t yet know how to read or fly.

These baby chicks, mailed only a day after they are hatched must be taught how to eat and drink. Dip their little beaks in water so they know what water is and poke their little beaks in food. One might wonder why their momma did not teach them. Well, it is because they were taken away from their momma even before they were born, uh, hatched. You see, they have these little trays called incubators and the eggs go into those little crates as soon as they are laid. There, thanks to technology, the little trays automatically turn the eggs every so often until the eggs are hatched.

So, they don’t ever get to know their momma. But, not to worry, us humans can substitute for their momma.

So, in the tub, they went. The “rancherette”, took each little critter, one at a time, poked his/her head in the water. Funny thing about that gender stuff. We don’t know which is which. Won’t know until they get big or start crowing, whichever comes first. Anyway, they took one little drink and was hooked on the stuff. I don’t think they had ever had a drink before. Then she gently stroked each one and poked his/her head to the food. Guess what? They were hungry. You would be too, if you had never tasted any food before.  Luckily, for me I married a “rancherette”.

Hoo boy, now I am a “rancher”. There is such a thing as a chicken rancher, isn’t there? Osmosis, you know. You should see me in there herding those little critters. Git along, little dogie, git along. Them little rascals are sure hard to rope, but I’ll learn. I can’t wait ’til they get bigger.  The “rancherette” ordered twenty-five, but got twenty-seven. One died, so that left us with twenty-six. I looking online for baby names, now. Maybe, I’ll just use the alphabet. 

Maybe you might be interested in becoming a “rancher!” this is a picture of the “herd” They are called “Silkies”.  I gotta go build a coop now. Cluck, Cluck!  Help me out here, Little Joe.

baby chicks first day

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