Do some of you find that as you get older you need
chemical assistance to, ah.....perform ....the way you
did in years past? Well.....here ya go!!!
The Little Blue Pill
My wife has found a website
where she buys some small blue pills
made up by female pharmacists;
designed to cure man’s ills.
She drops one in my oatmeal
then waits about an hour
for blood to rush up to my brain
increasing staying power.
Each Saturday I get a pill.
For 4 hours there’s no stopping.
The pill is called “Buy-agra”.
It’s so I will take her shopping.
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2006
By the way, the pills come with a warning:
"If the urge to shop lasts longer than 4 hours,
you need to stop for a Latte."
Friday, May 28, 2010
I Stop and I Hop
Saturday mornings you can usually find my wife and I
on a breakfast date. Guess what I order? No, seriously, guess!
I Stop at I Hop
Oh Pancake, You steaming stack of syrupy circles.
Dripping delicious delight with every bite
till my chin is sticky.
If breakfast were baseball, I’d cry “batter up”
and watch them sizzle, then slowly drizzle
Mrs. Butterworth’s magic maple
till, like a waterfall, it cascades from peak to plate.
Oh you Flapjack, I sip my coffee while they make
this cousin to the funnel cake.
The next booth over, toddlers stand
with pancakes squishing in each hand.
Hot syrup finally comes my way;
the first act in my passion play.
“More coffee hon?” the waitress asks.
Apparently she doesn’t grasp
my need to wrap my mouth around
that perfect pile of golden brown
delight.
Oh you Griddle cake, where pats of butter go to melt
and I’m forced to un-do my belt.
I gorge on all that I can get
from fruit filled blintz to Crepes Suzette.
It seems so long, it’s hard to wait.
Is that my waitress with my plate?
It is.
Oh no, this just is awful
she’s bringing me a Belgian waffle
piled high with berries and whipped cream.
My wife’s all smiles; I want to scream.
The waffle is her breakfast treat
but where is what I WANT TO EAT?
My Pancake.
At last I see them, piping hot.
This is gonna hit the spot.
I just can’t wait; my heart’s a flutter.
The waitress says, "Here’s extra butter."
I gaze upon that glorious plate.
I tell you, it was worth the wait
for pancakes.
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2010
on a breakfast date. Guess what I order? No, seriously, guess!
I Stop at I Hop
Oh Pancake, You steaming stack of syrupy circles.
Dripping delicious delight with every bite
till my chin is sticky.
If breakfast were baseball, I’d cry “batter up”
and watch them sizzle, then slowly drizzle
Mrs. Butterworth’s magic maple
till, like a waterfall, it cascades from peak to plate.
Oh you Flapjack, I sip my coffee while they make
this cousin to the funnel cake.
The next booth over, toddlers stand
with pancakes squishing in each hand.
Hot syrup finally comes my way;
the first act in my passion play.
“More coffee hon?” the waitress asks.
Apparently she doesn’t grasp
my need to wrap my mouth around
that perfect pile of golden brown
delight.
Oh you Griddle cake, where pats of butter go to melt
and I’m forced to un-do my belt.
I gorge on all that I can get
from fruit filled blintz to Crepes Suzette.
It seems so long, it’s hard to wait.
Is that my waitress with my plate?
It is.
Oh no, this just is awful
she’s bringing me a Belgian waffle
piled high with berries and whipped cream.
My wife’s all smiles; I want to scream.
The waffle is her breakfast treat
but where is what I WANT TO EAT?
My Pancake.
At last I see them, piping hot.
This is gonna hit the spot.
I just can’t wait; my heart’s a flutter.
The waitress says, "Here’s extra butter."
I gaze upon that glorious plate.
I tell you, it was worth the wait
for pancakes.
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Ro-day-oh
You might remember a Garth Brooks hit from several years ago
called “Rodeo”. Well, I wrote this parody after being around some
women (no names please) who take "shop till you drop" to a whole
new level.
Rodeo
Her eyes are cold and restless
Their bank account has healed
and He’d pay twice his taxes
just to change the way she feels.
Her love’s in California
and he knows she’s gonna go.
It ain’t no hunk she’s longin’ for,
it’s the street called “Ro - day- oh”
Well, it’s “Car-tee-ay” where you just pay
with plastic in this town.
And you’ve worked real hard for the gold in the card
she’ll spend the next go-round.
Well, there’s hats and suits and Gucci boots,
and he can’t let her go
It’s Polo and Klien and places to dine
and they call the street “Ro- day- oh”
He does his best to hold her but the craving drives her on.
And the need to spend consumes her
till he finds he’s over-drawn.
And, it’s so long all their savings easy come and easy go
You know this husband wants to keep her
from the street called Ro-day-oh
It’ll drive accountants crazy It’ll give a man the chills.
And he has to get a second job just to pay the monthly bills.
When he finally does convince her
that she’s bought all she can get ,
they find a way to tempt her on that danged ole internet.
cause there’s Car-tee-aye where you can pay
with plastic this time ‘round
You’ve worked real hard for the gold in the card
she spends while sittin’ down.
And, there’s hats and suits and Gucci boots
now, she don’t have to go
just sit in the house with a click of the mouse
she can shop along Ro-day-oh
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2005
called “Rodeo”. Well, I wrote this parody after being around some
women (no names please) who take "shop till you drop" to a whole
new level.
Rodeo
Her eyes are cold and restless
Their bank account has healed
and He’d pay twice his taxes
just to change the way she feels.
Her love’s in California
and he knows she’s gonna go.
It ain’t no hunk she’s longin’ for,
it’s the street called “Ro - day- oh”
Well, it’s “Car-tee-ay” where you just pay
with plastic in this town.
And you’ve worked real hard for the gold in the card
she’ll spend the next go-round.
Well, there’s hats and suits and Gucci boots,
and he can’t let her go
It’s Polo and Klien and places to dine
and they call the street “Ro- day- oh”
He does his best to hold her but the craving drives her on.
And the need to spend consumes her
till he finds he’s over-drawn.
And, it’s so long all their savings easy come and easy go
You know this husband wants to keep her
from the street called Ro-day-oh
It’ll drive accountants crazy It’ll give a man the chills.
And he has to get a second job just to pay the monthly bills.
When he finally does convince her
that she’s bought all she can get ,
they find a way to tempt her on that danged ole internet.
cause there’s Car-tee-aye where you can pay
with plastic this time ‘round
You’ve worked real hard for the gold in the card
she spends while sittin’ down.
And, there’s hats and suits and Gucci boots
now, she don’t have to go
just sit in the house with a click of the mouse
she can shop along Ro-day-oh
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2005
Discover Your Inner Cowgirl
I spoke to a high school class that had been studying "Cowboy Ethics."
The teacher thought they should also be exposed to cowboy poetry.
After the class I got a note from one of the girls who wanted to
remind me there are a lot of Cow Girls out there too.
So I sent her this which was in the inaugural issue of IM Cowgirl
magazine a few years back.
Discover Your Inner Cowgirl
There’s a picture on her office wall
of a cowgirl out there in the fall
with a saddle pony grazin’ by her side.
In the distance, mountains capped with snow
make her wish that she could know
the thrill of being out there for a ride.
It’s not the most idyllic scene,
the grass and brush are brown, not green.
But, to her, it has a certain, raw appeal.
It’s a true life snapshot of the West
and the caption on it says it best:
“Discover how your inner cowgirl feels”
In her mind, she feels the autumn chill
in the breeze that blows from off the hill
where the cattle that she’s tendin’ stop to graze.
The clouds foretell a change of weather.
She hears the creek of saddle leather
and sees the cattle bunching in the haze.
She’s lost inside this Western art
which brings a calming to her heart
releasin’ stress that grips her like a vice.
The picture brings a sweet release.
Her inner cowgirl is at peace.
And that, my friend, is worth near any price.
Jeff Hildebrandt copyright 2006
The teacher thought they should also be exposed to cowboy poetry.
After the class I got a note from one of the girls who wanted to
remind me there are a lot of Cow Girls out there too.
So I sent her this which was in the inaugural issue of IM Cowgirl
magazine a few years back.
Discover Your Inner Cowgirl
There’s a picture on her office wall
of a cowgirl out there in the fall
with a saddle pony grazin’ by her side.
In the distance, mountains capped with snow
make her wish that she could know
the thrill of being out there for a ride.
It’s not the most idyllic scene,
the grass and brush are brown, not green.
But, to her, it has a certain, raw appeal.
It’s a true life snapshot of the West
and the caption on it says it best:
“Discover how your inner cowgirl feels”
In her mind, she feels the autumn chill
in the breeze that blows from off the hill
where the cattle that she’s tendin’ stop to graze.
The clouds foretell a change of weather.
She hears the creek of saddle leather
and sees the cattle bunching in the haze.
She’s lost inside this Western art
which brings a calming to her heart
releasin’ stress that grips her like a vice.
The picture brings a sweet release.
Her inner cowgirl is at peace.
And that, my friend, is worth near any price.
Jeff Hildebrandt copyright 2006
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A Cowboy's Comfort
Here's another poem from my book, "Sayin' Ain't Bein'."
A Cowboy’s Comfort
The sun’s sinkin’ low, way off in the West
and this cowboy’s a-thinkin’ it’s time for a rest
‘cause he’s been in the saddle since just after dawn
makin’ sure all the doggies stay where they belong.
His dinner is simple, sowbelly and beans.
Then he kicks off his boots and loosens his jeans
as he pours him some coffee that’s boiled up just right
and sits there a listenin’ to the sounds of the night.
It’s a lonely old life, that’s a fact, to be sure.
But, bein’ alone has a certain alure
cause it gives you some time at the end of the day
to listen to all that the Lord has to say.
See, a cowboy alone, sitting there by the fire
doesn’t need to hear preachin’ or songs from a choir
to know there’s a God. Cause God’s there in the breeze,
and the sagebrush and cactus, and all that he sees.
God’s footprints, he’ll tell you, are plain as the day.
if you don’t let that other stuff get in the way,
like worry and frettin’ how this or why that,
or complainin’ how unfair things are where you’re at.
So, he pours out his coffee and hunkers on down
ah-hearin God whisper in each little sound,
“You can rest easy partner and I’ll tell you why,
cause I’m always right with ya and that ain’t no lie.”
You see what I did there? I used cowboy images
to work in a little “witness”.
As a matter of fact, I started doing cowboy poetry
as a way to share my faith.
There aren’t many forums where someone can
perform faith-based poetry.
But there are hundreds of cowboy poetry
and film festivals around the country every year
and it has been my experience that audiences love to
hear poetry with a purpose.
A Cowboy’s Comfort
The sun’s sinkin’ low, way off in the West
and this cowboy’s a-thinkin’ it’s time for a rest
‘cause he’s been in the saddle since just after dawn
makin’ sure all the doggies stay where they belong.
His dinner is simple, sowbelly and beans.
Then he kicks off his boots and loosens his jeans
as he pours him some coffee that’s boiled up just right
and sits there a listenin’ to the sounds of the night.
It’s a lonely old life, that’s a fact, to be sure.
But, bein’ alone has a certain alure
cause it gives you some time at the end of the day
to listen to all that the Lord has to say.
See, a cowboy alone, sitting there by the fire
doesn’t need to hear preachin’ or songs from a choir
to know there’s a God. Cause God’s there in the breeze,
and the sagebrush and cactus, and all that he sees.
God’s footprints, he’ll tell you, are plain as the day.
if you don’t let that other stuff get in the way,
like worry and frettin’ how this or why that,
or complainin’ how unfair things are where you’re at.
So, he pours out his coffee and hunkers on down
ah-hearin God whisper in each little sound,
“You can rest easy partner and I’ll tell you why,
cause I’m always right with ya and that ain’t no lie.”
You see what I did there? I used cowboy images
to work in a little “witness”.
As a matter of fact, I started doing cowboy poetry
as a way to share my faith.
There aren’t many forums where someone can
perform faith-based poetry.
But there are hundreds of cowboy poetry
and film festivals around the country every year
and it has been my experience that audiences love to
hear poetry with a purpose.
Dream High
I saw a painting by actor/artist Buck Taylor called "Dream High."
This word picture, based on his excellent art, tries to capture the
anticipation and thrill I imagine a barrel racer must feel.
Dream High
Saddled up and cinched tight
She sits in sun streaked shadow
Cowboy Noir
Horseflies cut trails through suspended dust
She doesn’t notice
Picturing only the third barrel
“Dream high”, her mother said
“Never settle” tumbles from her lips
Her eyes focus
Pulse pounds
Breath quickens
Her pony coils
Her name rings across the arena
In less time than it took to tell this story
there were smiles and high fives all around
“Dream high”
Mom was right !
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2005
P.S. I'm a sucker for perspective and Buck's painting seems
to pull me down the chute to stand right in front of the young rider.
That print hangs over the fireplace in my family room.
I look at it every day and never tire of it.
This word picture, based on his excellent art, tries to capture the
anticipation and thrill I imagine a barrel racer must feel.
Dream High
Saddled up and cinched tight
She sits in sun streaked shadow
Cowboy Noir
Horseflies cut trails through suspended dust
She doesn’t notice
Picturing only the third barrel
“Dream high”, her mother said
“Never settle” tumbles from her lips
Her eyes focus
Pulse pounds
Breath quickens
Her pony coils
Her name rings across the arena
In less time than it took to tell this story
there were smiles and high fives all around
“Dream high”
Mom was right !
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2005
P.S. I'm a sucker for perspective and Buck's painting seems
to pull me down the chute to stand right in front of the young rider.
That print hangs over the fireplace in my family room.
I look at it every day and never tire of it.
The Morgan
After my stint in the Army, I got a radio job in Kansas City. A friend of mine was caught up in the movie, “Billy Jack” and decided he wanted a horse. So he bought a Morgan and stabled it at a nice little ranch not far from his home. We spent a lot of weekends out there and one of them inspired this poem. It's a true story. It's also one of the poems from "Sayin' Ain't Bein'."
The Morgan
This here little story, which I will now relate
is about a certain tenderfoot, a Morgan horse and fate.
He and friends were drinking from a tub of ice cold brew
and between ‘em all they must-a put away a case or two.
Now, the Morgan horse was bareback, wearing just a pair of reins
and this tenderfoot had lots of liquid courage in his veins.
He jumped aboard and tugged the reins; the Morgan reared right up.
This tenderfoot rocked back and forth but never did give up.
And as he rocked, he pulled the reins, harder than before
not knowing of the danger or the pain that lie in store.
That Morgan horse reared up again, but this time didn’t stop.
and flipped on over backward, landing right on top
of that tenderfoot who lay there, underneath that Morgan mare,
while all his friends could do it seemed was stand around and stare.
Well the horse got up and so did he, and says now, of that summer
the beer he drank had been misnamed;
it should be called “Bud-dumber”.
In response to questions, I have written and self published several Cowboy Poetry books.
The first was "Prairie Prose...and Cons." That was followed by "Cowboy Up, America," "Sayin' Ain't Bein'; When God turns out the Lights, will you be in the Dark?" and finally, "Ridin' for the Boss and the Brand." In order to keep the cost reasonable, I don't sell these books through bookstores. Do you know how much they add to the price and how little they pay the author?
Anyway, you have my email (rangerhymer@hotmail.com) and if you're interested in "Prairie" or "Ridin'..." let me know.
The others are out of print.
The Morgan
This here little story, which I will now relate
is about a certain tenderfoot, a Morgan horse and fate.
He and friends were drinking from a tub of ice cold brew
and between ‘em all they must-a put away a case or two.
Now, the Morgan horse was bareback, wearing just a pair of reins
and this tenderfoot had lots of liquid courage in his veins.
He jumped aboard and tugged the reins; the Morgan reared right up.
This tenderfoot rocked back and forth but never did give up.
And as he rocked, he pulled the reins, harder than before
not knowing of the danger or the pain that lie in store.
That Morgan horse reared up again, but this time didn’t stop.
and flipped on over backward, landing right on top
of that tenderfoot who lay there, underneath that Morgan mare,
while all his friends could do it seemed was stand around and stare.
Well the horse got up and so did he, and says now, of that summer
the beer he drank had been misnamed;
it should be called “Bud-dumber”.
In response to questions, I have written and self published several Cowboy Poetry books.
The first was "Prairie Prose...and Cons." That was followed by "Cowboy Up, America," "Sayin' Ain't Bein'; When God turns out the Lights, will you be in the Dark?" and finally, "Ridin' for the Boss and the Brand." In order to keep the cost reasonable, I don't sell these books through bookstores. Do you know how much they add to the price and how little they pay the author?
Anyway, you have my email (rangerhymer@hotmail.com) and if you're interested in "Prairie" or "Ridin'..." let me know.
The others are out of print.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
