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Limestone9.com
Poetry from The Limestone Cowboy series, by Greg German
Kansas farm & rural themed poetry and personal essays.
All writing, poetry & essays in this website - Copyright © by Greg German, 2019 |
Limestone Cowboy Series Selections
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The Limestone Cowboy Searches For Cinderella
From a distance I can tell Limestone has got her rollin'. His bucket seated, four-barreled, Holly headed, chrome slotted, Four-wheel drive Chevy, screaming for all its pleasure. Coming right at me, dust vortexing behind the grey bullet like a mad-faced angus bull. I pull partway over into the ditch and wait. And as he slows the cowboy reaches down, then holds up a milk-white pair of ladies lace panties for me to witness. His bare chest sparkles with heat. I squint through the dust and get a dim glimpse of myself in his pilot-styled sunglasses. "Cinderella," he says. Explains he found the lingerie, clean, hanging from a hedge post two miles back east and a mile west. Mumbles something about Fairy Tales being real. Offers there is no time to waste, and leaves. Originally Published in ZONE 3, 1987, Winter |
The Limestone Cowboy, Me, And Everything Else
Sit Around A White Man's Campfire It is summer. And on the south side of the lake, west of the quarry, Limestone and me have built the universe a center with a butane lighter, a dirty kleenex, and a good selection of cottonwood, elm, and oak. Already there are enough hot coals for everyone to lose their mind. We sit way back, let full cans of beer go to waste. And behind us in the night butterflies and birds pull up their wings and sit on the ground. Chiggers line up, knee to knee, on tall blades of blue-stem. Crickets kneel, too awed to speak. Snakes stretch out. Coons and opposums lean against the legs of deer. Fish come dangerously close to shore, and the dog doesn't turn around before laying down; blue-hot arms of honed heat shiver away into the dark. Sparks defy gravity, and there is a voice in the fire that we can see telling secrets. "Louder," the word drops from Limestone's mouth. I don't need to ask to know he has confronted the source of it all. I remember the fire is hot, and that hours ago the mosquitos moved out to hover over the lake. The lift of their wings together so strong I assume an eyebrow sized wake now bends across the water. We are safe, and I notice Limestone is asleep. Originally Published in ZONE 3, 1987, Winter |
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The Limestone Cowboy Sees God, And It's A Woman
Mid-morning, the next day, after the mud has settled and the country roads have turned the color of smooth-grey, I drop by Limestone's place. Find him there on the front step, barefooted, leaned against the screen door wearing nothing but Levi's, his boots at ease on the sidewalk. And before I ask, Limestone tells me he's had a vision. "Jesus," I swear. "No," he replies. "God. And She's a woman." He says something about next Sunday, pulls his boots on, and leads me to the place of revelation. Two miles east and a mile west he parks in the middle of the road. The dog bales out, and we all walk up the hill. Halfway, the cowboy stops. Points. I see nothing but a stone post and a plum bush, together, planted next to a short tree. Aware of disbelief he describes to me how She was there, last night, lightning all around Her --- Her skirt, and hair wet and windblown in the rain. A doubter, I stare at the truth. A believer, Limestone turns and walks back down the hill. Originally Published in Hawaii Review, 1989, V.13, N.2 |
The Limestone Cowboy's Luck Runs Out
With the woodburner cracking hot, our shirts off, and our boots kicked across the room, the four of us sit in Limestone's tack shed--- soak up the smell of warm leather and horse sweat, deal pinochle, and work on a case of Coors. Two dollars up, the cowboy bids with fishermen's luck, takes the kitty, draws into aces and melds a run with a black queen. He is proud. And reminds us of when he rode the crazy horse at a full buck all the way to the creek. His tens take our tens, and though it's February the picture on the calendar describes November. Old horseshoes are nailed above the dirty window; mouse tracks lead behind the Norge, and it might as well be Christmas. Already Limestone has trumped hearts when he jumps up, chokes, and hollers: "Dog fart." He kicks at the pleased animal, and we all run out the door, stand there in the cold, even the dog, looking in. Light Year, An Anthology, 1988. Bits Press |
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The Limestone Cowboy Duels A Stubborn Horse
Sunrise. The cowboy is committed. And has chosen spurs that this dirty-spotted pinto will come to an understanding, will take its first step with man. And Limestone, wanting the animal to see a hero, walks slow across the corral-- Rolls his shirt sleeves above his elbows. Pulls his hat low. Lets his jeans settle even lower. Three steps then four, he revolves around the barrel of the pinto's aimed hindquarters. Their shadows braid. Limestone steals the horse's eye, reappears in the saddle and holds on for tomorrow. Originally Published in ZONE 3, 1987, Winter |
The Limestone Cowboy Goes Down With The Ship
Five inches of rain and three hours after the first sun in two days, Limestone declares that it is too wet to work and time to play. Lewis and Clark, he suggests-- narrates that the creek has gorged itself to the size of the Amazon and waits to be discovered. Pure, the ride is wicked. Elm and cottonwood branches, slash against our faces, lunge for our paddles. Saddled on the back of a fast-paced python, the cowboy's canoe twists through the tree tops. And then we are there —north of fame, our eyes wide with ourselves and one large dead log stretched across the creek. A limb the size of a cannon punches me artfully in the middle of my chest. The ride is terminal. I grab the hard wood barrel and hang there like a cat clutched to its last life. The canoe is swallowed. "There ain't no length to time," the cowboy told me once. About ten years later I see his arm come straight up and out of the snake's cold, wet guts and hook around the log. "Timex," he states. "Ya alright?" My hat maneuvers around Weidenhaft's bend, and I notice Limestone still holds his paddle. Eyes clean, he is smiling. And I know he has cheated for both of us. Light Year, An Anthology, 1988. Bits Press |
