Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Horse Sense
Horse Sense
Daddy & Sugar - 1950
She was a wild rodeo pony.
Throwing riders was her claim to fame.
She enjoyed all the rompin' and stompin',
vicious nature that no man could tame.
He was a small, "can-do" cowboy.
With certainty, he was the boss.
His one rule in breaking wild ponies -
"Be smarter than the hoss."
With the voice of a lover he wooed her,
caressed her rump, fondled her feet.
Here was a man she could count on,
a friend who couldn't be beat.
The blanket laid light as a feather,
as he the whole process explained.
His soothing words gentled her nature,
never once causing her pain.
Up with the saddle so easy,
tighten the girt tenderly,
weight in the stirrup so slightly,
his every move she could see.
He talked himself into the saddle
and gave her a nudge with his heel,
wearing no sharp spurs to frighten.
Now only his love could she feel.
A walk, then a trot he encouraged.
She turned to the reins like a pro.
Her rebirth was now sure and final.
Old habits not once did she show.
When Mama came out for inspection,
she saw to her frightenened surprise
Dink and me riding the outlaw,
not exactly a sight for sore eyes!
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Daddy & Sugar - 1950
She was a wild rodeo pony.
Throwing riders was her claim to fame.
She enjoyed all the rompin' and stompin',
vicious nature that no man could tame.
He was a small, "can-do" cowboy.
With certainty, he was the boss.
His one rule in breaking wild ponies -
"Be smarter than the hoss."
With the voice of a lover he wooed her,
caressed her rump, fondled her feet.
Here was a man she could count on,
a friend who couldn't be beat.
The blanket laid light as a feather,
as he the whole process explained.
His soothing words gentled her nature,
never once causing her pain.
Up with the saddle so easy,
tighten the girt tenderly,
weight in the stirrup so slightly,
his every move she could see.
He talked himself into the saddle
and gave her a nudge with his heel,
wearing no sharp spurs to frighten.
Now only his love could she feel.
A walk, then a trot he encouraged.
She turned to the reins like a pro.
Her rebirth was now sure and final.
Old habits not once did she show.
When Mama came out for inspection,
she saw to her frightenened surprise
Dink and me riding the outlaw,
not exactly a sight for sore eyes!
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Monday, February 27, 2006
Turtle Soup
Turtle Soup
1942
I must have been four and Peg about six
when we lived at Spring Grove, way out in the sticks.
Across the road and thru the fence we went down to the spring
to fetch a pail of water, a heavy, sloshy thing.
'Twas there we spied a turtle, the big old snapping kind,
which had Peg dancing round with joy. This was a glorious find.
"Let's catch him for some turtle soup," suggested she with glee.
But I would lend no help at all. I ran and climbed a tree.
He wouldn't fit the bucket. I guess it's just as well.
The thought of eating turtle soup is jucky, truth to tell.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
1942
I must have been four and Peg about six
when we lived at Spring Grove, way out in the sticks.
Across the road and thru the fence we went down to the spring
to fetch a pail of water, a heavy, sloshy thing.
'Twas there we spied a turtle, the big old snapping kind,
which had Peg dancing round with joy. This was a glorious find.
"Let's catch him for some turtle soup," suggested she with glee.
But I would lend no help at all. I ran and climbed a tree.
He wouldn't fit the bucket. I guess it's just as well.
The thought of eating turtle soup is jucky, truth to tell.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Prayer
Prayer
Be careful what you pray for:
The answer may surprise.
It could be even better,
it might be otherwise.
I prayed for brains like Einstein,
the speaking style of Newt,
with Kate Smith's voice and Marilyn's bod,
Phyllis Diller's personality cute.
I wound up with a build like Kate,
Einstein's unruly hair,
an awesome brain like Ms. Monroe,
and nil on speaking flair,
the pre-lift face of Phyllis
with her raspy voice to boot,
and worst of all
(oh, wouldn't you know?)
the personality of a newt.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Be careful what you pray for:
The answer may surprise.
It could be even better,
it might be otherwise.
I prayed for brains like Einstein,
the speaking style of Newt,
with Kate Smith's voice and Marilyn's bod,
Phyllis Diller's personality cute.
I wound up with a build like Kate,
Einstein's unruly hair,
an awesome brain like Ms. Monroe,
and nil on speaking flair,
the pre-lift face of Phyllis
with her raspy voice to boot,
and worst of all
(oh, wouldn't you know?)
the personality of a newt.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Grandpa's Legacy
Grandpa's Legacy
When Grandpa Gunn came west to farm,
no plow had broke the land.
No weed, no cactus, no mesquite,
just grass on every hand.
He was the best of neighbors,
a Christian through and through.
Just ask for help and he was there,
most everybody knew.
A transient family stopped awhile,
the pregnant mother sick.
She died, and Grandpa's helping hand
never missed a lick.
He took the boards right off his barn,
a coffin for to build,
and buried mom and infant
up on the gravel hill.
The grave remains, a monument,
reminder from above,
of a Grandpa that I never knew
and his legacy of love.
When Grandpa Gunn came west to farm,
no plow had broke the land.
No weed, no cactus, no mesquite,
just grass on every hand.
He was the best of neighbors,
a Christian through and through.
Just ask for help and he was there,
most everybody knew.
A transient family stopped awhile,
the pregnant mother sick.
She died, and Grandpa's helping hand
never missed a lick.
He took the boards right off his barn,
a coffin for to build,
and buried mom and infant
up on the gravel hill.
The grave remains, a monument,
reminder from above,
of a Grandpa that I never knew
and his legacy of love.
Grandpa was Lycurgus Aurelius Gunn, of Scottish descent, a good friend of David Lipscomb, a well-known preacher of the time. He moved from Bell County, Texas to Motley County (lower panhandle) in about 1901, when his youngest child (my dad, Robert Houston) was 8 years old. Curg's second wife had died when little Hute was two years old. This was before the town of Flomot existed, thus no cemetery. The nearest place to buy lumber was Lockney, probably a day's hard ride up the Caprock in a wagon. After his death, the farm was sold to a nephew, and as I was growing up we sometimes helped him hoe his cotton crop in the summer. One day a man with a long grey beard stopped by and asked about the grave where his wife and baby had been buried all those years ago. It was a small area out in the field, but never touched by the plow, covered in mesquite grass and a few small trees.
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Friday, February 24, 2006
Skinners' Shack
Skinners' Shack
The sad old house had never seen a warming coat of paint.
Its starkly nude appearance gave it an aura quaint.
No knobs or locks upon its doors, just latches with a string.
Holes in the floor let in the rats and snakes and everything.
The walls were bare and thin and cold, one window to each room.
The rafters held no ceiling, the prospect one of gloom.
But under that tin, leaky roof a happy family thrived.
We loved and laughed and sang as though our fortune had arrived.
It was the base for active sports, engaging one and all,
an old milk bucket on the front a goal for basketball.
We rode old Star and Dynamite, went swimming in the tank,
the lessons learned while there worth more than money in the bank.
No house of brick with velvet drapes and swimming pool out back
could harbor love and memories to rival Skinners' shack.
The sad old house had never seen a warming coat of paint.
Its starkly nude appearance gave it an aura quaint.
No knobs or locks upon its doors, just latches with a string.
Holes in the floor let in the rats and snakes and everything.
The walls were bare and thin and cold, one window to each room.
The rafters held no ceiling, the prospect one of gloom.
But under that tin, leaky roof a happy family thrived.
We loved and laughed and sang as though our fortune had arrived.
It was the base for active sports, engaging one and all,
an old milk bucket on the front a goal for basketball.
We rode old Star and Dynamite, went swimming in the tank,
the lessons learned while there worth more than money in the bank.
No house of brick with velvet drapes and swimming pool out back
could harbor love and memories to rival Skinners' shack.
Compared to today's cozy homes in the US, this old house from my youth sounds downright pitiful. But just think of how many people there are in the world who would love to have a tin roof over their heads and a wooden floor beneath their feet. Daddy used tin cans, sliced open and flattened, for patching holes in the floor to keep out varmints, and eventually we made a good cotton crop that paid for a 9'X12' linoleum for the living room floor. As my brother Walter says, the walls were dual purpose, being both the outside and inside of the structure. Made of 1"x12" planks with a 2" lath covering the seam, they were all that stood between us and the West Texas sandstorms and blizzards. Mama got rolls of heavy grey wallpaper printed with little pink roses to tack on the inside wall, using metal "washers" about the size of a quarter under the tacks to help prevent the paper from tearing loose. Boy, we thought we were as good as uptown folks! Does this bring back any memories?
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Cora Gail Trent
www.cgtrent.com
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Welcome to Country Poetry & More
My name is Cora Gail Trent, Texan by birth, New Mexican by the grace of God. I am a retired farmer and had numerous other jobs, including secretary for the Texas Highway Patrol. While serving in that capacity, I began writing poetry about my childhood during the Great Depression, a memoir of sorts for my five children and future generations. This endeavor has grown into several books, including one about my late husband's lifetime of dealing with manic/depression, or bipolar disorder. All of my work, plus some by hubby Harold and my brother, Walter Gunn, can be found on my web site at www.cgtrent.com.
