Bull Dance

A poem with narration and music

This is a poem that we wrote to show the complexity of a man, by virtue of his station and profession considered to be a particular way, perhaps harsh & rough. A man is to be judged by his actions, reflecting his courage, love, kindness and deep faith. It is this balance of inner strength & giving heart that truly makes a man.

Bull Dance

The old rusty pickup had seen better days, as it rattled through the fairground parking lot, sputtering to a stop in competitor parking. He remembered Jill’s pink little bunny on the seat, picking it up before he got out, securing it carefully in his shirt pocket, over his heart.

The sun was already hot, in time for the last round, and he limped past the cowboy campground and back into the Livestock Pavilion by the arena. As he walked, spurs jangling on old, worn boots, the musky smell of bull, manure and hay was familiar, comforting, all he really knew.

He paused a moment, letting go a night of worry, and he pulled out that familiar worn photo. He kissed her young face, looked down in prayer, then slid her picture back into his pocket.

The top bull purse would be enough.

He walked the long way around the stalls, avoiding the young’uns and their bravado and their insults for the old man of the circuit. His head pounded painfully with each step, as though trying to move blood in a tired body, brain taking over the job of his tired heart.

He waited with the other guys, the other finalists, the usuals from the small-time rodeo circuit. They nodded at him, quiet too, in their own heads as they prepared themselves for their rides.

He squatted down, stretching, next to the railing, working out the kinks in his arms and legs. His nose was broken from “kissing the bull,” that terrible arm-jerker he rode yesterday, so, today it was the bull or him, he thought.

Lefty was fierce, muscled, stomping in the chute, a Money Bull for sure by the looks of him. He was up last, as leader from yesterday, but he was the sure underdog for the prize, so he watched the ones before him, hopefully. Didn’t want anyone hurt, just easy, boring rides.

The bull man pointed him over to Lefty’s chute. “Cowboy up,” he muttered, steeling his nerves. The other guys had done well… too well. He needed a great ride and good time.

One boot up and he was over the chute rail, now just Lefty and him waiting, and him thinking… thoughts of needed money… his daughter.

He twisted his left hand in coarse bull rope, Second Go, last one. The man tugged the strap, angering the bull to full snorting fury. The cowboy’s legs gripped as the buzzer sounded. The gate was pulled and flew open wide, and beast launched, shooting the chute then furiously chasing down the Barrelman.

The fierce dance of pounding hooves matched red thunder in the cowboy’s veins and the muffled screams from the crowd. Right arm whipping, bull bucking, spinning left, away, the beastly muscles bunched, then a deadly fade, that forced the cowboy’s hard twist, right arm pumping, muscles screaming.

The bull was tireless, spinning, bucking, fading, hooves hammering the dust from the ground. It seemed so fast, yet for the battered cowboy it was a moment that lasted forever. Was it enough?

The cowboy was slipping as he readied to dismount from the deadly ride, releasing the rope to launch, timed at the fall of a fearsome high buck. He hit the ground hard, and rough hands pulled him away from slashing horns and merciless hooves and over to the safety of the riders’ gate.

He looked at the bull gratefully for the wild ride as it settled down, still snorting and huffing but relieved to be free of its tenacious rider.

Tearful, he took the photo in his bloodied hand, and he looked at the board, looked at the clock, then fell to his knees.

Thanks be to God.

Thank you for reading our poem story.

Here are some of our other poems posted here on Medium and some background on our writing approach.