Poetry

Myth Maker
 
Framed in celluloid
for the crime too;
the offence
of selling an ideal,
maintaining the Dream.
Reeking of bullshit,
the myth and the man.
All eyes look West.
 
Itinerant coarseness
erased,
the horse he rides
is an East coast hobby.
Frontiersman,
Indian-killer
or mountain trapper,
their positions usurped.  
High in the saddle
he dons the white hat.
 
Manifest Destiny drove him,
across the Plains to live
free.
In Rousseau’s natural
world,
House Full signs go up
the frontier is closed.
 
Farmer, miner, cattleman;
all tasted the corporate
truth.
Open range?
Staked claim?
Freedom?
We still need a hero
for the folks back East.
 
The nation needs its
Arthur
for chivalry and honour-
its campfire song of
Roland.
A horse, but not of
Homeric wood.
Our hero is the cowboy,
lifted from the earth.
 
In times of plenty
he rides with silver spurs.
The Great Communicator
knew his role and mythical
worth.
Bad times reveal the
stubble,
coyote howl and rheumy
stare.
 
Do we still believe in cowboys?

A shadow with a gun.
The hat exchanged for
black
a Lone Star pinned on.
 
A. Marriner © November
2006