"Tom Taylor"... (for my pard Forty Rod)

[Boston John Doucette]

This poem is for my pal, Forty Rod, whose true-life adventure was its inspiration.-- BJD


Tom Taylor

It started out as a bad day, with the feeling that it would get worse;
By the end of his journey Tom would swear he suffered the Devil's curse.
Through the night the rain had come and soaked his blanket through;
With no dry wood for a morning fire, jerky and water would do.

A freezing drizzle began again as he saddled the big, steady roan;
Tom raised his collar at the back of his neck... he'd left his slicker home.
Three or four miles through rugged hills to where the north road beckoned;
"With luck I'll be home in the afternoon," the cowboy mistakenly reckoned.

He hadn't been riding an hour when the shale gave out under the mare;
She tumbled down the hillside as her screams split the still morning air.
Tom thought from where he'd fallen, "O God! Don't let her be dead!"
He spoke her name softly as he came to her, and then she raised her head.

As he ran his hands over her fetlock, the horse cried out sharply in pain;
It wasn't the first time that morning that the cowboy had cussed the rain.
He got her up on her three good legs and then pulled his saddle down;
"Your leg ain't broke, but the tendon's a mess... you'll never make it to town."

Together they limped to a streambed by some grass and some cottonwoods;
He removed her bridle and stroked her neck, just as she knew he would.
"I'll be back," he whispered then. "You take it real easy and slow..."
As he gathered his bags and his rifle, each beat of his heart was a blow.

It was almost two hours later that he sat at the side of the road;
Boots aren't made for walking as his blistered feet now showed.
When Tom heard the yell of the driver over the pounding of hooves,
He squinted south and saw the stage appear in the drizzling gloom.

The driver didn't even slow as he whipped with cruel, quick lashes;
Tom stood amazed as the stage sped by, painting him with mud splashes.
For the rest of the morning and all that day, Tom walked the muddy track;
His feet grew worse, his neck rubbed raw, and cold rain numbed his back.

On occasion, horsemen passed by him, deaf to his pleas for a ride,
And once a fine, large carriage passed, it's driver selfish with pride.
The twenty one miles to the Taylor Ranch seemed to take forever;
And late that night when he finally arrived, Tom was chilled with fever.

Huddled by the fire with his coffee (and a bowl of his wife's stew),
Tom recounted his miserable day– and he knew what he should do.
He closed his eyes and thanked the Lord for helping him do his best;
And he heard the voice of God reply: "Tom, you passed the test..."

©Copyright2004 Boston John Doucette

[Buckshot Shell-E]

Wow. !!

Great job BJD

[Vin Weasel]

BJD, you've got an amazing talent there.  We oughta collaborate and write a song or two.  You're quite the poet, and I'm a fair guitar picker, so we'd be bound to come up with a decent little tune.
Keep that good stuff comin'!
Vin

[Advertising]

[Boston John Doucette]

Vin...

I've got a couple that would lend themselves to some pretty good ballads, if you're interested.
Shoot me an e-mail if you 're serious, pard.
I'll send you the pieces and see what you think.

BJD