I like to watch Westerns. They bring back memories of happy childhood games. |
Cowboys and Indians Saturday afternoon westerns on television, With horses, and cowboys, and saloons. Always a fight to be fought, A reputation to be saved. Times of vengeance in law. Scores to be settled. People get shot. People get sick. People die on the TV show, Then change wardrobe, and go home. Doc, Festus, Marshall Dillan, and Miss Kitty, Chester with the gimp in his walk. Newley: Kansas had people you could count on. Miles and miles Of open territory to ride. Remembering childhood With a whole life to ride. Playing cowboys and Indians, A kid with some rubber tipped arrows, A shiny silver six shooter That I could twirl, Like when I pull My electric fire stick From my blue jean holster To light the bar-be-cue fire. Practice makes perfect. Campfires, a herd of cattle To drive north, For sale to the highest bidder. Cook's beef stew, Coffee by the campfire, Or on the old metal stove, With a wooden inferno. Always chopping wood, mending fences. People-done bad things. Leave the past behind. Start fresh. Like the saloon girl Who got herself married up. Knowing, now, they did More dancing In the rooms above the bar, upstairs, out of sight: For companionship and money, The warmth of human touch-- Mostly money. Crops, cattle, chickens, Maybe a goat or a donkey. Feed the chickens in the yard, While wearing an apron, Atop a long well-worn dress. In true view More simple and plain Than on this screen of economics. Barter, cotton, "sky high." On Saturday afternoons Gil Favor somehow corrals The restless stallion, Rowdy Yates. Wishbone and Mushy tend to food chores. Pots and pans, sugar and flour, The chef's requirements housed In the chuck wagon Across streams and rivers Of drinkable fresh water. Before industry. Before now. Animals swim--horses, cows, But humans drown sometime. Rocks fall in landslides, Lightening strikes, Cattle stampede, Consumption, And people expire As the plot dictates. Life in the old West Is not a convenient drive- Through restaurant, Until the commercials come, Religiously every eight minutes. Rowdy finds a pretty girl. Men ride horses as one entity. Valuing the sentient equine side, As if four wheels and a lot of steel Had four legs and could eat. The difference compared To now is quite complete. Some kind of truth applies to life, Like rules that never change. The plains were open, untouched, Alive with a life all its own. Indians who spoke With gesture of hand, Communicating "how." Their message was clear. A white flag means truce. Having always a chance, Until the last word is spoken. Have talk to allay the conflict Which always errupts between cultures, Like some Biblical truth: Finish the story With a happy ending In the time allotted. The guy in the black hat Always gets his due, Eating dirt in the street Before the final commercial. Drawn into the era Where it's all so clear: The difference between Right and wrong, As obvious As between right and left. Ethics and drive to be strong, In black and white On Saturday afternoons. I come away from it all With more than the plot, Or the thrill of a barroom brawl, In a 1950s Western. A comfortable feeling sets in, Feeling more alive from observation, Having just lived through empathy. Remember being a kid With a shiny silver six shooter? Get shot. Fall down dead. Count to five, Then again to be alive. Do it again, and again, Playing cowboys and Indians With the neighborhood kids Way back when. It's only a little Different now. Genres change, Plot structure and timing remain. Life and ethics Seem less clear In color and high definition. |