Rod's Bunkhouse

Night Herd

2008-03-24T02:13:00.002-05:00

Night Herd by Alf Bilton

The glaciers grazing on gray granite heights
Are wont to stop feeding and stargaze such nights;
Ensorcelled, enchanted, entranced between bites:
Medusa's own light show, these bright Northern Lights.

Pastel silken slithers slip-slide hue to hue,
Unfurling and swirling, then shifting red-blue.
Eternity's dancing, and even the stars
Are humbled, reminded, how short-lived we are.

Bar-D Fandango

2008-01-08T07:41:00.000-06:00

I just said "Fandango" t'get you t'look. Actually, the latest "Art Spur" invitation has been nailed up on the Bar-D bullet board, and it's a sketch by ol' Pat Richardson. I know, most folks think of him as just a ol' rawhide cowpoke who writes and recites poems, but he's one heckuva artist, too. Check out his sketch of "Sammy" the mule, and see if you can write a poem about 'im.
Sammy, I mean, not ol' Rawhide Richardson.
http://www.cowboypoetry.com/artspur.htm
Pal, Hal

When a Cowboy Talks to God

2008-01-03T17:45:00.000-06:00

Lord, you know that I’m one small seed
Blown across the fields of this world—
You could lose me in a moment
By the power you have unfurled.

But when I need to talk to you,
I know you’ll hear me and stand mute—
Then bless me with your vast knowledge
In green valley or lonely butte.

Yes, I’ve strayed down many wrong paths,
And it’s all my own fault, of course—
But now I just ask your blessing
When I’m too frail to ride my horse.

And though it seems I ask often,
It is not always just for me—
I can only gain forgiveness
In the eyes of eternity.

Lift me to your silver saddle
And we’ll ride that ivory cloud—
As I dally the light’s wisdom,
And make the big trail boss real proud.

--Glen Enloe

Regret

2008-01-03T12:08:00.000-06:00

Regret by Alf Bilton

Its tenant all preoccupied with dreams of yesterday,
A swollen grave looks back at me with nothing left to say.
I am in a place so lonely, even grief has gone astray,
A place where all with any choice have long since walked away.

With hat in hand, I bide a while, imagining what was,
The kindnesses and laughter, like any mourner does.
A heavy-laden bumblebee commiserates in buzz,
"Remember, Pard, life just goes on. It don't go on because."

We'd like to think we know the path we're on and where it goes,
We hope and pray, insure and say, but no one really knows.
We're here for just a short time, like anything that grows.
But born to die, its best we try and emulate the rose.

Though picked the very moment that it's blooming at its prime,
Its half-remembered heartaches all washed away like grime,
Each yellow rose of Texas lives on in heart and rhyme.
So flowers' sunny beauty can last for all of time.

While cowboys watch a sunset, they don't forget the strays,
And though their thoughts may seem to be of where the herd will graze,
They're often watching memories as each event replays.
No rose will stop its blooming to count the passing days.

Against a long tradition, each life's a silhouette.
In living, we make memories can't be remembered yet;
But what we label Living, may be a sobriquet.
What half-baked batch of cookies could fathom real regret?

It Somehow Crossed My Mind

2008-01-03T00:57:00.000-06:00

IT SOMEHOW CROSSED MY MIND

There are many special moments
that one shares throughout their life;
like the first kiss of our sweetheart
and the day we took our wife.

Too the miracle of children
and the joy that fam’lies share,
that’s along with all the mishaps
and the tears one had to bare.

In a lifetime there are sad times
when one had a little cry
as death took from us our loved ones
and we had to say goodbye.

Did you battle with a pimple
just before the high school prom
and remember all the rallies where
we chanted, “Ban the bomb!”

How we cruised the streets real proud like
when we purchased our first ute
and the first time that we climbed on
down a bronc within a chute.

There’s the day that we were born of course
that most will celebrate,
though that day it comes round quickly;
to which old folk can relate.

But the day that is most precious
or at least it is to me,
is the day that Jesus died for us
back there at Calvary.

It is true there was rejoicing
on that day at Bethlehem
but for mankind Jesus’ sacrifice
would soon mean more to them.

It’s this memory that’s prompted me
to have my little say
as I lost a mate just lately
and whose birth date is today.

Though that day too brought rejoicing
Rod it’s somehow crossed my mind,
it was at your time of passing
that you left most to mankind.

©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster

An Un-kept Resolution

2007-12-31T13:18:00.000-06:00

An Un-kept Resolution

Another resolution which I failed to keep-
A task put off forever, it nearly makes me weep.
A friend, not gone, but waiting, just across the great divide,
The first time we’ll meet face-to-face, is on the other side.

He sent me a CD last month, of cowboy Christmas lore-
And when I wrote and thanked him, he sent me just one more…
The last one had his number, I thought, “Why, I will be!
This prince of cowboy poets, really wants to speak to me.”

Recovering from surgery, I thought I’d wait a bit-
Till I could go and meet him, a choice I now regret.
A shock I found a’waiting, on that Sunday I signed on…
And found to my great sorrow, that my rhyming friend was gone.

But the cheering ray in darkness, as Death’s shadow crossed the path-
Is that it held no terror, for our partner, home at last-
And when we meet up yonder, no more sickness, pain, nor death-
Will serve to mar our friendship, in that Blessed place of rest.

New Years on the Rafter J

2007-12-31T08:54:00.001-06:00

BEFORE LISTENING, YOU WILL NEED TO TURN OFF THE BLUEGRASS MUSIC IN THE SIDEBAR.

Our New Years Celebration with cowboy poetry and music by Diane Tribitt, Ken Cook, Latigo, Michael Robinson, Katie Kern, Sam DeLeeuw and Paul Kern. Good music - fantastic country yodeling and inspiring poetry to start off 2008!

The Blue Ribbon Words Of The Blue Ribbon Man

2007-12-30T17:38:00.000-06:00

(-In memory of ROD NICHOLS-)

The winds out of Texas
will write once again
the blue ribbon words
from his blue ribbon pen.
They’ll sweep cross the prairies
and plains of the West,
with the blue ribbon words
of one of the best.
With indelible ink
on the pages of time,
they’ll write down the words
of his blue ribbon rhyme.
And his pen won’t be stilled.
We’ll read once again,
the blue ribbon words
from his blue ribbon pen.
Bette Wolf Duncan

Wacobelle Productions was honored to feature many of his poems:
http://www.rodeocountry.org
http://www.charlierussell.org

http://www.rodeocountry.org

The Light In the Window

2007-12-30T13:36:00.000-06:00

As a child, in the darkness,
feeling scared and alone,
I saw the glow from the window
that showed the way home.

Then I stood there, protected,
in the circle of light
that shone from the gas lamp
out into the night.

On the inside, the lamplight,
flickered and cast
an image of itself
in the black of the glass.

Even now, I feel warmth
from the comforting sight
of my home and the window--
the one with the light.

Link to Houston Article

2007-12-30T08:14:00.000-06:00

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/metropolitan/5410664.html

Houston & Texas News

2007-12-30T08:00:00.000-06:00

In 1989, Roddy Eugene Nichols was awarded the Texas Excellence Award for High School Teachers.
FAMILY PHOTO

Houston & Texas News

Click on link below. Thank you Margo for letting us know.

Houston Chronicle Obituary Rod Nichols

2007-12-29T20:07:00.000-06:00

Roddy Eugene Nichols

Roddy Eugene Nichols, 65, of Missouri City, passed away on December 22, 2007. He was born January 3, 1942 in Nacogdoches, Texas. A graduate of Spring Branch High School and the University of Houston (B.A., M.Ed.), Rod taught Speech and English and was the coach of the debate team at Lee High School in Houston for 20 years. In 1989, he was awarded the Texas Excellence Award for Outstanding High School Teachers, one of only 10 teachers in the state to receive the award that year. He went on to become the Dean of Instruction for Gregory-Lincoln Education Center and served in that capacity until retiring in 1999. Throughout his life, he was an immensely creative person, and his creative pursuits, for which he was recipient of many awards, included writing poetry, painting, musical theatre, and authoring computer software. In later years, Rod focused his attention on poetry, and, in particular, poetry centered around the Old West and the life of the American cowboy. Rod authored three complete books of western poetry, "A Little Bit of Texas," "Drover Diaries," and "Old Trees and Tumbleweeds," and a number of compact discs featuring his poetry and music. For "A Little Bit of Texas" he received the prestigious Will Rogers Medallion Award from the Academy of Western Artists in 2003. His poetry has been featured at the Republican National Convention, in the autobiography of Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor ("Lazy B"), on the Internet, and in newspapers, magazines, radio programs across the country. He was the first recipient of the "Lariat Laureate" award from "CowboyPoetry.com," a prominent poetry website. And despite declining health, Rod continued to accept invitations to perform his poetry across the country, including most recently the National Cowboy Poetry Rodeo in Hot Springs, South Dakota. He was preceded in death by his mother, Thelma Catherine Pilgreen Johnson, and his father J.C. Eugene Nichols. He is survived by his loving wife of 36 years, Judith Ann Beridon Nichols, his two sons and their wives, Michael & Laurie Nichols, and Dennis & Carlie Nichols, his grandchildren Lorelei, Liam, and Liesl Nichols, his brother Don Nichols, and his two sisters Windy Lanzl and Stacy Hooker. Memorial services are scheduled for 2:00 PM on Saturday, December 29, 2007 at The Settegast-Kopf Co. At Sugar Creek, 15015 Southwest Freeway, Sugar Land, TX 77478.

Published in the Houston Chronicle on 12/27/2007.

A TOP HAND

2007-12-29T17:16:00.000-06:00

A top hand has earned recognition,
his talents were second to none,
and he lived by the Code of the West
til his life on this earth was done.

His words were measured and thoughtful,
his teachings, profoundly sincere,
and if his intentions were doubted,
his actions made everything clear.

He kept a tight rein on convictions,
never straying from truth in all that
and honoured the good done by others
with a smile or a tip of his hat.

With the gentle soul of a poet,
he rode through his dreams in the night,
guided by the stars over Texas,
shining down on his pinpoint of light.

A top hand has earned recognition,
his talents were second to none,
and he lived by the Code of the West
til his life on this earth was done.

A Poem In Person

2007-12-29T15:58:00.000-06:00

Gathering at the Ol' Rockin' R

2007-12-29T10:43:00.000-06:00

Please stop over at the O' Rockin' R campfire today. Rod's Pards will be gathering there. Thanks, Merv, for setting that up for us!

Note from Jan P.

2007-12-29T09:13:00.000-06:00

JanP. said...
Even on the other side of the world the light will be kept on..an eternal campfire burning bright. God Bless.
December 29, 2007 12:22 AM

Looks good!

2007-12-28T21:46:00.000-06:00

Looks good, Diane. Give everybody a few days to wander in, then have roll call and see where we stand.

The Cowboy from Cutter Bill's

2007-12-28T20:56:00.000-06:00

I have managed to pen a few lines. This was first posted at the Bar-D Ranch, one of Rod's favorite places.

The Cowboy from Cutter Bill’s
(for Rod Nichols)

Oh, he rode in from Texas
On that sweet, high road trail—
His bright light was infectious—
His goodness did not fail.

He made us a warm campfire
And welcomed friend and foe—
Passed along gentle wisdom,
Drinkin’ a cup of joe.

He always had a poem
On any cowboy theme—
I’m glad I got to know him
And share that Old West dream.

He often was too modest
And hemmed and just said “yep”—
We cherish things he taught us—
Into our souls he crept.

But true cowboys always leave
Treasures we never see—
And for him we should not grieve
A life of memory.

He rides now on higher ground,
But we won’t soon forget—
His words leave a wondrous sound,
A soft glow in God’s sunset.

--Glen Enloe

Thank You for the Friendship Mate.

2007-12-28T19:34:00.000-06:00

It's taken me a couple of days to work out how to get in here Di but I think I've finally worked it out.

I'm hoping to have a wake over at the old Rockin' R for all of Rod's Pards after his Service Saturday afternoon. It would be great if all his friends could leave a little something over there too.

THANK YOU FOR THE FRIENDSHIP MATE.

In a world of new technology you get to make new friends
with many kinds of gadgets and the list it never ends.
They have this thing called cyber space where folk the whole world round
can interact together without leaving their home ground.

For years the storytellers they just used the spoken word,
to share their tales with others and folk loved what they all heard.
Then came the written form it seems and then the radio,
but now they use the Internet, it really is the go.

Downunder there are poets, who like Banjo Paterson,
use rhyming verse to spread the word and mate I too am one.
Bush Poets we all call ourselves and our main aim is clear;
preserving this lands culture; a thing we all hold dear.

But then I found in cyber space the Cowboy Poets too
who love to keep their history alive like Aussies do.
The Rockin’ R was one such place and it was clear to me
the Boss of this here outfit was as Cowboy as can be.

That man became a real good friend and other pards as well.
We shared our nations cultures and the company was swell.
Rod Nichols you where what we call a true blue sort of bloke
and well respected by your peers and lots of other folk.

Your passing it was sudden like and took us by surprise
and all your pards, including me, had tears well in their eyes.
The memories will carry on, I have no doubt of that
and thank you for your friendship mate. To you I lifts me hat.

Australian Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster

A Cowboy Farewell

2007-12-28T13:30:00.001-06:00

A Cowboy Farewell

The mountains are covered in blankets of snow.

Don't reckon I'll be 'round to see you this spring.

The owl has been callin' from way over yonder,

now he sits by my window and I know what he brings.

My cowboyin' days, they were truly amazing

Found life before death in the clear mountain air

Now I'm ready to wander new pastures up yonder

And I'm ready to ride the four winds that blow there.

Adios, mi compadres. Farewell, Corazone.

Goodbye to Chinook winds that sing soft and low.

Don't wanna be late when my pals are all waitin'

for me, and my spirit is restless to go

I've rode all the rank ones—down to my last run.

I've bulldogged the devil in three seconds flat.

My years have been many, and love's found me plenty.

Ain't a cowboy on earth who could want more than that.

Instead of a halo I'd like a gold buckle;

Some jingle-bob spurs with my brand on each side;

A riggin' bag waitin' at those pearly gates where

there's broncs, bares, and bulls for us cowboys to ride

Adios, mi compadres. Farewell, Corazone.

Goodbye to Chinook winds that sing soft and low.

Don't wanna be late when my pals are all waitin'

for me, and my spirit is restless to go

I'll soon walk the Red Road, and join the great circle

To sing cowboy songs from the sweet bye-and-bye

I'll waltz 'round the stars to the strum of guitars

Till we meet up again at that ranch in the sky

Diane Tribitt / Will Dudley

The Sign of the Grass

2007-12-28T11:02:00.000-06:00

by Paul Kern

Springtime grass grows thick and green,
To bring new life to the yet unseen,
A round of living has again begun,
Under a full moon and a brand new sun.

That endless rotation of the sky,
Leaves track and sign for both you and I,
That a cowboy’s heart beats just so far,
Before it’s hitched to that one last star.

When summer ranges are all grazed down,
And winds have scorched them all to brown,
Old partners with furrowed lines,
Know to read the tracks and signs.

When winter winds howl mean and cold,
And a cowboy’s heart grows tired and old,
The sign of the grass he knows so well,
With the rangeland tracks has a tale to tell.

That a good man who knows his station,
Looking after part of God’s creation,
Raising cattle and horses on that place,
Has come to know the Master's Grace.

It’s in this knowing that he lets it go,
To unfenced ranges he’ll come to know.
A round of living will begin again soon,
Under a full sun and a brand new moon.

Cowpoke's Funeral

2007-12-27T23:24:00.000-06:00

Cowpoke's Funeral
by Hal "Nevada" Swift

A cowpoke's funeral is different than most
For one thing there's poetry read
For cowpokes love poems and write 'em themselves
About all the things in their head

They tell about loved ones an' things that they've done
An' places they've been through the years
The horses they've rode, an' the friends that they've knowed
An' things that'll bring you t'tears

For cowboyin' jist ain't a safe way t'live
Yeah, cowpokes are quick on the mend
Most all have got hurt, sometimes really bad
But sometimes you'll lose a good friend

An' that's when you learn things that you never knowed
They all act like sister an' brother
These people will see what a family needs
An' quietly help one another

Some of the stories that people will tell
Bring tears that can help you to heal
While others'll make you jist laugh right out loud
No matter how sad you may feel

The names'll be different but one thing's fer sure
What comes through each time loud and clear
Is how there's a love that helps everyone through
It's something we all want to hear

An' then, of course, there's the riderless horse
Bringin' tears to everyone's eyes
They know their friend won't be ridin' again
At least not under these skies

An' after each person has gone up an' spoke
The preacher man's said his last word
Someone'll say stay an' eat up if y'like
An' tell some more stories you've heard

Yeah, cowpoke funerals are different than most
For everyone's doin' their best
To jist be good cowpokes, I guess you could say
'Cause that's how it is in the West

=============================
So long, kid. See ya back at the house.
Hal

To All Pards

2007-12-27T20:34:00.000-06:00

To join this blog site you need to sign up. If you have trouble, please email me at tribitt@brainerd.net and I will forward an invitation to become an author of the site.

Please look at the upper right hand corner, after you are signed in, to create a new post. If you use the "comment" link at the bottom of a post - your comment will be attached to that particular post.

Rod's brother has commented on the Bunkhouse post, so give it a look!

Thanks, pards!
Diane

The Arts

2007-12-27T14:31:00.000-06:00

The Arts
by Alf Bilton

In life, necessity walls up our hearts,
But sometimes selves, inside alike, escape
Their solitudes with tools we call the Arts:
The abstract keys that master concrete shape.

Communicate how beauty feels inside;
Or humor, hurt, uncertainty, and such;
And you'll achieve what ev'ry artist's tried:
Extend to someone somewhen else - a touch!

The Arts unlock the final waiting gate;
Reach past that barrier, mortality;
Touch generations born long after Fate
Declares our sentence served and sets us free.

Art speaks, defying deaths that we are dealt:
"I too once lived; and this ... is what I felt."

Copyright © 2006 by Alf Bilton This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Chosen Angels

2007-12-27T13:26:00.000-06:00

Chosen Angels

Don’t try to measure heartaches. Never stop to count your tears…
For every life is measured by love and not by years.

God knows the anguish death brings. His own son was crucified;
Yet He offered us salvation the day that Jesus died.

The gift of life’s God-given, with a path that we can’t see.
Each day we’re one day closer to our own destiny.

With sad hearts we seek answers when one dies before their prime
But every Angel’s chosen, and God picks the best each time

Don’t dwell on grief and anger. Make your time count here on earth.
Fill every day with laughter; And love for all you’re worth.

So when you’re called to Heaven friends can wipe away their tears;
And know your life was measured by love and not by years.

Diane Tribitt

Rod's Bunkhouse

2007-12-26T15:27:00.000-06:00

This site is set up in honor of the Ranch Boss of Rod's Ol' Rockin' R. It is a bunkhouse where the pards can still gather and share the gifts that the Lord has bestowed upon them, and carry on the tradition that Rod had so lovingly created. It is a place for us to continue with the friendships that were forged at the Rockin' R. I don't know if it will ever be the same, but I don't want it to end - nor would Rod, I am guessing. Though we all are suffering his loss, I feel strongly that I don't want to suffer the loss of all of you, also.
With the best intentions I offer this page to the pards of the Rockin' R. I don't know how to make it the same as Rod's - I've never done this before - but we can all learn together, so we can stay together.
With love, Diane

p.s. New pards are always welcome. Like Rod always said..."We'll keep the light on!"