Thursday, August 29, 2013


I am always being told by the doctors I see to lose a few pounds.  At one time in my life I could lose 30 pounds in a month with no problem.  I also could keep it off for more than a week.  Now I am lucky to lose 10 pounds in three months.  I wrote this poem long ago and it still seems to fit today.


No, low, free, light;
words I often see
when browsing through my pantry
or refrigerator door.

Let us have some lettuce
with our sprouts and tofu.

One more glass of water if you please.

Measure out a steak
no bigger than my palm
and I shall chew it slowly
while moving Brussels sprouts around.

Adjust the bathroom scale.
Move it ‘round the floor.
Take an average weight for best results.

One more glass of water if you please.

Do you have a public restroom?
I ask every where I go.

One more glass of water if you please.

How many times should one get up at night?

I wonder how much pressure
waistband closures can take?

Isn’t there a pill out that doesn’t make you shake?

One more glass of water if you please.

I’m fasting today.

I really think it’s water weight.

Dennis Price

"Food is an important part of a balanced diet."
       -- Fran Lebowitz 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Rodeo Champ

On a hot summer afternoon, I was driving home from Killeen, TX to Leander, TX after a hard day's work digging out a fire scene.  I spotted an old pick-up truck parked on the road side with the bed full of watermelons.  I knew my wife loved watermelon, so I stopped to see if I could get a good one.  An older gentleman got out of his lawn chair and met me at the back of the truck.  He introduced himself as Joe Hood, former Rodeo Champion.  I enjoyed his company for quite a while and he was the inspiration for this poem.

                OLD RODEO CHAMP

I saw an old pickup all loaded with melons
one hot summer’s evening not too far from Austin.

Sitting beside it, a graying bent cowboy
in faded blue Wranglers watching the cars pass.

I stopped, we spoke, he arose from his lawn chair,
struggled to stand, and walked to his truck’s bed.

“Good ones?” I asked.  “Sweet ones?”
He nodded.  “Three dollars a piece or two for a five spot.”

“Pick me a good one.” I said as we stood there.
He turned a few over, and looked at their skin.

“Rabbits won’t scratch the ones that aren’t sweet.”
He said nonchalantly, his blue eyes a’ sparkle.

I found a scarred one and placed it aside.
“I’m Dennis,” I offered. 
“I’m Joe,” he replied

“Did you farm all your life? 
He answered, “No”.
Then I stood there and listened for two hours or so.

“I’m a Rodeo Champ.” He smiled as he spoke.
“Or I was through the fifties, that’s a few years ago.”

“I did it all.  Rough stock, ropin’.
“We had to back then - the purses were small.”

“Bulls were my favorite.  Everyone liked them.
I got extra money when side bets were made.”

He told me about it, the good rides, the great ones.
Clay Bank, Poison Ivy, the rankest of all.

Each ride was re-told from cinching to buzzer.
The bucks, the twists, the bruising come downs.

I finally left.  He was smiling and waving.

Three bucks and two hours well spent for us both.

Dennis Price

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Gore - bal Warming

I normally wouldn't post twice, especially poetry.  However, that great trumpeter of Global Warming continues to amaze me with his not so transparent antics.  This guy is not a scientist, or a poet, but he will use anything to keep the myth alive.  The myth of a "man made" causation of climate change has been debunked at the highest levels of science.  Climate changes because God wants it to change from time to time and nothing the Green Energy crowd can do will ever change that.  Al Gore is comical in his attempts to keep his cash cow alive.  He probably has the largest carbon footprint of any current or former politician, but will keep spouting his bilge until his coffers are full.  If you missed the poem he wrote, you can Google it, or click on the link below for a reference.

I read the poem when it came out, and decided to pen one of my own.  It follows stanza for stanza Gore's effort.

Whatever month you choose,
the world will turn
and tilt as seasons cycle
in their scripted course.

As vapors come and go
from land and sea,
so may some life forms
as they have through
eons past.

Snow falls when temperatures
dip low,
and rain, where temperate
climate reigns.

And floods, whenever God allows.

The score of nature is
not ours to tweak.
And lightning burns
the forest for a reason.

Our world is still in flux
and changing,
as all of life,
is here but for a season.

The deserts shift to
fruited plains.
The sea becomes dry land.
But not one change
on this old earth
was wrought by man’s
own hand.

Creatures come and go,
but not because some bell
has rung.
The shepherd does
the best he can.

But in the end
it’s up to God.

Not man.

Dennis Price

Dragonfly Verse

I've seen quite a few Dragonflys lately.  I'm sure they've seen me too.

Dragon Fly

A dragon fly
with bulging compound eyes
zigs, zags, and zips
across the sky
transparent wings a whir.

Landing lightly,
on my shoulder now.
In kaleidoscope
it sees my face.

Dennis Price

Saturday, August 24, 2013

That wonderful time before your mind completely lets go of the night.



No, just the rising sun
blasting through the frosted
glass on the east wall.

A laser.

Eyes closed,
I can feel it.

No fast moves.

Aroma of dark elixir.

Quiet electric hum
inside insulated walls.

A favorite time

that does not last.

Dennis Price

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Jake and Shorty

Some folks might question the value of poetry about cowboys, but I hope you enjoy the story of Jake and Shorty.

               JAKE AND SHORTY

The day was hot when he was born
Midst bushes low and full of thorns.
Without the aid of doctor’s skill,
Just mid-wife and his mother’s will.
With serenade of howling wind.
In shanty house with roof of tin.

And there he grew, a ranch-hand’s son.
He learned to ride and use a gun.
Roping, throwing, branding steers
Hard work hardened through the years.
A lot of man on stubby frame,
Shorty Briscoe was his name.

Jake Reed was another hand.
He and Shorty raised some sand.
They worked from dawn to setting sun,
Then went to town when work was done.
Jake was tall, wiry and hard,
And Shorty Briscoe was his Pard.

One weekend when the work was done
They rode to town to have some fun.
Ambling through the swinging door
At Pecos Rose’s as before.
They spied a stranger standing there
A fancy Dan with perfumed hair.

The stranger’s gun was tied down low
With yellowed ivory grips for show.
His eyes were steely gray and mean,
Soft hands with fingers long and lean.
He drank alone, but glanced their way
Inviting them to make a play.

Jake just laughed and turned away.
A grave mistake - He’d make them pay.
The stranger called for Jake to draw.
Jake moved and faced the pale outlaw.
The gunman’s move was smooth and fast
Jake hit the floor ‘neath fiery blast.
There was Shorty standing tall.
The bullet missed and hit the wall.
The shootist knew he’d erred that day
As Shorty Briscoe blazed away.
When smoke had cleared, the stranger fell;
Jake stood up alive and well.

 Dennis Price

Wednesday, August 21, 2013


A poem for us both.

"Whenever two people meet, there are really six people present. There is each man as he sees himself, each man as the other person sees him, and each man as he really is."
       -- William James

       MR. ME AND MR. WHO

A rivulet of water ran down my mirror,
splitting my image in two.
I thought I could see them both in that scene,
Mr. Me, and Mr. Who.

Mr. Me, is on the outside,
he’s always looking in.
Mr. Who is on the inside
looking out at his old friend.

Mr. Me is aging,
he thinks of getting old.
Mr. Who is just a boy,
his age is still on hold.

Mr. Me is what you see
when you look my way.
Mr. Who is what I think,
sometimes what I say.

Mr. Me, and Mr. Who
have been there from the start.
One looking in, the other out,
they’ll never live apart.

If you see me on the street
and, if I should see you,
you’ll shake hands with Mr. Me,

but be seen by Mr. Who.

Dennis Price