© 2017, Jo Lynne Kirkwood, request permission for use
Our 51st piece offered to “spur” the imagination is a special Winter/Christmas Art Spur, a 2017 drawing titled “Cows,” by Utah teacher, poet, artist, and storyteller Jo Lynne Kirkwood. In Art Spur, poets and songwriters are invited to let selections of Western art inspire their poetry and songs.
Art Spur submissions may be Winter- or Christmas-themed. All Christmas poems (Art Spur or not) were welcome through December 19, 2019. Winter-themed Art Spur poems are welcome through Tuesday, January 14, 2020. Selected poems will be posted. Find submission information below.
POEMS
Winter
TOFURKY, ANYONE? by Marleen Bussma
FEEDIN’ THE COWS IN WINTER TIME by George Rhoades
A LONG WINTER by Jean Mathisen Haugen
NO BLUES IN COWTOWN by Jeff Campbell
Christmas
CATTLE AT CHRISTMAS (or) Homage to Fake News
by Jo Lynne Kirkwood
A TRUE COUNTRY CHRISTMAS by Michelle Turner
A CHRISTMAS MEMORY by Ol’ Jim Cathey
TOFURKEY, ANYONE?
by Marleen Bussma
The climate changers warn you that the burger you might eat
will bring on rack and ruin so they’re cooking up fake meat.
Their laboratory’s stocked with many plant-based additives
to mimic looks and tastes of eats a cow creates and gives.
Misleading information doesn’t spell out all the facts.
Broad claims of harm from methane-spouting cows stalls and distracts
attention from the calorie laden, salty, processed goop.
This truth about fake food could make approval ratings droop.
The real world holds your cattle that you’ve raised just like your dad.
Tradition means a lot to you in this life that you’ve had.
So few now feed the masses, there’s an easy disconnect
from people in the city whose views aren’t always correct.
Your stomach has been growling since you finished feeding hay.
The wind has hurled and spit snow, adding misery to your day.
You’re headed into town and take time to enjoy the drive,
decide you’ll treat yourself at your kids’ fav’rite burger dive.
You pull up to the drive-thru and your mouth begins to drool.
She’s coming to the window with your take-out bag of fuel
and glides with sweet slow motion as in wild romantic dreams.
Her warm hand brushes yours as she hands out this sack that steams
with an aroma sending hot delicious sweet bouquets.
Unwrapped, it snaps a visual like a Polaroid display.
It’s stacked high to your liking with the layers snuggled neat.
The lettuce and tomato flirt like girls who work the street.
The bun’s soft to your fingers. Tiny drops of burger fat
drop down onto the open wrapper with a sensual splat.
You ease the burger upward. The aroma makes you weak.
Your mouth has flooded and drips when you open wide to seek
that burger high. Each bite sends out endorphins to your brain.
You sink into your seat as senses sing a glad refrain.
The flavor, texture, glistening shine of grease all join the choir
and work in harmony that sates the pleasure you desire.
They’re welcome to their fake food and their dirty city air.
You’ll take your country living that has cattle, where you share
the mountain views and pastures, soaring eagles in the sky.
Today you’re at the drive-thru to enjoy that burger high.
© 2020, Marleen Bussma
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
FEEDIN’ THE COWS IN WINTER TIME
by George Rhoades
Icy wind, a little snow and sleet,
And the frost was like frozen dew
On those wintry days long ago
When there were feedin’ chores to do.
The southern plains all around us,
Rollin’ hills, horizons far, far away,
Chilly air cut just like a knife,
Trees along the creek bare and gray.
No hay racks out on the prairie,
No big round rolls back then;
We bucked square bales by hand,
Totin’ and hoistin’ ’em again and again.
Me and Pop would load the flatbed
With bales piled straight and high,
Cross the bridge to the cattle-guard
Under a bleak and cloudy sky.
Cows’d come runnin’ from the woods,
They knew every clatter and rattle
That old truck made on hayin’ days
When we came to feed the cattle.
Pop slowly, carefully drove the flatbed
While I tossed bales to the ground,
Pulled off the wires, broke ’em apart,
And spread the hay all around.
The cows cleaned up every bite,
Along with scattered cubes, I recall,
And we’d watch ’em chompin’ away,
Shovin’, pushin’ in a feedin’ free-for-all.
We’d break the ice on the ponds,
It seems like it was only yesterday,
Fix some fence and stretch some wire,
Check for new-borns, haul some hay.
Now a wind that’s sharp and cold
Brings once more to my mind’s eye
Memories of when me and Pop
Fed the cows in times gone by.
© 2020, George Rhoades
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
A LONG WINTER
by Jean Mathisen Haugen
This winter started in October—
now snow is half-way up my horse,
while riding out to check the cattle—
it’s a real chore of course.
the pickup bucks over all the snow drifts
and rattles and bangs on its way.
I’d rather be drinking eggnog
on this cold New Year’s Day.
I have a thermos of coffee
packed there in my saddle bag.
Think I’ll stop by the grove of aspen
and have myself a drag.
The cattle all are bunched up
near that aspen grove,
keeping warm together,
though it’s not where we drove—
we’d cleared some of the meadow
and had a team and sleigh,
to bring them out some “eats”—
a large good load of hay.
There are clouds over the mountains,
another storm is headed in.
And Josh is looking closely looking
back at me with a grin.
He knows very well
that I am going to complain.
But snow is prettier I guess
than mud and slush and rain.
So here is a winter wish
to all you folks out there.
Keep warm and safe as you can
in the cold, long winter air!
© 2020, Jean Mathisen Haugen
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
NO BLUES IN COWTOWN
by Jeff Campbell
Christmas comes
With great anticipation
Followed up with a
New Year Celebration
Then it’s back to work
And school’s in session
Some folks end up with
Post holiday depression
Dad used to call it
Old Jan-u-weary
The Skies are grey
People are bleary
But here in Fort Worth
We don’t get the blues
January’s something
We all look forward to
For a legendary event
Will be starting soon
With a big parade
On Saturday afternoon
Over three weeks
Where the West begins
They’ll be thrills and spills
Loses and wins
Cause everyday
There’s a big stock show
And come every night
The grand rodeo
Wild bull riders
Barrel racers too
Rabbits, pigeons
and a petting zoo
Mariachis, fiddlers
Guitar slingers
Cowboy poets
Western singers
So if you’re near
or if you’re far
Hop a plane, train
Drive your car
Cause having the blues
Can be such a pity
We’ll see you soon
In Panther City
© 2020, Jeff Campbell
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
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CHRISTMAS SELECTIONS
CATTLE AT CHRISTMAS (or) Homage to Fake News
by Jo Lynne Kirkwood
The legend that beasts on Christmas Eve can speak in human voice
To tell the tale of the Christ Child’s birth, so all Creation may rejoice
Has passed through generations, from those who witnessed first
The donkey, sheep, and cattle, bow down at the Infant’s birth.
And who could ever argue the veracity of that story?
Told by shepherds, with Angels standing guard, and Kings in all their glory?
Even the humble Drummer Boy, with a child’s sweet honesty
Sang praise to the musical Ox and Lamb, of their rhythmical harmony.
And though perhaps the Drummer’s ballad was a wordless lullaby,
The connections of cadence and human speech can hardly be denied.
So having admitted the evidence, my mind ponders, and keeps playing
With the thought, If cattle talk on Christmas Eve, What is it that they’re saying?
My faith compels me to believe, with original intent
Of this gift, to spread Glad Tidings! it was first used as was meant.
But twice a thousand years have passed since that Holy Night and now,
And credibility no longer loves a Missionary Cow.
What ever do they talk about? What could it be they say?
Could we suppose a diatribe on the quality of hay?
Perhaps they’d like a warmer barn, fewer barbs on barbed wire fence.
Do they laugh at us behind our backs? Make jokes at our expense?
Perhaps they plot a Range War, with human elocution.
They could be planning a coup d’état, a bovine revolution!
I pause to view the calendar, to count each day and week
Until this fateful night returns – When beasts again will speak!
Paranoia settles in. There will be Reindeer on the roof!
They’ve likely formed a spy network, tapping codes with each small hoof.
We must plan with watchful vigilance; Grab our Bibles, and our Guns,
To withstand the horned and hooved assault! And then, when daylight comes,
We’ll welcome Christmas Morning, share gifts and sing of Peace,
And Celebrate the Season with a haunch of Prime Roast Beef.
© 2017, Jo Kirkwood
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
A TRUE COUNTRY CHRISTMAS
by Michelle Turner
The year, as a whole, was one to forget
Hardship and weather sent farmers in debt
Endless spring rains put planting on hold
Haybines were useless, equipment was sold
Much of our cropland left fallow and bare
Some covered with rye ‘cuz pasture was spare
Cattle were gleaning the few stubbled fields
Grain bins were empty from low harvest yields
Fall was no better with October snow
Corn was still standing as we hung mistletoe
Dad sat by the window, just shaking his head
We needed more hay for the stock to be fed
He put on his coat, stepping out in the cold
Sighing deeply he said, “The herd must be sold.”
A cow and two heifers stood by the gate
Patiently waiting, unaware of their fate
After chores we all left for Christmas Eve service
Our spirits were low, but we prayed with a purpose
Waylayed by the Pastor, delaying retreat
He saw in our faces a shadowed defeat
A message of hope, he shared so sincere
using God’s word to subdue our fears
The church yard now empty, we got in our truck
Riding in silence, still praying for luck
We drove down our lane and stopped at the sight
The whole congregation, holding candles of light
They sang Peace on Earth and gathered around
One neighbor came forward, “We’re here with some ground”
“We’ve forty-two acres, with hot-wire fencing
We want you to use it, with everyone’s blessing.”
Another stepped up, taking Dad by the arm
There’s third cutting hay, all stacked in your barn
Dad openly wept, sharing tears with the crowd
We formed a tight circle, hands held and heads bowed
Thanking the Lord for neighborly kindness;
For having been blessed with a true Country Christmas
© 2019, Michele Turner
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
A CHRISTMAS MEMORY
by Ol’ Jim Cathey
Comin’ daybreak, the girls stood there,
They were ready for mornin’ feed.
Fog an’ snow made for crispy air,
Soon he’d come to meet their need.
There’d been a sifting of powder snow,
That had fell throughout the night.
T’was cold, but not unseasonable tho,
As dark gives in to mornin’ light.
Christmas morn on the Quarter Circle C,
But there was chores to get done,
Foggy an’ white made it hard to see,
This mornin’, they’d not see the sun.
Still a few flakes of snow in the air,
The girls were patient, standin’ quiet,
They knew the feed would be there,
An’ their day would start off right.
He smiled as they walked up slow,
Their breathe steamin’ from the cold,
He thought of a time so long ago,
The story so often retold.
The heavenly hosts song of great joy,
The night of the Savior’s birth,
Mary an’ Joseph’s Baby Boy,
Peace an’ goodwill to all the Earth.
His girls brought mem’rys of that night
Calm an’ quiet…so very serene,
He reveled in that joyous sight,
As he pictured that Holy Scene.
He sensed a great joy as he fed,
With the girls crowdin’ ‘round him,
He could hear that story his Dad read,
‘Bout the Savior’s birth in starlight dim.
He felt so blessed on that cold morn,
As he thanked God, on bended knee,
For His great love, Jesus was born!
Christmas on the Quarter Circle C.
© 2019, Ol’ Jim Cathey
This poem should not be reposted or reprinted without permission
Thanks to all who participated.
SUBMISSIONS
• Even if you have a poem or song pending, you are welcome to send one submission inspired by this painting.
• Art Spur subjects are meant to inspire; we look for poems and songs inspired by the piece, not necessarily for a literal description of the image or its subject.
• Do follow our regular guidelines for submissions.
• When you email your submission to poems@cowboypoetry.com, please indicate in the subject line that it is an Art Spur submission.
Find some previous ART SPUR submissions here and here.
Jo Lynne Kirkwood creates an impressive hand-crafted Christmas card each year, and this was her drawing for the cover of her 2017 card, accompanied by her poem, “Cattle at Christmas (or) Homage to Fake News.”
She has a fine book that collects her poetry, Old Houses, and recordings. Find more about her at cowboypoetry.com.
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“The Christmas Cow,” by Ken Howry
“Cows,” © 2017, Jo Lynne Kirkwood; request permission for use