Marc Bradshaw was raised in the hills of central Kentucky. The southwest U.S. beckoned immediately after high school and for the next 50 years California’s San Joaquin valley, northern Utah, Santa Fe, New Mexico, and currently Mesquite, Nevada were home to life and work.  He is an accomplished leather craftsman and member of the International Internet Leather Crafters Guild and Mesquite, Nevada Cowboy Poets Association.
Home Again
Stable doors hang open, ever since pappy died.
Broken rusted hinges, cause gates to hang cockeyed.
Nineteen fifty eight the year, the old man passed away,
after that no horses 'round, needing any hay.
We were very busy then git'n this and that,
no time for a big old ranch, so empty it just sat.
Boarded up the windows, crops all went dead,
headed for the city, worked hard to get ahead
Fifty years flew by before I was to feel,
that all I’d gotten from city life, really wasn't  real.
Visions of an old spread in green Montana hills,
couldn't see just ranching then, paying all the bills.
Old, now like pappy was when last he used his tack,
Finally I am headed home, to get that city off my back.
At last the time has come again, for silence of the morn,
in the place I should have stayed, place where I was born.
Life passes faster now than it used to seem.
Days move in eye blinks and months are just a dream.
Waking up this old ranch will have to happen fast,
should I have a chance at all, making up my past.
Here in this mountain meadow twix't grass and tree,
in my minds eye a reborn ranch, I can plainly see.
Standing here at sunrise, in warmth of morning sun,
gotta get a move on, just wish'n won’t get it done.
Saddles cracked and dusty, bridles curled and hard,
fields of weeds, tilted barns and boulders dot the yard.
Ain't gonna be easy, know’d I shoulda stayed back then,
hard work getting her back to where she should’a been.
But ole pappy was a gentle soul, a real forgiving man,
He'd say just get to work, do the best you can.
Don't you worry about the past or all that coulda been,
just be glad for what ya got, cuz now your home again.

                                                             Marc Bradshaw

Everybody knows, why nobody goes,
to the desert of west Texas plains.
Where the suns so damn hot,
your likely to cook as not,
And by God,…… it never rains!

Mans eternal quest is not that far west,
to dirt dunes of dry Texas sand.
Stone mesa tops, rocky, and flat,  
so's only the sand can be spat.
And by God,…… it's a hard, harsh land!

But in this hell, a salty geezer did dwell,
under infinite clear blue skies.
T' was a long lanky old goat,
who'll never need a warm coat.
And by God,……. his name Curley Fries!

Ole Curly Fries, a desert man wise,
won't ever be taken a fool.
Lived a free life,
never taking a wife.
And By God,….. he had a fine mule!

A tough old coot, never gave one hoot,
for fufaws, trinkets or booze.
Ate grease weed and sage,
lived to old age.
And by God,……. never wore shoes!

Curly dined well, though hotter than hell,
on snake soup and scorpion stew.
Drank cactus juice,
For palaver no use.
And by God,…….. he always made do!

Curly lived long, died singing a song,
bout reincarnating with glee.
Reclined in the shade,
glimpsed a mermaid.
And by God,……. passed on to the sea!

           Marc Bradshaw © 2015