Saturday, December 17, 2011

FORMALDAHIDE

 
 FORMALDAHIDE
 
She had a wicked wiggle
And her name was Formaldahide
She went out with a guy named Willy
She came in on a minus tide
 
Oh so cute and cuddly
Fluffy like a little bear
Whenever Willy squeezed her
Formy did a dirty dare
 
She puckered up like this
Just like she did`nt care
Poor Willy was so in love
All he could do was stare
 
Willy had an ace up his sleeve
He had another girl called Deceit
Whenever Formaldahide met her
She almost nearly died
 
Because Deceit quickly told her
I`m his Moma !

WHAT TIME IS IT, REALLY ?

WHAT TIME IS IT,  REALLY  ?

WHAT TIME IS IT, REALLY ?

A Story by Eagle Cruagh

WHAT TIME IS IT,  REALLY ?
 
Back in the 1920`s Einstein fixed the
existence of time.  Well, almost.
 
He , Albert, worked out a formulae that
we have come to live by, E=mclittle2.
Maybe that is supposed to be big M,big
C squared---but, you get the idea.
 
In this formulae of Albert`s, gravity is the
biggee and it explains the small stuff.
 
Now it has been postulated that there are
or may be other kinds and forms of time.
Suppose there is more than our universe,
well, there may be forms of time for those
other universes, so we have to think small
in quarks, neutrons, strings and a bunch
of little stuff.
 
The question is,  how do we package those
little fella`s so that we can work with them ?
You know, measure them, weigh them, count
them and keep them in one place long enough
for all those operations to take place ?
 
So, along came guys like Edward Witten who
worked out this "Superstring theory".  See, my
computer is so old it don`t know how to spell
superstring yet.
 
Anyway, old Ed and a bunch of other physicists
deduced that you can string these little fella`s
together in a string, then you can fold the string
and you will have this bunch in a manageable
package.   The problem is time.  Time does not
like to be put in a package, so another group
decides to put the two ends of the string together
and Wallah,  time is now encapsulated so you
can work with it .
 
But----- we are just a figment of the creationist`s
nightmare and we have a lot of places where time
is not measurable yet.
 
So,  we have the string theory, but we have to keep
the ends of the string open, so just as soon as
we plumb these other universes and figure out
what kind of clocks they have we will then be able
to finish our little package of little fellas.
 
------ Eagle Cruagh

THUNDER OF THE BUTTE

THUNDER OF THE BUTTE

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh


THUNDER OF THE BUTTE
The wind blew and the snow flew
And the driving wind stung
Your bare face with sleet and snow
Thunder Butte lost in fog of storm
The crack of splintering trees
Over the sound of these
Came the roar of avalanche
Rocks and snow and ice
Which direction  where
When all is lost in white nightmare

Horses stumbling falling blind

Cowboys injured in a failing mind
Suddenly the sun appears
Just in time blazing through the white
A gift from God
Cattle fall into the  trail for home
Now it`s Christmas time
No time to roam
Just a mile or so to go
Merry Christmas !
-----Eagle Cruagh  
© 2011 Eagle Cruagh

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

SAINT CLOYSHUS FROM A LILY PAD

SAINT CLOYSHUS FROM A LILY PAD

A Story by Eagle Cruagh
"

A simple committee meeting

"
SAINT CLOYSHUS FROM A LILY PAD
 
Saint Cloyshus:  You have gathered here because
we have problems in our environment.
 
Mick:  You mean the world is warming ?
 
Milly: No, the information overload, silly.
 
Patrick:  The genome theory is irrelevant.
 
Saint Cloyshus:  I have called you here to explain
the problem and to decide what we must do.
 
Mick:  I have an itch.
 
Milly:  Well, scratch it, silly.
 
Patrick:  Are we going to protest ?
 
Saint Cloyshus:  We have lost our ability to love.
 
Patrick:  It`s the dang anti-gun activists, right ?
 
Milly:  Well scratch it , silly.
 
Patrick:  We will abandon Writers Cafe and start
over.
Milly, Mick and Saint Cloyshus:  Scratch it, silly.
 
Saint Cloyshus:  No, love is dead.
 
Milly: ---bleep----
 
Mick: What can be done ?
 
Saint Cloyshus:  You must go back to God.
 
Milly:  What`s God?
 
Patrick:  God is love.
 
Mick:  I beg to differ.
 
Milly:  I know, it`s the information over-load !
 
Saint Cloyshus:  We will all meet here at the same
time next month.  Be sure to bring reports from all
your committee`s at which time we will formulate
a workable report process to finalize this final
report epitomizing the finality of love.
 
Milly:  Yes !  We will all decide.
 
---- Eagle Cruagh
 
[Disclaimer:
No disrespect has been intended toward any person , group, or
their animals.
Milly simply was sitting in a mohair chair while wearing a
wool dress.
Saint Cloyshus probably was unaware of the diversity of his
population.
For these and any other intentions, discrepancies, or
over-sights , no fault of the writer or participants has
been intended.]
----- Eagle Cruagh

© 2010 Eagle Cruagh

SADDLE TREE

 
SADDLE TREE
 
Just a simple cowboy
Plain to see
I got myself some furniture
A brand new saddle tree
 
No good at rope`n
Not much good with Brahma`s
They dirty where you sit
Have to stick to horses
Well  stick`n is the trick
 
 The best  will get a saddle
If not I`ll  just get sawdust
When I  hit the ground
The saddle smells the best
And it gives me another goround
 
Then they picked me  that ole apaloosa
A sunfish`n sun of a gun
And I`m  still chase`n that durn saddle
I`m  jist an apaloosa bum
 
---- John Crowley
 

NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

  NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh
"

Panther tearing at the roof splintering boards, snarls, dark----

"
NIGHT ON THUNDER BUTTE CREEK

The blackness of the night wrapped around us like a shroud,
Clammy and evil, full of dreadful sound
The scream of woman with mortal wounds
Full of snickering , why ? I only wish to live the night
To not succumb in fear to this anguish all about

The creek called Thunder Butte, runs full and rippling in the dark
Forested thick with trees that screen the evil lurking there
There eyes glow fierce , then disappear amid the undergrowth
But howls persist , like the banshee of legends mark
She comforts me , but trembles as the panther tears and rips
The splintering roof , starved and after one fat child.

I`m crying now, and clutch my mom, the one protection from
This demon of the night who will not stop until he`s done, but
A little shanty ranch house can`t withstand the onslaught of this mad gargoyle tearing there , one thought in mind, only one
This fat child and why he fears the dark.

My mother not yet done, grabs an old and rusty 12 gauge gun from
Beside the bed, one loud explosion , blasting these little ears
Another hole appears , the moon shines through our flimsy roof
Where panther and twelve gauge spanned the years , to spell  out doom for that old puma, sobbing , snarling off Into the gloom
 
----- Eagle Cruagh





THUNDERBUTTE TRAIL DRIVE

 THUNDER BUTTE TRAIL DRIVE

THUNDER BUTTE TRAIL DRIVE

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh
"

Thunder and lightening, horses, mud and cattle. The way it was

"
THUNDER BUTTE TRAIL DRIVE
 
Lightning flashed and crackled across the plain
Lighting steers and horses mane
Thunder peeling off the clouds hit
Thunder Butte bounced and rocked as another
Bolt of lightning struck

In pelting rain and dark of night wind
Howling down again the lightning lit
The trailing cattle and struggling men
Who dank and tired worked on in vain
To just make camp despite their pain

As another bolt of emerald fire lit up
The butte and miles of empty desolate space
Tel-tales danced and sparked along the
Herd leaping fairy froth from horn to horn
And back again to lick across the horse`s mane

This night spawned in some devil`s brain
Grew steadily cold and wet and wild
The howling wind thunder born
Spoke about the need of man
To bridge destructive mean for one more
Notch in our human dream

Bawling calves their mother`s lost
Bellowing mad the old gal`s best yet to tear
The squatter`s dream with horn and hoof
As always aloof to the cowboy`s need
Another bolt of static blue sprinkled across
A dead black sky rent by steaming canon bleeds

A muddy horn in the pony`s gut the wrangler curse
Down he`s gone amidst the herd just a groan
And you are all alone
In this cursed rain with clouds of ink the wrangler died
Alone and cold as nature howled and claimed her own

-----   Eagle Cruagh 


 

© 2009 Eagle Cruagh

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

STORM AND ALONE

STORM AND ALONE

A Poem by Eagle Cruagh
"

Small boy weathers a mountain storm.

"
STORM AND ALONE

He sits atop a mountain
Alone , without a friend
One finds it hard to fathom
Empty miles without end

Where the antelope and buffalo
roamed so long ago
and now she stands unchanged
The mountain, home you know

He is only a little boy
Dwarfed by the endless plain
Beholding history without joy
From mountains rising plane

Thunder Butte they call her
A monument to the past
He sits with awe and wonder ,
How long can a mountain last ?

Dark thunder clouds roll over
Undaunted by nature`s mean
Wind swells , screaming, horror
A message to take cover
From a sky grown black
A message from nature`s mother
A warning to horse and rider
One lost without the other

Now a lightning flash and thunder
Roars, no longer any wonder
This small boy is lost and scared
As the world erupts in flash and roar

Why did they call her Thunder Butte
He thinks, as the ground shakes `mid
Thunderous roar, did this old mountain
Always terrify the dumb and mute ?

Mid thought , the pony bolts away
Frightened by the attacking fury
Of storm and thunder and flashing spray
A small boy stranded , in nature`s way

In the dark he hears a rattling snake
And he pleads with God to help
As he prays the moon comes out
The clouds part , a path to make

The little fellow looks back to see
A black visaged mountain under clouds
Thunder Butte, a kind old friend
Now that tragedy was not to be
--Eagle Cruagh

Friday, February 11, 2011

DOWN AT THE FOLKS

DOWN AT THE FOLKS

DOWN AT THE FOLKS

A Poem by John Crowley
"

A little dig at the pompous

"
DOWN  AT  THE FOLKS
 
You might have noticed
No letters past our name
We just said it straight
We don`t play no silly game
 
"Brawling city of iron men"
You may recognize the line
I think he was poet laureate
Of our United States
 
Mark Twain or more
Was made a doctor some
But never tried to press
Unless maybe the Mrs. dress
 
Don`t put on airs
If you can`t take the heat
This is our world here
And we just won`t be beat
 
We admire the real McCoy
Pay our taxes and vote
Don`t  pretend that you are great
Unless you bring a note
 
----- John Crowley
 

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Paragraphs by MICHAEL CROWLEY

ZIEBACH COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA

Despite the comparative emptiness of the place, Thunder Butte has lived on in my father’s memory as a place of magic and adventure, a place where the lone cowboy riding across the grassy plain is an heroic figure with abilities far beyond those of the average man. This was a place where even the creatures—ranch dogs, ponies, owls, and rattlesnakes found in the countryside—took personas and significance far beyond those that we imbue our pets with today. This was a place where the sound of the wind blowing through the grass or the breeze whispering through the branches of an isolated tree sounded like music against the silence of the prairie. Perhaps many places possess similar magic, as remembered through the eyes of ourselves, as children. On the other hand, if your life depended on knowing well the subtlest of changes taking place among the things and creatures of this secluded landscape, your memories would be sure to center on the things that really stood out, whether fantastical or merely poignant.

Somehow, living many years and thousands of miles beyond the time and place of my father’s childhood, Thunder Butte lives on for me as an exceptional and memorable place—a place both of legends and tall tales, as well as a place that has helped to shape me and my family. Although I think of it in sepia tones and grey—because those are the shades of the old photos—doing so does not subtract from colorfulness of lives lived here, or the grip that Thunder Butte has on my imagination.

Influences travel through families and time, reverberating like the wavelets that spread out in a circle from a pebble dropped in a pond. Whether for better or worse, the legacy of Thunder Butte lives on in me and my family today. I know it will help to shape my child and his view of the world. Even though he may never know the place other than through the stories of his grandfather, Thunder Butte—this still empty land—will continue to live on in the thoughts and dreams of my son and his children.

PARAGRAPH by MICHAEL CROWLEY

  Despite the comparative emptiness of the place, Thunder Butte has lived on in my father’s memory as a place of magic and adventure, a place where the lone cowboy riding across the grassy plain is an heroic figure with abilities far beyond those of the average man. This was a place where even the creatures—ranch dogs, ponies, owls, and rattlesnakes found in the countryside—took personas and significance far beyond those that we imbue our pets with today. This was a place where the sound of the wind blowing through the grass or the breeze whispering through the branches of an isolated tree sounded like music against the silence of the prairie. Perhaps many places possess similar magic, as remembered through the eyes of ourselves, as children. On the other hand, if your life depended on knowing well the subtlest of changes taking place among the things and creatures of this secluded landscape, your memories would be sure to center on the things that really stood out, whether fantastical or merely poignant.

Somehow, living many years and thousands of miles beyond the time and place of my father’s childhood, Thunder Butte lives on for me as an exceptional and memorable place—a place both of legends and tall tales, as well as a place that has helped to shape me and my family. Although I think of it in sepia tones and grey—because those are the shades of the old photos—doing so does not subtract from colorfulness of lives lived here, or the grip that Thunder Butte has on my imagination.

Influences travel through families and time, reverberating like the wavelets that spread out in a circle from a pebble dropped in a pond. Whether for better or worse, the legacy of Thunder Butte lives on in me and my family today. I know it will help to shape my child and his view of the world. Even though he may never know the place other than through the stories of his grandfather, Thunder Butte—this still empty land—will continue to live on in the thoughts and dreams of my son and his children.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

THE BEST THING IN LIFE
 
Hunkered down by the truck
Just catch`n little shade
He`d had it for the day
At eighty eight and count`n
This decrepit old dude was done
 
His clothes were ragged and dirty
His life was full of holes
Nuthin ever went right
Since he was in his teens
 
Well, you have heard the story
Drink ,  women and cards
Leading a dissolute life
Self indulgence all the way
 
He never served any time
He was glad of that
His life was empty always
Drag`n  bottom all the way
 
If only he`d done something
To make his kids feel proud
Hell !  They`d felt good to have a dad
Just to kick around  
 
He never done a single thing
To make his life worth while
He just kept make`n big mistakes
Then he remembered and broke in to a smile
He was ---- a United States Marine
 
------Eagle Cruagh
THE BEST THING IN LIFE
 
Hunkered down by the truck
Just catch`n little shade
He`d had it for the day
At eighty eight and count`n
This decrepit old dude was done
 
His clothes were ragged and dirty
His life was full of holes
Nuthin ever went right
Since he was in his teens
 
Well, you have heard the story
Drink ,  women and cards
Leading a dissolute life
Self indulgence all the way
 
He never served any time
He was glad of that
His life was empty always
Drag`n  bottom all the way
 
If only he`d done something
To make his kids feel proud
Hell !  They`d felt good to have a dad
Just to kick around  
 
He never done a single thing
To make his life worth while
He just kept make`n big mistakes
Then he remembered and broke in to a smile
He was ---- a United States Marine
 
------Eagle Cruagh