The Boley Rodeo
A collective family myth
passed down across generations
takes on the polished gleam of truth,
and memories become legend.
The legend of black sod-busters
on a piece of red soil they own
in a township of black ranchers.
Their legendary rodeo.
grand entry
Two Stars and Stripes flutter into
the arena, carried by two
men in jeans, red shirts, white Stetsons.
Guiding their horses with left hands,
holding the flagstaffs in their rights,
their backs straight and tall, their faces,
their chestnut faces, beautiful
in the light of the setting sun.
After them, two by two,
banners waving, hooves raising dust,
ride the Horse People of Boley,
a varicolored promenade.
They canter once around the ring,
then they circle into the sky.
mutton busting
In the cluster of five-year-old
contenders wearing life jackets
and bicycle helmets, paper
numbers safety-pinned to their backs,
you line up one by one for a turn
to hang on tight with your legs squeezed
at the sheep’s broad middle, fingers
holding handfuls of deep, warm wool
as the sheep destiny presents
runs you out to cheering applause.
Whether you’ll fall on top of it,
or it on you, you won’t fall far.
You have no front teeth anyway,
and a brown clown gone pick you up.
bareback riding
This horse was bred and born to buck.
He’s a good horse, he’ll give you points.
Gloved hand in the rigging’s handle,
bare brown hand waving in the air,
you whir your spurs at his shoulders
as he leaps, twists, and jolts your bones.
Four seconds or four hundred years.
But if you can get up and slap
the dust off your jeans with your hat,
the future’s eyes, looking at you,
will fill with forevering light:
light that will make generations
of proud brown people remember
the Black Horse People of Boley.
bulldogging
In truth there’s seldom a reason
for a man to wrestle a steer,
unless he’s a real ranch cowboy
dealing with ornery power.
Maybe, while rounding up the herd,
he bumps heads with testosterone,
and it’s testosterone—vs.—
testosterone. Bill Pickett learned,
watching dogs on a Boley ranch,
that sometimes you’ve got to bulldog
a hardhead with a kiss of pain.
Today, you slide from horse onto
the fleeing steer, grab his horns, pull
five hundred pounds of muscle down.
team roping, calf roping, steer roping
Roping always involves a team,
whether it’s two men or women
or one human and one smart horse.
The aim: to bring down and hog-tie
a big scared baby of a calf
or a full-grown and pissed-off steer.
You gallop out swinging your loop
with one hand, the other holding
the slack and the unneeded reins.
You down him with a careful toss,
tie three of his hooves together,
step back with wide arms and a grin.
A rope isn’t always a noose:
ropes in brown hands can be lassos.
saddle bronc riding
It’s not the leather riding gloves
and it’s not the fringed buckskin chaps,
not the worn-in and dusty boots,
not the spurs’ blunted silver stars,
not the 10x wide-brimmed straw hat
(both winged helmet and regal crown):
it’s not clothes that make the cowboy.
It’s something behind a bronzed face,
in the level gaze from dark eyes,
and, of course, it’s heart that puts you,
the reins in one hand, one hand free,
waving with the horse’s rhythm,
your heels spurring from neck to flank,
on this bronc called America.
barrel racing
Thunder explodes out of the chute.
Mane and tail whip in the speed wind,
agile hooves pound a swift tempo
circling around the first barrel.
One hand grips the horn, the other
communicates with the taut reins,
though your thighs give the best guidance,
telling your horse to maneuver
in circles that hug the barrels.
Three barrels, a tight cloverleaf
you gallop through with one joined will.
This contest pits you and your horse
against the clock and your best time.
Sister, your dreadlocks are flying!
pony express
Before telegraph, news traveled
from mouth to ear, from hand to hand.
News arrived old. From sea to sea
took weeks, unless carried by boys
stationed along the stagecoach route
to race a cross-country relay.
Your pulse gallops toward the handoff,
when your teammate takes the baton
and the noise and flurry go on
without you. Your leg run, you and
your horse (your partner, your friend) stand
encompassed in adrenalin,
watching, as the Ancestors must,
unable to help, but cheering.
tennessee walker
Let’s hear it for the barrel men,
for the bullfighters, for the clowns,
for the men on the side ready
to run toward trouble. Give it up
for the musical director
(thanks for the hip-hop, bro!). And for
the announcer and all the folks
cheering in the stands. That baby
wearing a tiny cowboy hat.
That man the same black as his horse,
in that white suit and fedora.
His Tennessee Walker’s proud gait
as he nods to his own rhythm,
tail an ebony waterfall.
bull riding
Boley bulls are bred for bucking,
bred to be mean, to be “Bad Boys.”
They teach you to sit strong, hold on,
and with one hand reach for the sky.
After riding a Boley bull
a cowboy thinks, Hell, I’ve been there.
I’ve held the bull-rope, raked my spurs,
while that bad boy tried to kill me.
A ton of Brahma seeing red
gives you a whole new perspective,
a who-you-think-you-talking-to
fearlessness. You’ve seen the bull’s eye:
you know you can’t die more than once.
You’ve lived through eight Mississippis.
