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    • Poetry >
      • Summer
      • Harvest
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      • Winter
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      • Limestone Cowboy
      • As A
    • Essays >
      • Far Away Places
      • Turning Into Mother
      • Beyond Confessional
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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
Select poems from The Last Day of Harvest
  • Summer  |  Harvest  |  Fall  |  Winter  | Spring
Other Series
  • The Limestone Cowboy  |  As A...

Limestone Cowboy Series Selections

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

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

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

Select poems from The Last Day of Harvest
  • Summer  |  Harvest  |  Fall  |  Winter  | Spring
Other Series
  • The Limestone Cowboy  |  As A...
Greg German
Kansas City, Kansas
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