A Life in Rhythm, Rhyme and Rolling Hills

written by Joni Kabana | photography by Tegra Stone Nuess

Amid the rolling hills of the Palouse Country, Dick Warwick lives on the property where he grew up, a landscape that is far more than simply a backdrop. Those long, fluid lines of wheat and sky have worked their way into his consciousness and become part of the DNA of his identity. Place, for him, is formative. It influences his values, his sensibilities, the way he looks at the world and, inevitably, the way he writes.

A cowboy poet at heart, words have always mattered to Warwick. “I am keenly aware of language’s limitations,” he said. “Words can only gesture toward reality, never fully capture it. Poetry, however, sometimes succeeds where plain speech cannot.” Through rhythm, sound and cadence, Warwick believes the flow of language can evoke feelings and insights that resist explanation, creating meaning that is felt, not merely understood.

Although he had been writing poetry most of his life, his appreciation for traditional rhyme and meter arrived unexpectedly in 1981 after hearing Banjo Paterson’s “The Man from Ironbark” recited in a pub in Western Australia where he was working during a wheat harvest. Back home, he began writing rhymed verse rooted in his own experiences and homeland. Nearly a decade later, a trip to Elko, Nevada, revealed he had already been practicing a distinct and venerable form of cowboy poetry.

Cowboy poetry occupies a small but essential niche in American literature, one that values humor, honesty, hard work, tradition and reverence for the land. At gatherings like the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, he discovered an audience eager to listen, and he found himself equally motivated to share.

Inspiration often comes unannounced to him: a striking landscape, a stray phrase, a rhythm, a story best told in verse. He is not prolific, but he is devoted. His work has led to books, recordings and performances across the American West and Australia. He hopes to publish one final collection, simply to share what he once felt compelled to say. His advice for someone who would like to try their hand at writing poetry of any form is to simply to look around, enjoy the music of language and be true to oneself. Then let words arise as they may.

Sunfish Slim

A poem by Dick Warwick

I once knew a bronco stud by the name of Sunfish Slim. There weren’t a rider worth his mud didn’t dream of riding him.

But Slim was meaner than a wasp, more limber than a snake, and many’s the cowboy that he tossed and many their bones did break.

For more than one cow herder had a kick aimed at his head—they knew the horse could murder and leave the victim dead.

So I could spin some anecdotes of this stallion’s cruel career; I could repeat a dozen quotes from brave men who learned to fear.

For I was a buckaroo back then and really in my prime; I was, it’s true, a man among men, a legend in my time.

I’d rode full span on Terpsichore, on Jawbone passed the test; I rode young Warlock and kicked for more and Spindrift I did best.

I spurred the spirit from Hoppin’ Mad, frustrated Attila the Hun; I was first to ride Arco and Billy the Bad—I conquered every one.

And then in a two-bit Texas yard I finally got the draw for which I’d trained so long and hard—I drew that famed outlaw.

Now, Sunfish Slim had never been rode, he’d put everyone on the ground; bareback or saddle, they all had got throwed, and now my turn came around.

Only eight seconds long is a rodeo ride eight seconds to buck and to pitch; but in that short span some riders have died, some made famous, or broken, or rich.

There was Slim in the chute, seemingly calm, but his eyes sought mine with a glare, and I felt just a hint of sweat on my palm as I challenged him back with my stare.

I knew him right then for a renegade cuss, a type I know full well—there just ain’t much room for critters like us, it was him or me, I could tell.

I dropped on his back and I felt him go tense and quickly the gate opened wide; then Sunfish Slim lost his mind and his sense as he tried to get me off his hide.

He bucked and he jumped, he quite nearly flew, landed hard, leaped, twisted and spun; I was dizzy, off-balance and riding askew, but I stayed on that son-of-a-gun.

He sideswiped the fence, sunfished and twirled, at once went eleven directions; that hoss would’ve tossed me right off the world but I clung to the rope, my connection.

Then Slim in a frenzy went totally nuts—no rider had made such a stand; I hung on with gristle, grit, gumption and guts ’til the rope was jerked out of my hand.

At the top of Slim’s flight in the midst of a turn, I flew off as the buzzer did sound—whichever came first I never did learn for I buried my face in the ground.

I dislocated a shoulder, broke my shinbone and wrist, brain concussion, abrasions and bruises, and the doctor told me I must cease and desist from riding those bucking cayuses.

And Sunfish? Why, that was his final performance—he cracked a bone and injured a tendon; and now it’s not riders, but mares he torments, as we’re both convalescin’ and mendin’.

And the ride? Some said it was even, a tie—neither one of us suffered defeat; but when I last saw Slim and looked in his eye, I felt that we’d both gotten beat.

If we could do it again, we’d find out who’s best, we surely would settle our score. But we can no longer be put to the test ’cause we can’t rodeo anymore.

So now Sunfish Slim’s out to pasture, a stud; I’m married, amazing but true, and he’s throwing colts full of his ornery blood while I’m Dad to a boy buckaroo.