On a hill in Montana
Stands a weather beaten house.
In it there lives an old miner
With no kids and no spouse.
He never got married
And he never will.
For he is content as he is
Up there on his hill.
He has a few horses
And a faithful old dog.
He has no use whatever
For a chicken or a hog.
He works for his neighbor
To buy bacon and beans.
He is never without
A few bucks in his jeans.
He spends most of his time,
With fencin’ and such.
He is stiff with arthritis,
Doesn’t accomplish very much.
He gets tired of fencin’
And stackin” the hay.
He would rather go mining,
Though it mostly don’t pay.
It is interesting work
And gets in the blood.
He is happy when digging
In hardrock, or mud.
While he’s mining he works
Like a man half his age.
At other jobs he worries
Like a bird in a cage.
Though he never made a dime
While looking for ore.
He is always ready
To try it once more.
It isn’t likely at mining
He will ever get rich.
But it is a lot more fun
Than shoveling a ditch.
While sinking a shaft
In rock harder than hell.
He doesn’t get half as tired
As when he’s digging a well.
He is always hoping
Some highrade to find.
But you wouldn’t understand,
If you never have mined.
Though it is the searching and working
That makes him look old.
He is never so happy,
As when digging for gold.
For there is always a chance
That the very next round,
Will uncover great riches
In that old stubborn ground.
At last when he’s dead
And prayed over in church.
If he didn’t get rich,
He had the fun of the search.
Interwoven into the rich tapestry of Montana's historical heritage are the words and wisdom of Kenneth Browning. I was delighted to discover his poetry and will be featuring several of his memorable poems.
Meet Kenneth Browning - Introduction
I composed the writings in this book,
And hope they are worth the time it took
For me to put on paper all this bunk,
I pray you won’t consider them all junk.
"KB"
I trust your sarcastic comments will be withheld,
When you find some word misspelled.
And that your tongue doesn’t start its clacking,
At punctuation, misplaced or lacking.
When (or if)? you have read them to the end,
If some word, your ears did offend.
Be not too harsh with your censure,
For this is my first literary adventure.
My joy will be most infinite,
If you find one moment of pleasure in it.
I wish you as much joy from the reading or reciting,
As I obtained from the writing.
Many hours I’ve spent in my cabin,
Far away from the sound of tongues gabbin’.
Writing this stuff and making copies,
Away from the racket of wild jalopies.
Away from a hectic world’s roar,
While friendly squirrels played round my door.
While crested Bluejays were always pleading,
Telling me it was time for feeding.
Where little fawns were cavorting,
And smart old bucks were loudly snorting.
Where the great bull elk, stood grand and tall,
As he sent forth his challenging bugle call.
Where the golden Eagle soared high,
And scanned the ground with searching eye.
Where every evening, without fail,
I heard the coyotes’ lonesome wail.
Where fir and pine reached for the sky,
While among their branches breeze’s sigh.
Nowhere else is nature so benign,
Nowhere is scenery so divine.
They say we poets are seldom famous,
‘Till after death has come to claim us.
My last wish is, that when I am gone.
Some of my poetry will live on.
-KB Scribblings from a Hermits Pen 1968
