S.B.T. 77

ranchers
a cowboy poem



in process needing reduction to discrete imagery in illustrating this poem, i had to start an idea - a spur on the bootstrap moves the horse forward and gains speed, and then a wagon wheel turning like a mandala, the old west with some mindfulness of present day (some reliance on factual material. an overload of regretful missteps transmitted in media blatancy to arouse something which has been decided as a matter of 'public policy' and the old wild west next to the big 'hills' that mark a middle a backbone with unmistakable ridges coerced a response recalling honorable methods to renew and comeliness of the folks who worked land lived with animals made peace with mother nature during a free but hardship troubled era the indian culture before the fledgling affairs of state before the buffalo became property and the ghost dance forbidden.
the voice of a prairie woman holds the air with a broad measured peace while entertains no illusion but tenderly speaks they went west and traveled in a dusty muddy grace of what is see hear feel the rocky and true, she opens the door and speaks. they worked, she said, and closes the door to go back to maybe making corn biscuits and beans
in an effort perhaps partially unresolved) to counterpoint details and maintain cattle-rock pacing, the imagery corresponds with and explores complementary space, and the forms suggest the concrete and abstract mix a kind of surreal landscape with motion happenings of a tonal kind.

she opens the door and her thoughts manifest archetypal form a language of overlapping pictures projected onto landscape and behind the children in the barn playing with mouser cats the western wind never rests and the wagon needs fillin

and here was the little outtake that was wiggled back in but then couldnt be left alone a little study piece tango dream unfinished
enjoy



xxx