The Dutch Oven
Poems by Bruce Kiskaddon

You mind that old oven so greasy and black,
That we hauled in a wagon or put in a pack.
The biscuits she baked wasn't bad by no means,
And she had the world cheated fer cookin' up beans.
If the oven was there you could always git by,
You could bake, you could boil, you could stew, you could fry.

When the fire was built she was throwed in to heat
While they peeled the potaters and cut down the meat.
Then the cook put some fire down into a hole.
Next, he set in the oven and put on some coals.
I allus remember the way the cook did
When he took the old "Goncho" and lifted the lid.

He really was graceful at doin' the trick.
The old greasy sackers they just used a stick.
Boy Howdy! We all made a gen'l attack.
If the hoss with the dutch oven scattered his pack.
You mind how you lifted your hoss to a lope
And built a long loop in the end of your rope.

You bet them old waddies knowed what to expect.
No biscuits no more if that oven got wrecked.
We didn't know much about prayin' or lovin'
But I reckon we worshipped that greasy old oven.
And the old cowboy smiles when his memory drifts back
To the oven that rode in the wagon or pack.

Friday means..
Another weekend without you.

Solemn Sunday..

A prolific, natural poet whose life experiences are reflected in his poems -
tells it as it is - the simplicity of his words ring with power and truth.

It's odd but there is one thing most people like to do.
To spend a while beside the grave of some one that you knew.
You do it when you've time enough to make a quiet ride.
To see the fleecy clouds above and watch the shadows glide.

You think of things he did and said, and of the ways he had.
And now to think that he is dead. It makes you feel plum sad.
It brings the old days back again, you live them one by one.
You think of things that happened then, and what you should have done.

They say there'll be a Judgment Day when dead men rise again.
So I suppose he'll have to stay just where he is till then.
But then you reckon that the one who made the world knows best.
He takes them when their work is done and lets them have their rest.

And when at last our strength has failed we make our last long ride.
We leave this world and take the trail across the great divide.
So when it's time to make the change we'll go where they have gone.
We'll meet them on another range somewhere in the beyond.

- Bruce Kiskaddon

How Poetry Began

That thing that we call poetry -
when asked where it began,
I’d say it started beautifully
before the dawn of man!

It glistened on the oceans
before man came to be.
It blossomed on the grassy cliffs
that met the first great sea.

It glittered in the moon and stars
and beamed on earth below
in meadows where bright flowers danced
and on the pristine snow.

It sparkled on the lakes and streams,
and when man came along,
he took sweet words that flowed to him
and turned them into song.

This was how it always was
before we knew of time.
The poet who begot us all
made it to be sublime.

Poetry has now evolved,
and as with many things,
there are many kinds. . . but I
still like it when it sings!

Andrea Dietrich

Dover Beach

Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the {AE}gean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To he before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.