Cowboy in the City

 

Michael James Fry

I’m a cowboy in the city, that’s what I am ~

and if you don’t agree, I don’t give a damn.
The boots on my feet are from a land called Ohio
and they keep me rooted come high or low.

I don’t ride on a horse, in a car or in a cab, much,
and I don’t even like the subway, as such;
but I walk, you see, very carefully . . .  
For indeed, the need to be free is on my tab!

That is what this cowboy softly says

and here is what this cowboy often does:

he wears his boots and walks unbounded

with eyes razor sharp and wit well alert~

an expert at sizing up fears unfounded

leaving footsteps revealed in the dust of the dirt.

Half my life hell bent with strife,

yet content with watching the way
the seed of the corn so quickly grows;
the other half spent both night and day
in streets of lights that are lined in rows
of greed torn from the need for change -
  
      Show me no weeds but rows of roses,
      for no one knows the secret language
      except those who hurt with a broken heart.
     
      And verily, no one sees the angels’ passages
      ‘till their faith brews anew with much ado
      concluded from the sum of a brand a new start.

I wear my black hat which covers my head
to protect me in times of trouble ahead;
and I wear my shades to disguise my eyes
so the opponent won’t know it’s my surprise
that rises from deep inside of me ~ propriety
from years of tears and of walking in the rubble.

Wherefore the Shield was conceived of long ago

but the form was never decided,
I therefore must yield to receive a new song and logo
that come from where I’ve resided.

It’s Battleship Stations against all nations
whose falsities bare truth to moral atrocities:
"Rubble Walking Sleuth Becomes Truth Talking Trouble"
is as true in the country as it is in the city.

Face value is what they fear and honesty they do not know, see?

It happens year after year: stow-away stresses of stunning smear
making progress a messy regression, running us more slowly.

It’s dark on the steps of Writer’s House:

a weariness rearranged from then into now.
Shadows in the streets continue to arouse
a dreariness changed into a moody, new song ~
a wisdom brought forth from a devout vow to study,
and then somehow it moves right along, good buddy.

But before going out into the same wilderness ahead,

about this game to myself I have said:

“Don’t cut your hair because they tell you to,

but make sure you dare do what you want to do.
Failure is to give into what they demand,
but success is to live with the truth in your hand.
Don’t let them make your dreams die hard,
and don’t let them take you off your guard.
Remember to pray through the night and day
and you’ll know next play which card to discard.”

Then, eventually, I came to realize that it’s never really over.

And so forward into battle see my banner fly high!

Though my mind still rattles, there is less a need to cry ~
"Ask me why, ask me why, ask my why . . ."

 . . . . ASK ME WHY?!?!

Why ask me??

Didn’t you just finish checking out this poem?
 

 

Michael James Fry

New York City

Sunday, May 12, 2013