IN THE DEPTHS… AND OUT OF THE SHADOWS ON HOW THE WEST WAS WON…
ERIC LASTICK’S LATEST PIECE FOR US – TECHY PROBS CAUSED A DELAY, BUT WE ARE HERE NOW!
EARLY MORNING RIDER: Snow layered like the white sands of covered gold wraps…a treasured Winter’s day, steadying lives like mended fences that secure and send—rightful our work is good. Move swift the time we have which cures the worries and friz-styled others may have and spread. Rider and horse take the snowy path in the early morning hours, in touch with an old badge of courage and survival, essential to the claim of all life’s battles. Stay-ed the from where hardships and grief; and kindness which is that much more welcome. The gentile ride of a whole property line is such a gain of warmth on this snowy day; as early morning horse rider…Mountain range sings. Tight to the saddle, raw hides string boot confident a seasoned long. Another build to honor the right equipped duty of day—and at it’s end, Stop of the horse on a dime. And then next to a newly born calf, a universal keeping of the faith and happiness to all that is young. All that is just getting started. Simple joys…as another horse fit to shoe…and a reinforcement of satisfaction—as off he-go, with a smile from the blacksmith…cover bested of pace. This snowy ride a greater day.
PONY EXPRESS: Curl leg to saddle…skies so blue, in the time of the Pony Express. Day-long travels and whispers of night’s stars—dream deliver a quick messaging…a silvered belt buckle holds of best bought journey’s to our town’s doors. Western lore. Imitation brand taker. Harsh of the dust run paths. Pony deliver as future drop off the beaten paths of dirt road. Message receives. Horse bend of the wild. Pony slow forth pass—hand to hand. Pony boy whistles, wants as longings…hours long, yet the mail need receive. ”Go west young man. Travel fast by way of Pony Express…and it’s races to the droves. In the thick of hurried lives. World’s often apart in the welcomes of the telegraph lines of the eighteen sixties new design. Rider cling meanwhile to the feels of the high winds…by Pony…a friend. From the Missouri lines to the great western Pacific…outlines of railroad. Tracks center to a curve. Wild mustangs…wagon wheel travels. Hurts in the eyes…pains up and down the pains where Indian resides. Johnny Rider glide to the heartaches and reaches of a lit sun-like candles of trust; and the ride to take you there. Whiskey ties gunmen step over the crows that feeds. Scary are whom fall in resp-ed places—off cliffs of their own weaknesses…succomed harder hides…fur corner stores; and every bit as cold as the outside territorial trusts…gambles. Yet the mail post mark sleeve delivered. ”Annie be my bride” The thoughts of Johnny Rider. Make by mile place. Call it home—with just a horse hoof away to settle; yet for now, the mail must deliver. See you at the Pony Express.
KNEE DEEP IN THE CRUEL OF THE TERRAINS; Geronimo of one nation, one heartbeat…and all of it’s glorious terrains. Sacred burials and grounds of endless suffering to find. Redden sun comes to a saddened close…as planinwalkers seek new shelter in grief stricken sendoff and big sleep—too where not even a Wigwam gather to find; as the Totem takes,as if a weathervaine point of the storm-bringer. Tortured souls pulled at the blacken Gatesvilles. A kind of push-trap to the invariable horror of an air which is so offensive—while Buffalo skulls and bones sack twelve feet by a two mile stretch of their hides of forlorn merchants brigade. Great skeletal connectives press one by one, like a red leaky river. The train reaches Durango to Silverton…Denver and the Rio Grandee. At junction reach, Anglo-sax look blank without even a peek, nor a stare. Pain comes to all in this day. And in short, the ling hall, a plight unlike any other pale face indifference. A gene-pool that remain clear…and not inclined of the heart, yet what divides.What and who to conquer.
A TRAIN CONDUCTORS FINAL CALL; Ones own blindness. Blind of heart. A trail of tears is just feeble to those minded. To the rest, a travesty of injustices…and whom carry the biggest gold return and party politics. Mockery and status white rules—too the burn in a soul of red; although, the awake state of scalp-hunters move in the herd like hungry fanged wolves of heavy warpaint…and heavier lit wagon trains. Turn to the 20th century as all ambitious medicine wheels slow spin to the industrial age. A president log of William B. Hays…and it’s beginnings of the military industrial brands. The reservation is a place to lay and sit with all sorrows. Dreams of a warrior…as Geronimo must now realize he’s out manned and out gunned. Time running slow at the lite’s of the moon. IN HINDSIGHT: On that day, great wide-eye Buffaloes…creatures of the wide-opens, feed the hungry. Your furs warmth our young. Spread your backbone truth all through this land…as i honor you my friend. My soul mate in all the day-long. Eagle large…as be the oath of great land…as to return once again with al great spirit. I sacrifice all. Give my time in this moment; and say whom i truly am. Blood of me…blood of my people, where we once lived. Pilgrimages of false gifts…and of these others whom reaped our crop. Pure true animal could never reach you, our Totem; and for this,we cannot brake bread with the giving of this day. Though give thanks to our great animals whom we call our real friends!
STEAM CLOUD ECHOES: Westward struggles…tracks of roughness to the very heat of scenes. COURAGE A LONG LONG TIME IN IT’S OWN MAKINGS: West won battles. The Apache and the hordes of screams to the hollers. Wet empty canteen stitched in the desert sands; and the relent of that Arizona sun. Train a rolling on…settling scores…the shoots along a wide stretch of badlands and gold riches. A life’s dream away. Reality hits the back story of how the wet won…and to it’s habitual losses of those tragically conquered Red Nation—yet not of their wisdom’s. The remains on wood peddle downriver…and the thriving riches to the land,water and nature. All of it’s animals that roamed. The steam engine cloud of yesterdays lives…it’s loves…and it’s battles of the blue coated and of the day—right too the chain of command. The gangs of train robs. Stick-up quests…and grimes of greaser ugly; as the West was young. Chief of Long haired…bareback riders ward off the Union’s blue coat scouts. Treasonous to the Red—while fancying the dances to the sun. Each passing day, a push of Anglo pressure to erase a whole culture. Remove from the maps. Call it assimilation, though more like genocide! The railroads built upon the backs of Chinese workers. Old West crisis cross for it’s so called greater good. Military industries rise. Tepees die. Danger to the air, water and all it’s indigenous peoples—as the flag fly’s, staked in the grounds—too it’s permanent! Ask any Canadian of the very backdrops of ‘Ol Pacific Northwest and their Religious run schools to harbor their own Anglo cruelties. And ask of the actual floorboards…and what lies under, six feet deep. Indian crypts of a final phase on how the west was won. This is gthe cost, as the link and the ink on the school pages —-go all blotted and tainted; as it reads of the horrors of what reveals, is your West that was won!
SHADOW COWBOY AND HORSE HE RIDE: The dust and dirt build on his wide brim—like a barge to his wooden eyes of the rough and bowlegged. The clouds lowered over the distant tree lines like a purple Grey bonfire. By dusk of an hour long-ways from home, a view is of a mountain staring right back a him. He reach and journey’s closer for a sign. This gritty life of steer and sweat…Tar-heal and cold shower has reached to a peek; just as this view of the mountain top…it’s slow stop at the tall tress. Pine needles and snow, show the sharpens of a hardened road as a cowboy. They’d be no more song in him…too the swell of his toe. His limp has turned to flimsy…and his grip of the reigns not so tight anymore. The Shadow Cowboy looks and leans. He gently let’s his horse to his revered course back home. A rocking chair and three whole squares. His lady in waiting as she always does. His answer to his prayer which so simple and wise. True as he makes way with his horse by nightfall. Last round-ups and rustlers…depend-on the brand. Backs with the wind. Shadow rider…silhouette cowboy return not just for the night. Old boy reason to spread easy. Toast brandied the sip to good cowboy-ing Just not me, no more. “Honeybee, I’m coming home for Christmas. There i lay my hat down.”