Random Rhymes

 There are poems written by me and my family and friends. You have to remember that we were not writing them for any special reason - just because. Kay Bishoff may have had her poems to give out when some one bought a piece of jewelry in a small shop she and her husband had back in late 1940's and early 1950's in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

    The poems done by me - Barbara Barnett Borror where usually done because I had to write a poem for a class in school. My mom - Kate Barnett, wrote several about times we lived at different places while my dad was in the Air Force. 

I am putting them in this blog mainly so family and friends can read them if they want to. I figure they go along with the name of the blog, Wonderin' Words.

Random Rhymes

Mainly About Indians

by

Kay Bishoff

Copyright, 1949

Eukabi Publishers

All Rights Reserved

The Desert

Land of Mystery and Silence!

Here the gaunt saguaro stands,

Sentinel o’er hidden treasure

‘Gainst destructive, greedy hands.

Ocatillas flaunt their banners,

Butterflies of scarlet hue;

Distant mountains, grim, forbidding,

Notch the sky’s translucent blue.

In this land of lonely vastness,

Where the silence never ends,

Peace that pass’eth understanding

On the tortured soul descents.

Granite Dells

There lived a gentle giant,

say a million years ago,

And if the date you challenge,

well, just prove it isn’t so.

He roamed the country over,

the ideal home to find,

Till he found in Arizona

just the spot he had in mind.

‘Twas out in Arizona,

quite the perfect garden spot,

But when he started digging,

he decided it was not.

The land was full of boulders,

granite rocks in close array,

But he liked his pretty garden,

so decided that he’d stay.

He heaved those pesky boulders

with all his brawny might,

He threw them and he kicked them

all the day and half the night.

The place they came to rest in

quite a beauty spot became,

And from the giant’s playthings

Granite Dells obtained its name.

Indian Symbols

You may have your four-leaf clovers

And your horseshoe nails, and such,

But I prefer the Indian symbols,

For they mean so much.

The Thunderbird brings happiness,

Crossed arrows, friendship true;

One arrow pointing outward

Wards the evil ones from you;

One arrow pointing toward you

Will protect you from all harm.

And so for you I’ve chosen

This one as your lucky charm.

Hopi Heaven

Patiently the Hopi maiden

grinds her corn and weaves her basket,

Making ready for her marriage

to the lad whom she has chosen.

At his loom within the kiva,

underground retreat and sanctum,

With most loving care, the bridegroom,

aided by his friends and brothers,

Weaves a snow-white wedding garment

for his bride, so mild, so modest,

When the marriage rite is over,

robe and basket, precious tokens,

In a secret place of safety

tenderly are stored and hidden.

After death, their wise men tell them,

through the air their souls go floating,

His upon the robe he made her,

hers upon the sacred basket,

Floating till they reach the Canyon,

where they softly settle earthward,

Down between the walls of purple,

to the great “Below,” their Heaven.

Pueblos

Row on row the purple mountains

like protective giants, stand,

Keeping watch o’er Nature’s children

in her own far western land.

Blue the sky of Heaven o’er them,

bluer than the Virgin’s gown;

Clouds beyond all earthly beauty

watch the sunlight’s gold pour down,

Pile on pile the tan pueblos

ages long have gravely stood,

Cold in sunlight, mauve in shadow,

neath the sky’s protecting hood.

Children play about the plaza;

from the roof the crier calls;

Old men drowse upon the aldders,

shadows ‘gainst the sheltering walls.

Age on age they’ve stood unchanging,

sheltering life and birth and death;

Countless thousands left their secrets,

while the ages held their breath.

Gone the Indian that we dream of,

noble warrior of the plain’

He is changed, but all unaltered,

the pueblos still remain.

Zuni Silver

When the Zuni saw the silver

which the Navajo had wrought,

They admired it, they adored it,

and they bought and bought and bought.

Till at last they had the notion

they could make it just as well,

So they coaxed their ancient foe-men

the know-how to them to sell.

When they’d learned the art, they hastened

styles unique to fabricate,

Set with many a tiny turquoise,

or with jet and shell ornate.

To the Navajo the silver

is the most important thing,

But the Zuni love the color

which the shell and turquoise bring.

Kachinas

Far off in the desert

the mesa arise,

Huge tables of sandstone,

which reach for the skies.

And there dwells the Hopi,

so peaceful, so mild,

With the wisdom of serpents,

and the heart of a child.

On special occasions,

dispersed through the year,

Arrive the Kachinas,

to each Hopi dear.

The souls of their forbears,

in bright masks arrayed,

In each village plaza

cavort and parade.

Each mask has a meaning,

each color and line;

There’s rhythm and beauty

in each weird design.

Bad children they punish,

good children commend,

And to them the Kachina

is part god, part friend.

Navajo Silversmith

(Cast)

At his bench within the hogan

sits the patient Navajo,

Using tools which he has fashioned

as his sire did long ago.

Out of sandstone he has fashioned

molds for bracelet, buckle, rings;

These he fills with molten silver,

making many a precious thing,

When the silver cools and hardens,

with his hammer and his dies,

Fire designs he stamps upon it,

line and curve to emphasize.

Polished, set with precious turquoise,

finished, ‘tis a work of art,

For the silversmith has labored

with his hands and with his heart.

Navajo Silversmith

(Wrought)

When the art of working silver

to the Navajo was new,

Silver dollars, halves, and quarters

were the stock on which he drew.

Patiently he hammered each one

to the thiness he desired,

Shaped them to the form he wanted,

wore them all to be admired.

Now, besides his own adornment,

these he makes for you and me,

Hoping that we’ll buy the trinkets,

wear them for the world to see.

Conchas, bracelets, pins, and earrings,

though from coins no longer made,

Miles into the town he carries,

for necessities to trade.

Navajo Mother-in-Law

‘Tis said that on the desert,

in the days of long ago,

Divorce became a problems

‘mongst the roving Navajo.

And so they held a council

of the wise men most profound,

Who discussed it from all angles

Till they thought the cure they’d found

The one thing they agreed on

was that in-laws shouldn’t mix,

And so they made this gadget

which they thought the case would fix.

Then, when a gal got married,

her mama was told to wear

A silver bell whose tinkle

would announce that she was there.

When son-in-law would hear it,

he would look the other way,

Or else the curse of blindness

would descend on him, they say.

This replica I’m sending you

has quite a dif’rent twist;

It says that, far as we go,

in-law problems don’t exist.

Red Men

Long before the conquering white man

with his guns and charger came,

Red men, armed with bows and arrows,

fought their battles, killed their game.

Savages, the white man called them,

since their ways were not his own;

Heathen, since they did not worship

in his man made church of stone.

After years of bloody battles,

the invader ruled the land;

Indians penned in reservations,

made to move at his command.

Still the red man carries proudly

even when he seems most meek,

Dignity and self-possession,

qualities we well might seek.

Poor, content perforce with little,

asking but the right to live,

Asking that we keep our pledges,

work and education give.

Must we try to make him over

in our image? Tell me why?

Would that we were but as steadfast,

patient, as they years roll by.

Spider and Fly

“Please come up and see by etching,”

Said the spider to the fly;

“There’s none can spin a silver web

More deftly ‘gainst the sky.

“I’ll wine you and I’ll dine you

And I’ll treat you like a queen.

Just come a little closer

And I’ll show you what I mean.”

The silly fly was flattered

And walked straight into his web.

He neither wined nor dined her,

But he dined on her instead.

Lonesome Bug

A lonesome little silver bug

In search of fun, am I;

I’d love to soar and see the world,

But metal wings won’t fly.

So won’t you put me on your dress,

While you go walking down the street,

So winsome and so fair?

I’ll never make the slightest sound,

But luck to you I’ll bring,

And when you take me for a ride

You’ll hear the bluebirds sing.

Bug Family

Said Papa Bug to Mama Bug,

“Let’s hitch ourselves a ride;

We’ll pick ourselves a lady fair

And walk up side by side,

And ask her if she wouldn’t like

To wear us on her dress

And show us all around the town’

I’m sure that she’ll say yes.

Said Mamma But to Papa Bug,

“I think that will be fun,

And she’ll agree that two such bugs

Are smarter far than one.”

Then up spoke little Baby Bug,

“You’d batter make it three,

For I don’t want to stay at home,

So please make room for me.”

So here they are, three silver bugs,

To travel quite inclined’

Fat Papa Bug, sweet Mamma Bug,

With Baby Bug behind.

Morpho

Far away amid the jungles

Of romantic, hot Brazil,

Butterflies in hues exotic

Vie with birds more brilliant still.

Loveliest of all in color,

Bluer than the bluest sky,

Flits the iridescent Morpho,

Doomed within a day to die.

Armed with nets to seize their beauty,

Boots to guard ‘gainst reptiles too,

Brave men face the jungle’s perils,

Chasing butterflies for you.

Now, preserved like precious jewels

Which man cannot simulate,

For my lady’s gay adornment,

Morpho’s wings will simulate.

By Kay Bishoff

_________________________________

Never Try Again (My First Creation)

Away down deep inside,

I’ll always love you dear,

So sweet to always know,

I can depend on you.

And when I’m dead

And gone,

You will be so very glad

To know that you will

Be Free.

And I won’t depend

On you.

And since my words

don’t rhyme, I’ll bring

This to an end,

And just forget it all

And never try again.

By Alma Williams

Alma Williams was my grandma on my mom’s side of the family. We called her Gram. She wrote this when I was in high school and was trying to write a poem for my Southwestern Literature Class.

These are poems written by my mom, Catherine Green Barnett. I have done them according to when I thought she wrote them, but it may not be correct.

‘A Red eyed Monster

A red eyed monster I did see,

He sat up in a big tall tree,

He fliped his tail and shook his head,

And said he wished that (name someone or something) was dead.

Nellis (August 28, 1959)

I was going to send you a card

Didn’t have one that would do,

So this plain sheat of paper will have to say

How much I love you.

I love you very, very much

I can tell you true,

And, also, I can add to this, I’ll be

Glad when this Air Forse school is through.

We’er getting by without you, Dear,

Tho not the best I day,

And we’er looking forward to the time

When you return one day.

Well, enough going on like this,

You know it anyway.

So – I love you, Sweetheart, I love you

What more need I to say.

Kate Barnett

She wrote this to my dad. He was stationed at Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas, Nevada from about 1957 to 1060. Several times while we were there he sent off to some sort of training and we had to stay. I don’t think any of those times was for that long. Maybe four to six weeks or so. II

Three Little Girls

(This can be sung to the old song “I’m an Old Cowhand”

Three little girls came to the West

To live the life that they liked best,

Come ti yi yippy yippy ya yippy ya

Come ti yi yippy ya.

The ranch was old and very run down,

But they said they’d never go back to town.

Come ti yi yippy yippy ya yippy ya

Come ti yi yippy ya.

Janice didn’t know what to do,

Sure did run when the cow did moo.

Come ti yi yippy yippy ya yippy ya

Come ti yi yippy ya.

Barbara Jean was tall and skinny,

Should a seen her jump when the horse did whinny.

Come ti yi yippy yippy ya yippy ya

Come ti yi yippy ya.

Old Sarah heard a coyote howl;

Never saw anyone run like that gal.

Come ti yi yippy yippy ya yippy ya

Come ti yi yippy ya.

They climbed in the car and away they went;

Said, “We’ll let you know where our clothes can be sent.”

Come ti yi yippy yippy ya yippy ya

Come ti yi yippy ya.

Rose For Mac

Here is a rose all pink and showy,

for to look at when it’s cold and snowy,

To remind you of the one you wanted from me,

But you got smarter and left the country.

I still have the roses, and all this heat,

But I think that’s better than ice, cold feet.

So when you get to Alaska, way out there,

Remember I’m here in Las Vegas fair,

And when ever you’re cold and lonesome, and blue,

Look at this rose and know Kate is probably, somewhere,

and lonesome, too.

Non-Since

Your verses in rhyme

I sure won’t mind,

I think they’re sweet,

And also ‘real neat,”

Sweet I should say

Is the Lady “K”,

Neat is the rhyme,

Enjoy it each time,

I can’t go on as far as you,

but I like to rhyme a little too.

A Base in the Desert

(Nellis Air Base)

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert

Where they built this Nellis Base;

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert,

But we each must work in our place.

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert.

The wind brings more heat and the sand;

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert,

But we must face it as best we can.

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert;

The jets make a terrible sound;

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert

With scarcely enough water to go round.

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert

Some day we’ll leave here, you and me;

It’s hot and it’s dry in the desert’

We all stay our turn to keep our land free.

My mom wrote this when my dad was stationed in England and she and I couldn’t go.

It would have been in either 1955 or 1956. We lived in an apartment in Pampa, TX near

my grandparents. My sister, Sarah, was born while my dad was gone.

Thoughts of a Serviceman’s Wife

Darling, when you are near

Ghosts and memories of the past disappear,

Put when you are far away

They come rushing back day after day.

God in Heaven hears my plea;

Send my serviceman back to me,

Keep him safe from all harm,

And return him safe to my arms.

Bring him back to his family dear;

Keep him home or always near.

His two little girls and loving wife,

Who need him as much as life.

Barbara asks of him each day,

“When is Daddy coming home to stay?”

The baby does not know her dad,

For when he left she was not had.

And through it’s hard to live this way,

I know he’ll be coming home some day.

He is over there to protect us here,

So we’ll laugh and smile and hide our tear.

My mom wrote this for her mom.

The Clock and You

(To Mother – 1959)

Remember the little clock on the shelf?

And compare it to yourself.

It’s spring must be wound just right;

Just so firm and not too tight.

If it runs to fast it fouls up the day,

Speed, too, can ruin your life this way,

If it goes to slow, this will not do,

So a little work is good for you,

So moderate your self, my dear;

We would like you a long time here.

Florida

(McDill Air Force Base – 1961)

Florida is a land where it never snows

But, Oh, My Goodness, how the wind blows,

And the rain comes down from morning to night;

And right on down to dawns early light.

The palms grow tall, the palmetto thick,

To live in this land is quite a trick.

Your cloths can’t dry in this rain and fog,

And foods that should be crisp go sog.

The sun shines as hot as can be,

And, Oh, how it does sunburn me;

I come from a land with ice and snow

And back to this place I would like to go.

I’m not used to this moisture, mold and rust,

I would rather have old, dry, desert dust.

Kate Barnett (Catherine Green Barnett)

_________________________________________

These were written by my sister, Sarah Barnett when she was about 14.

The Tiger

When the tiger does prowl,

How the tiger will growl,

He is hard to hear,

Even when after a deer.

He is brown and yellow,

And a very big fellow,

for he’s three feet at the shoulder,

And weights as much as a bolder.

Although he eats meat,

He is still very sweet.

The Black Cat

When the black cat prowls at night,

He is a frightening sight,

He may jump on top a house,

Or pounce on a mouse.

And where else he is at,

No one knows but the black cat.

Pur, Pur, Pur

Pur, Pur, Pur,

And he has such soft, silky fur,

He winks,

And he blinks,

He will run,

And have fun.

What is this animal? It’s not a rat.

It’s a furry, purry, kitty cat.

Smokey

Smokey is sweet,

He’s the nicest kitty you’ll ever meet.

He warms my heart,

Excpet when we’re apart.

Oh,

I love him so.

My Friend

You say,

He is gray.

With silver trim,

And strips that are dim.

Is it true,

That when the sun hits him he’s blue?

And his eyes are yellow.

He must be a cute little fellow.

Yes, this is as true,

As my eyes are blue.

For the kitty is Smokey, my friend.

Two Kittens

One kitten was frisky,

The other was gay,

And they played together,

All through the day.

By Sarah Barnett

Land of the Tall Saquaro

the saguaro lives where it’s hot and dry,

They grow very old before they die,

Reaching twenty or thirty feet,

You’re sure to know him if you meet.

They bloom white flowers in the spring,

Flowers that make all the birds sing.

And when you see him standing high,

Among the chaparrals,

And you see the roadrunner running by,

And hear the song the cactus wren tells,

You’ll know you’re in this land of his,

The land of the tall saguaro.

-Sarah Barnett

___________________________________________

Poems I wrote for my Southwestern Litature Class while at Rio Grande High

School, Albuquerque, NM in my senior year 1969.

Two Freedoms

So they took poor Terry

To the tall, tall tree,

And under his feet it became quite airy.

As all who gathered ‘round could see.

You ask why did the poor boy hang?

Because he held up the stage,

And his big gun went bang,

Way far out in the purple sage.

He ran from the law

With all of that gold,

Across a land that was new and raw,

That’s how his story is told.

The posse caught him

And headed for town’

But old Sheriff Tim

Forgot he was duty-bound.

So this old oak tree

Became the death place

Of a boy who tried to go free,

But got caught in his haste.

The freedom he was seeking was not the right kind,

that’s the reason he danced at the end of that line.

The Southwest

This land, it’s hot and dusty,

This land, it’s cold and wet.

This land, it’s vicious and dusty,

It isn’t for the weak, I’ll bet.

This land, takes only the brave,

This land gets rid of the week.

This land doesn’t try to save

Those whose courage does leak.

This land is where I was born.

This land I must leave, so they say.

This land, that some may scorn,

I dream of coming back some day.

The Challenge

Challenging anything to get in their way;

For this was the very warm month of May;

The two bulls facing, pawed the dust,

And the one was the red, red color of rust.

The other was big, and tall, and black.

He turned away and then charged back.

With horns as sharp as a soldier’s sword

They pawed and bellowed and gourded,

Finally the rust bull, being quite old,

Turned and as he ran, he told

The younger bull, he could have this land,

And all this blowing, stinging sand;

Along with all of the young and old cattle,

And the long, winding snakes that rattle,

Where the vaqueros chase you in a rush

Through all of this thick, old mesquite brush.

No more roping and falling for me,

You can have all this, and I’ll go free.

The Horse Show

Tall and black with his head held high,

And the big white blanket of spots,

This Appaloosa horse has lead

The best of the field, as he trots.

“Rack on,” cries the judge

And away they go.

There is one mare, the color of fudge.

This American Saddler’s coat does glow.

The Tennessee Walker has a beautiful gait.

He will get a very, very high rate;

And he always get into the talk.

The hackney pony, as he pulls his cart,

Lifts his knees right up to his chest.

With him, his owner does not want to part,

For in his class he is the best.

The jumpers fly over all the jumps.

Very seldom a mistake do they make;

And the riders hardly feel the bumps,

For the blue ribbon they want to take.

The parade horse with all his fine gear,

Goes round the ring at a high-stepping pace;

Will get a great big cheer

If he doesn’t come to disgrace.

The working horse isn’t always beautiful,

He does his job to serve his master.

And always is most dutiful,

And helps rope the calf faster and faster.

The Arabian is the prettiest of them all.

It doesn’t matter what he’s asked to do.

Oh, he is quite small and isn’t very tall,

And he gladly does all his work too.

(Written in high school for a literature class, 1969)

A National Forest

Tremendous mountains that rise high in the sky.

A river that winds and twists.

It would be impossible for us to buy

Even a tiny piece of all this.

If was meant for all of us to see and enjoy,

If we will only take care of it.

If we are not careful we will certainly destroy

All of it, slowly bit by bit.

There are so many things for us to do and see,

If we will take the time and try

We can go camping in among the big, tall pine trees,

Or see an eagle in the sky.

You can go hunting for deer, squirrel or bear.

But try not to kill to many at a time,

Or else they will became to rare.

And you will have to pay a fine.

Or maybe you’d prefer to hunt for pretty rocks,

Fossils, Indian ruins, or bottles of old.

There is also the lake with it’s boat dock,

With a fish story to be told.

Into the wilderness you can pack.

Or try it on a horse.

Or hike it with everything on your back,

You’ll find it fun but not easy, of course.

There are lots more things that you can do.

Whether you hike or drive or ride,

And you certainly know that you can to,

If with the rules you will abide

-Barbara Barnett

My Dog

I have a little dog that barks a lot.

She is a little mother, too.

Four little puppies, she has got.

I wish we could keep them all,

don’t you?

Dream Horses

Long and lean

Big and keen,

Watching over all.

He was gray with white stockings.

Watching his sons with their mockings

Of him.

His wives obeyed his call,

And away they went, one and all.

Hoofs skimming the grass.

The stallion and his herd were gone,

In the misty dawn,

They had just been some little child’s dream.

(1967)

Junior Poets

Our English teacher is very fixed

On the idea her Junior class are all poets;

But I think her mind is mixed

AS to what she’ll get from us.

So we thought, and we thought,

And came up with nothing,

And I think we would even have bought

The poems from other people.

Finally the day came

When we had to turn them in,

And we knew our teacher was to blame

For torchening us like this.

We haven’t got our papers back yet,

But we figure we’ll all get F’s,

Because that is the bet

Going all around our room.

(November, 1967, Miss Romero-11th grade English class

Rio Grande High School)

The King

The elephant is king,

With his ten foot ears flapping;

He rules his kingdom with lots of zing,

And no one at his door comes rapping.

The elephant, the lions fear.

Because he uses his trunk to throw them in the air.

So far from the elephant, their cubs they rear,

And the elephant leaves them alone,

Because,

To all, he is fair.

The Racehorse

Long and lean,

Cunning and keen,

A thoroughbred will run

For his fun.

Around the tracks they race,

For the thoroughbred is the ace,

In the racehorse

World, Of Course!

Never To Return

Never will the little colts,

When scared by their own shadows,

Run and bolt,

As they did in times gone by.

Never will the little mothers

Run by their baby’s sides,

As they had run by the sides of the fathers

Over mountains, deserts, and plains.

Never will the fathers stand

Watching over large harems,

Fighting wolves and,

Big mountains lions.

Never will the mustang run

Over the West as he once did,

Never will they once more have fun

As they did in times gone by.

-Barbara Barnett (1967)

----------------------------------------------------

(Poems by Gary Lee Borror)

A Poem

How in the hell do you wirte a poem?

Try to think of words that rhyme;

Pick a subject that’s close to home,

Now you’ve got it, take your time!

Now take the mountains or the sky;

Or the deck of a ship and the deep, blue sea.

The snakes that crawl, or birds that fly;

The things around you, wherever you may be.

A little dog or a horse or two;

A grassy meadow or a valley under snow,

It’s a little game of ‘you guess who,”

See now, you’re smarter than you knew.

I Wonder

I get up, each morning, and I wonder;

I guess like most people do.

What future’s in the life that I’m living,

Just what would be for me without you?

This is one question I can’t answer’

I’m not sure I’d try, if I could.

Every day would be so much longer;

I doubt that I could stand it if it should.

Without you, my life, would be nothing,

And yet I wonder anyway,

Although I wish it never happens

I know that it might happen someday!

I guess that I’d likely keep on dreaming;

Most likely walk around in a daze.

This thinking is driving me more crazy,

So I’ll quite before I go batty, today.

Navy

It’s just the way they do things here

That make all the sailors turn to beer,

And when they tell us not to think,

Good Lord, I wish I had a drink!

When a lifer’s want’s and mine don’t jive,

My dander gets up like bees in a hive.

But to hit the bastard like I’d dig,

Would only get me locked up in the brig.

At an X.O.’x mast, it can get rough

If you tell him a lie and he calls your bluff,

Then it makes you twist and squire,

When you tell him you think he’s a G.D. worm.

Exactly the thing that I could see

Is a thousand tons of T.N.T.

We all know damned good and well,

It could blow these lifers ALL to hell.

But I’m the quiet type of a guy,

I hardly ever get off my handle and fly.

There’s just one thing that I can’t see;

What the hell does the Navy want with a BOY like me.

_Gary Lee Borror

(about 1969 or 1970)