Tumbleweed's Poetry Page
The Hobo
I was a way up North in "Ole Montan",The summer's work was through.
Thought I had better head on South ,
Before the winter wind it blew.
I camped along this river bank,
Down where the bushes grew;
Down behind a big Railroad fill,
Near, where the stream came through..
I built a little campfire,
Thought I'd eat a bite or two;
When strolling down the river bank,
This Old Hobo came in view.
We sat around the Campfire
And shared a yarn or two.
He pulled a can of beans from somewhere
And shared that with me too.
We spoke of ranches round them parts.
He said," He'd worked a few".
The mines back West, in the Mountains there,
He said," He'd worked there too".
We heard a whistle from afar,
And he said, "Old 44 was due".
He had all his things, in this burlap sack,
Which across his shoulder threw.
Now, Did he have a home somewhere,
With Friends and Kinfolk , too?
Is he just a wanderer
With nothing else to do ?
I don't know where he came from
Or where he's headed to,
The old Hobo caught that southbound freight
And dissappeared from view.
The Bronc Rider
I was sitting on the top rail,Watching as the horses milled,
And the cowboys made their choices
‘Till, the whole remuda’s filled.
Some were solids, some light colored,
Some were paints, and some were roan,
Some I knew would not be ridden,
And the cowboys on them thrown.
I make my livin’ breakin’ broncos
Its the only life I know.
Yes, it’s me up in the saddle
And the bronco down below.
He does his best to stay unridden,
And with a head-toss he begins,
Drops his head down ‘tween his fore-legs,
Kicks his rear in to a spin.
Winds his tail up like a windmill,
Then the front end leaves the ground,
Does a snaproll there in mid-air,
A new trick he somewhere found.
Now, I’m the best there is at riding,
And I put on quite a show,
But if I could find a better job,
I would quit right now and go.
But, I was hired to ride the ponies,
That those cowboys couldn’t ride.
Don’t know why I keep on doin’ it?.
I guess it’s just my foolish pride.
This Old Hat
Now, I've got this old hat,
And you may wonder, why I keep it at all.
Don't wear it much of late,
It just hangs there in the hall.
But, this ole hat and me,
We've traveled many miles;
Weathered many storms together,
And went through many Styles.
We've seen our share of sunny days,
Been caught in pourin' rain,
Lost for a while in a wind stampeed,
That rumbled cross the plain.
The brim is losin' most it'a shape,
And the crown's a little torn.
There's dirt and sweat streaks 'round the band,
And the lining's kinda worn.
Now! It's been knocked off,
More than once or twice.
Rolled around the old corral
and picked up its share of -- "corral spice".
I haven't worn it much of late.
"Ya see" we're both "a lookin'" kinda frail.
I've got a new one commin' though;
It's ordered through the mail.
Mighty slow in gittin' here,
A couple a letters seem to be of no avail;
And if it don't get here before I go,
I'll just wear this one, on down the trail.
The Tumbleweed
The Tumbleweed’s a roamer,Who travels on the wind;
Knowing not from day to day,
Just where his travel’s "gonna" end.
Sometimes it is a fence row,
That comes into his past,
Or dropped into a gully,
When the wind has breathed it’s last.
Rolling, is his mode of travel,
The wind his locomotion,
Sometimes he gets to fly a little,
When a gusty wind, just takes a notion.
He roams about from from place to place,
No direction to his path.
His life span is so undecided,
Mother nature does the math.
He springs up from the ground,
In all the oddest places;
Sometimes it is the wheat field,
Where the farmer’s plow he races.
Other times he springs to life,
In a places quite unheeded;
There to grow, and to mature.
As if he had been seeded.
He come in all shapes and sizes;
Some quite large and some quite small;
Some are almost square,
And others rounded like a ball.
The square ones never get too far,
From where they begin their growing;
But the round ones, well, they travel far,
Depends on how the wind is blowing.
I guess that’s why the call me "Tumbleweed"
Because I love to roam;
Across this great big land of ours,
No matter where I am, I’ll always call it home.
by Philip Crawford "Tumbleweed"
© philip l crawford
by
Philip L Crawford
422 E Webster
St. Francis, KS 67756
Philip L Crawford