The Call of the Backstretch

The Call Of The Backstretch

by

Murray D. West

                                                                                     

  There’s a kind of a man with a wandering eye

     who marries his soul to the horse,

Who can gamble his fortune then lose it all,

     yet he'll smile and show no remorse.

Who one day is flush with the winning,

     the next finds him pale from the loss,

The third day luck has him smiling again,

     yet he’ll risk it again on a toss.

He’s a travelling foot and a spirit free,

     and faces his head to the wind,

His religion is freedom, he lives on the edge,

     and you know he often has sinned.

But his spirit for life, for the roll of the dice,

     puts envy in everyman’s heart,

For he lives by his wits as he struggles each day,

     with freedom that sets him apart.

The man drifts with the wind like a gypsy

     and he follows a wayward trail,

As he seeks his moment of riches and fame

     in a quest he’ll never prevail.                                      


And the burden he carries is heavy and bold

     though his pack be empty and light,

For his is a fight for survival, my friend,

     midst this land of plenty and might.

The mornings will find him at toil in the barn,

     but his is a labor of love,

In the stall of a favored bay filly he speaks

     in whispers as soft as a dove.

And fondly he’ll touch her soft velvet nose,

     gently brush her dander away,

Speaks not a harsh word to this lass as he

     shows his love for this beautiful bay.

Then he’ll move to stall of the big chestnut colt,

     a young stud all virile and tough,

Where he’ll brush him away with a stalwart display

     as he firmly will call the colt’s bluff.

Now he’ll move to the head of this most regal rogue

     and utter soft words in his ear,

Blow a comforting warmth in a quivering nose

     to calm and alley the colt’s fear.

Though his clothes be faded and tattered and torn,

     his spirit remains ever high,

As he struggles each day to cope and survive,

     keeps a faith that none can decry.

For he feels that the next is a winner for sure,

     and he sees the odds are just right,

So it’s twenty across on the fiery red colt –

     his future’s again looking bright!

 

  

These are the men of the backstretch, oh yes,

     who yearn for a time long since past,

Who live in a world of peril and chance

     and women who play very fast.

Of poor men who own not a penny and yet

     with their charge stand proud as a king,

And who for the dream of that champion horse,

     would change not one little thing.

Of the migrant who toils as he seeks solitude

     in his struggles so far from home,

Here his family are those who like he are alone,

     his safety in stables who roam.

It’s a world full of men with something to hide

     and the hiding here sets them free,

Where they gamble and drink, and harlots they seek,

     if the outside world lets them be.

But it’s also the realm of the famous and rich

     who play for the love of the game,

While others of note, with motives in doubt,

     through their steeds seek glory and fame.

For some strut and squawk like a peacock,

     while others are humble and mild,

The former see wealth as a birthright,

     the latter know luck on them smiled.

It’s a world where a man of small stature

     on his mount surveys all about,

And no man stands taller than he in this place

     where the horse is held near devout.

While once the chauvinist realm of the male,

     the ladies are now such a force,

Where their nurturing ways and kind, gentle hands,

     are suited to care for the horse.

 And these mothers and lovers, and daughters and wives,

     are seen now all over the track,

As owners and trainers, and riders and grooms-

     it’s onward, with no turning back!

Like a magnet the track grabs the heart of a man,

     an allure that never lets go,

And all he holds dear he will risk without pause,

     the strength of his passion is so.

Oh, he’ll try to deny and walk right away

     for he knows the danger within,

But the draw of the track and the love of the horse

     keeps gnawing at him like a sin!

And no man who ever has heeded the call

     will ever again be the same,

Though he tries to resist, the need for this life

     aches deep like a smoldering pain.

For this is the call of the backstretch, my friend,

     and the haunting plea of the horse -

Once the fever grabs hold of your soul, you’ll see,

     there’s none can escape its great force!

Murray D. West

 November 24, 2011

Paris, Kentucky