, "The Last Roundup"

The Last Round-up
by
Jo Lynn Kirkwood

I

For fifty and one hundred years they’d roamed those canyon lands,
Rancher’s stock with grazin’ rights, all the local brands.
On unclaimed tracts they’d once ranged free, then hemmed in by permits,
Passed down from grandfathers to sons, now forced to call it quits.

The edict came, a voice went forth, new forces ruled the land,
and in their greedy rush for power they failed to understand
a way of life, a reverence, an era forced to die.
And desperate men had little choice but rein in and comply.

Angry, silent, grim faced men, just doin’ what they must,
boys in fringed bright colored shirts, chokin’ on the dust.
Womenfolk in jeans and spurs, eager still to ride,
and leggy girls in braids and vests, pacin’ at their side.

Their flyin’ hooves shot chips and sparks off rocks along the trail,
the dust was thick and filled with stones a hurtlin’ down like hail.
The earth beneath them trembled, sent tremors to the core.
The sun grew red with haze and clouds across the valley floor.

They pushed them through the canyon walls like demon refugees,
a writhin’ mass of horns and hides, bawlin’ like banshees.
From out across the desert the mighty trail drive roared,
until the evening lay its cooling hand across the hoard.

And when the night had fallen, and the herds were penned at last,
A dynasty bowed down their heads. Their way of life had passed.
Sweetly bitter they remembered their life in the old west,
now laid to rest, a last hurrah, a legislated death.

II

That lady ain’t no cowboy, the Salt Lake papers read,
they disagreed with what she did, and where her conscience led.
But some folk just ain’t malleable, don’t easily comply
when forced edicts and rules of law say, “Lay down now, and die.”
And when the last round up was through, and all the brands were named,
a few last hides still roamed the range. Her livestock still remained.
And though those men were truly charged to aid and give assistance,
they owned the law, or thought they did, and were irked by by her resistance.

Reason did not enter in. A blind man seldom sees.
Their goal was clear. Round up that herd. Bring that rebel to her knees.
Horse sense played no part in it. Wisdom held no key.
Their aim was pure and simple. A Legal victory.

Money was no object, although they later tried
to recoup some expenditures by selling off her hides.
They used all of their resources from the bureaus vast supply,
and went in with helicopters and guns, a round up from the sky.

Then took them to the auction, though the brands were not inspected,
they had no bill of sale or right, but clearly they expected
the government to back them up, the sheriff to comply,
The courts of law to rubber stamp their fabricated lie.

But at that final moment, face to face with fact
The boys who ran the auction gave those cattle back.
And with that noble, rightful deed, that act of bravery,
For one brief shinning moment all of us were free.

No, that lady ain’t no cowboy, I have to reckon that
but that cowboy’s sure a lady.
And you ought to tip your hat
to the whole danged bunch of them down there,
from the sheriff clear on down.
It took a whole posse of folks
to run the bureaucrats out of town.
© Jo Lynn Kirkwood

Jo Lynne Kirkwood said this:

  I'm from the Colorado Strip part of northern Arizona. My grandfather was one of the original settlers of the area, and I'm still related to at least half the people left down there (always have been). When my mother was born, in the small town I'm from, Arizona was still a territory (that's just a great -- to me -- piece of trivia that occurred to me recently. I've used it in one poem so far, but I'll probably think of something else to do with it.) I grew up with beef cattle and hay.   I now live in central Utah with my husband and four kids -- and we raise hay and calves. I also teach school - English and art. (And I do western art - watercolor and pencil, mostly.) I've been writing for most of my life (since I could, when I could, sometimes when I shouldn't be - maybe.) but have been concentrating more on the "cowboy genre" for the last year or two.

We asked Jo Lynne Kirkwood why she writes cowboy poetry, and she replied: I accept that this is an honest question, but I'm going to do something real mean with it and give you a true answer; or rather, a series of them.   The short version is "because that's what the folks who listen to what I write want to hear." The long version takes longer.

I'm a school teacher. I teach art and English, and in my English classes I teach poetry. Because I live right in the middle of what's still left of the Old West, there are lots of "half-growed" cowboys who end up in my classroom, and who have no connection with or interest in any dead poets, or "modern poetry" (meaning free verse.) I discovered years ago, however, that they do like and respond to funny rhymed verse, and the "cowboy genre" in particular. So, I started bringing in what I could find - mostly work by Waddie or Baxter Black - and used that as an avenue in to whatever else I managed to accomplish. Along with reading "other folks' poems" I've always had my students write their own poems (some of which sometimes turn out to be pretty good...) and I write with my students.

When I write, I tend to use real life material either from my own background, or based on local characters, or stories my husband brings home from the coffee shop. And, because so many of my poems are "almost" true or are about old boys everybody around here knows, before I even realized people were paying attention I was being talked about behind my back and accosted in the grocery store.    Folks started asking me to read at various gatherings around the county, so, in order to avoid running out of material I had to keep writing poems.

One day somebody who really should have known better said something that came off as disparaging about cowboy poetry being a sort of rustic folk art, and that it really wasn't considered a true poetic art form. That converted me. I am proud to work in a genre that has this broad an appeal. Cowboy poetry - anything about the cowboy era, really - is one of the few art forms that can be considered as authentically American, and I am all for preserving the culture and celebrating this particular "true poetic art form". It's about what I know, where I come from, who I care about, and, well shucks...folks just plain like it.   Thanks for askin'.

You can email Jo Lynne Kirkwood and visit her web site.

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