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Cowboy Adventure Poems | Cowboy Poems About Adventure

These Cowboy Adventure poems are examples of Cowboy poems about Adventure. These are the best examples of Cowboy Adventure poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

Feline Alert

*The feline Texan way*

A fresh coat of paint,” on my nails
Red shade of lips," on my smile
Solid oak charms,” on my wrist
Country music,” in my heart
Flattering eyes,” a rustic, shell.
Join me, won’t you?
In this "Country Girls Tale"

~~

Every day I approach the morning dawn, 
I follow the landscape towards the new Texas sun.
Surround by yellow roses and cactus galore.
I brand my name everywhere I go,
I allow you near the limits of my Wild West soul.
I keep it above the snake level everywhere I roll.

Got my head up like a cowgirl, 
I slick my hands down my black leather chaps.
I tilt my bull hide hat leaving behind the sweetest Texas Trail.
 
I rode through many Texas midnight storm.
It took more than raindrops to knock me from my-  “2-Steppin’ world.”
A windy ride, bruises under the hide taking it in like- “A Real Cowgirl!”
I got a tight grip on my saddle, holding on to a brighter morrow.

Enjoying the voices and the sound.
Tex-Mex lingo, round and round.
Ropers and Wranglers are how I dress.
I got it all covered, except for the top of my chest.

Living’ it up^, down here in the south.
Erin’ the lungs, shooting up the fun
Long necks’ and kissing under a rodeo’ moon. 
Honky-Tonk, tattooing the mockingbird.

Down here:
You will find me sitting on the Country ground,
Peacefully staring into the eyes of the "Alamo Stars."
Flowing with the art found in the flag I hold.
I am The Wild! 
I am The West!
“— A little crazy, but civilized!” 

Enjoying the morning breeze,
Where the dew sits on the tip of Mother Nature’s tongue.
There and only there you will find me,
Under the brightest Texas Star.


by; PD


Details | Verse | |

Zuzuni on the badlands

Zuzuni on the badlands

Montana's muddy badlands spread for thirty seven miles
along a cleft of sandstone bed, eroded years before; 
the chestnut paced upon the bare of grass and well worn aisles
and I wore two new Navy Colts, of gauging forty four
beneath the noon light that defines but also eyes beguiles.

An anchorite, some years ago, upon the ridge of Grapes
where monasteries in the clouds are reaching out to God, 
I learned to draw and shoot amidst the fog's white waving drapes
and prayed til the time was ripe t' abandon this abode, 
cause solitude was molding deeds, constringing, thus, escapes.

I saw them waiting on the trail; three bandits stood apart: 
Coyote Chit, Cheesecake Labif and Mambo-Jumbo Crock
with cross-tied low their pistols stood, assumptive and upstart
bemocking fools who patented their e'er noetic block
that teachers, tho', could not explain; not even wise Descartes! 

My shots intended at their guns, the hoisted hammers broke;
I ordered them to start the dance that turns the clouds to rain
the land was in compelling need, as turf and plants evoked
the sympathy of Heavens that magnanimous ordained
the good ol' boys (and volunteers) to dance the rain's refrain.

Coyote was allowed to dance a prominent gavotte
meanwhile Labif's romantic soul preferred a marigold
but Crock's mazurka had untied the nimbus' Gordian knot
and rain began to pour upon those who the skies extolled
heroic men were meant to be, defining, thus, a blot.

Zuzuni, the Algonquin chief, had noticed this ordeal
and marveled at the outlaws forms, that caused the skies to rain
in order so, to buy the fools he offered a good deal
fourteen strong horses for each man, who danced to ascertain
that rains returned upon the slopes and also on the plains.

© 2014-10-15, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic heptameter)

Contest Name: Sketch a Character
Sponsor: Gautami Phookan
Deadline: 11/17/2014


Details | Rhyme | |

Cowboys

A man named Ben stood on a slope looking at the gates of hell,
He swore they’d never turn back, him and his best friend Del.
They knew the bandits came this way, they’d left a sloppy trail,
Sheriff and posse had given up but they, would never fail.

He reached into his saddle where he pulled some paper out,
Posters of the bandits, who had brought them on this route
There was Crooked Jake a killer who was merciless and drear,
He shot you if you looked at him, his colleges were full of fear.

Then came Baba Barber as hairy as a lamb,
But nothing gentle about this one, he head-butt’s like a ram.
The third was Festus Farlow a man with just one eye,
Yet the fastest gun in Texas causen many a widow to cry. 

Ben turned to Del and with a sigh he mounted his beige mare,
Said, “guessen we’d better git started, Del ma frind tek care.”
The two had ridden hours with bandanas on their face,
Which only helped a little, for sand was all they could taste.

Both saw many carcasses and bones, bleached white from sun,
But also knew these badlands are not a place for fun.
All at once Del’s stallion, stood with hoofs boxing empty air,
Sent him flying to the ground, and in a rattlers face did stare.

Now when he fell he’d landed on a hard and rocky bed,
So he grabbed a stone and in a flash, crushed that rattlers head.
Ben had reached for his riffle ready to take a shot,
Knowing the sound of gunfire would give away their spot.

Six days later found cowboys, with cracked lips and weary bones,
Now huddled by the campfire listening to familiar tones.
High up on the rocky hill, a wolf sang to the skies,
His silhouette rare beauty, appeasing to their eyes.

Still sleeping at the crack of dawn, a voice woke them abrupt,
Crooked Jake stood before them, his hand his gun did cup.
He started laughing at the two still lying there in bed,
And Ben and Del were certain, that they would soon be dead.

Now Festus and old Baba, were going through their sacks
Finding pictures of two women, they had just shot in their backs,
Then they took their horses, saddles, hats and boots, sayen
‘’You’s ain’t gunna need these, when Festus Farlow shoots.”

Two good friends were shaking now as a dozen shots rang out,
And when loud echoes finally ceased, dead bandits lay about.
Ben and Del stood in a daze, and checked for bullet holes,
The sheriff and posse had come back, God, bless their souls.

10.03.2014
For Isaiah Zerbst Contest:
Cowboys in the Badlands 2nd


Details | Light Poetry | |

Pie Eyed Spittoon

Out of the west, amide a beautiful sunrise… came a pie eyed son of a gun.
Looking for Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster… water gun… in hand.
He rode a very slow plug, an inchworm called ‘Giddy-Up-You-Lazy-Thing’.
Said he was seeking, Billy the outlaw, who had shot his brother in the leg.

But we all knew Billy hadn’t done it, cause he simply, shook his… head… no…
Sure he’d shot a few snakes in the grass, in the range war, way up North, long ago.
But he’d known everybody there; this one, was only here, to try to build a name.
Pie Eyed Spittoon the Rodeo Clown, was looking to earn some respect, with fame.

Now, you don’t find respect by drawing a water gun; it’s always a loosing game.
So we told him, Billy had moseyed on, somewhere way down south, late last May.
To our surprise, he sat down and cried; there was only so much he could take, to face.
Apparently, guy ladybugs don’t get much respect, especially in a fancy, rodeo place.

At that, Miss Kitty Purrfect, sashayed into place, right in front of Pie Eyed Spittoon.
She ask him what his real name was… He answered, it was Wilber Wash Number Two.
Taking him by the hand, she deftly led him off, giving him ideas for a great bar room.
A fancy pants Troll Lake Town sarsaparilla saloon, where flowers would be in bloom.

They would even serve High Tea with scones and crumpets, of course, in a back room.
But, there'd be a tin pan ally, piano in great use, in that bar area, up front, real soon.
Miss Kitty Purrfect would sit on top to sing a tune or two, as Mr. Spittoon kept the bar.
She would be his partner, to help liven up the crowd, and keep them from straying far. 

The Muskrat Gang could clean up in their spare time when their other work was done.
Silk worms would be ordered from China Town, to make fancy drapes, in the bargain.
And Spittoon could serve Sarsaparilla, as Billy controlled the, sometimes-rowdy crowd.
All got what they’d wanted, without a single shot being fired, smart, don’t you think?

Troll Lake town was growing, at a rapid rate, but all were sure, it would be OK.
Armadilly Billy the Slingshot Kidster, was voted, as the sheriff in Town, that day.
And with Miss Kitty Purrfect by Billy’s side, a new era had definitely, begun in town.
Not to mention Mr. Spittoon, who enjoyed the respect, as barman, in our boomtown.

The moral my friend… is violence never wins… always use your head instead!
Making friends, will always serve you better, than making enemy’s… it’s often said!


Details | Ballad | |

rolled Durham smoke - Ballad


It transferred like bequest's constrain;
the ghostly harbor - my sixth sense,
men's goals had died, on lives' expense,
- this notion bothered me again.

Had sent the mail - my filed advice -
the ghosts of gunmen who have died,
on moors they stood yonside old pride,
- the Rider asked his deathly price.

In air he thumped, his rhythm - gust waves;
demanding cruel new death toll;
in town each woman wore black stole,
the 'killed in duel' dwell in graves;

The Rider hummed - our vessel moored
inside this port on Nueces' edge,
much red was shed on cypress sedge
- my instincts sharpened and inured.

Tall stood he on the wharf - I knew
the wind whipped ropes upon head-mast,
- we drew the guns; he lifted fast;
my two guns bucked debt-law to ensue.

I felt the slug - he moved across,
already-a-ghost, on moors he stood;
I tasted blood - got up - I should,
with red drops staining grass and moss.

I saw her standing on the field
amid red poppies and tall trees,
her thought became my holy shield,
bestowed thenceforth, her grace in breeze.

She spread her arms and called me eft,
above the clouds to Astral Halls
athwart stood gunman - fast and deft
in Tombstone, Mobile and Sioux Falls.)

I rolled and lit a Durham smoke
with children watching me round-eyed;
that March, (I thought), a gunman died,
I heard bells' knell and two crows croak.

© G.V. 07-18-2013
(Ballad - Iambic tetrameter)

Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: Ballad (old/new)
Deadline: 12/28/2013


Details | Ballad | |

A Cowboy's Life

I didn't want to break your heart,
I had no thought of that at all,
When I told you I'd be leaving
Right after roundup time this fall.

A cowboy's life is lonely,
With saddle, bridle and his horse,
A bedroll just to keep from freezing
When he's wandering off his course.

Your own daddy is a rancher.
He should have warned you from the start,
Should have cautioned you to never
Let a cowboy win your heart.

I'll be heading to the south lands
Until some wrangling work I find,
Didn't mean to fool you, Honey.
I didn't mean to be unkind.

If I had a stack of money,
I'd settle down, make you my wife.
Until I'm through meandering
I can't ask you to share my life.

Dry your eyes my little lady
And let me see that pretty smile.
There will be another cowboy
Who will outshine me by a mile.

If you find one with a bankroll
Who can afford a little spread,
Get your lariat and rope him,
Forget about these tears you've shed.

I'll be thinking of you, Honey
As I travel across the range,
But this cowboy is a rambler
And I expect I'll never change.

Placed 2nd in Ballad contest


Details | Cowboy | |

Billy Law

            Billy Law 

A simple man rode into harvest town
Tall, with sharp features, and a gun
No words were spoken when he walked by
Locale folk feared him and his kind
People here were evil
You could see it in their eyes
They despised the stranger
He had a badge, walked with a swagger
Chance and thirst brought him to the saloon
He placed a dollar down for a bottle of booze
No one moved
When he was done he turned and drew his gun
Two punks tried to shoot him in the back
They lacked the proper aptitude
And their attitude was warped
So they bled out quickly on the floor 
The law man moseyed out the door and said
I’m Billy Law
And never looked back


Created on 10/17/14 
By: Earl Schumacker
for “Sketch A Character” – Poetry Contest 


Details | Cowboy | |

The Cowherd

On dark hillside
A lone cowherd
Wrapped in his blanket,
Gazed up at the sky,
Dreamed into the night.
A wisp of crescent moon,
A sky full of stars,
In his thought
He was asking:
Does my small fire shine up to the stars?


Details | Rhyme | |

This is me

My knees were the things that 
kept me up and my skin is my 
cutting board my eyes are the 
rain clouds to the fire running 
down my arms and my heart is 
the fire place that keeps me 
burning so calm


Details | Cowboy | |

Cowboys and Indians

He pulls his hat down low against the chill of the storm,
The numb fingers that hold the reins forgot what it was like to be warm;

     On a grassy knoll silhouetted against the rising sun, 
     Astride his pinto pony sits a Native American son; 

The blowing snow and freezing rain steal his breath away,
But he knows that being a cowboy, it’s worth the price that you pay;

     A majestic, bronzed brave, feathers wafting in the breeze, 
     With arms uplifted in obeisance, the Great Spirit to appease! 

A worn out calf is stretched across his lap on either side,
Her head resting on his thigh just going along for the ride;

     He offers thanks to Him for the grandeur of creation, 
     And for the sun and moon from which he gathers inspiration;

Her momma just like him had been caught out in the gale,
It’s just another story to add to the cowboy’s tale;

     He asks the Great Spirit to bless his arrow and bow, 
     That with true aim he can fell life-sustaining buffalo;

His face is hard and beaten from too many days in the sun,
From early mornings and late nights workin’ til a job is done;

     A tear rolls down his cheek thinking of his ravaged, sacred land, 
     The broken treaties and those who dealt with deceitful hand; 

But being a working cowboy surely has its rewards,
Riding forgotten country that has never been explored.

     With a sad heart he lowers his arms and slowly turns away, 
     Determined that from the paths of his fathers he will not stray. 

By Tirzah Conway and Bob Hinshaw

The cowboy portion was written by Tirzah Conway and the Indian portion was written by Bob Hinshaw
   
     




Details | Cowboy | |

Kid Colt, Outlaw

The sounds of wolves howling... echoed loudly,
deep in the solitary woods of no mans land,
While the blazing campfire shared its hearth proudly,
heating the pot of coffee Kid Colt had close at hand,

Each day rehashed such thoughts of how it would be,
for one labeled an outlaw man,
Would it be jail....or staying free,
or getting dealt the dead mans hand?

Staying on the run is sure trouble,
when yer wanted dead or alive fer a crime...
If yer shot dead..all they need is a shovel,
alive...it's, a hanging or prison time,

Card games can bring out the worse in a man,
if yer drinking gets ya mouthy or drunk,
and blaming a player of a cheating hand...
could be yer jawing on too big a chunk!

Saw many a man shot between the eyes,
and some plumb through the chest!
Too slow a gun, ain't no surprise....
The fastest can be the deadliest!

Never plan to kill over a triple jack hand,
and don't fancy getting called a cheat in any card play!
Not enough guts could get ya shot in the back, and..
could-have.. can't back down,.. turn around,.. can't walk away,

                "Epic Epigram"

His name came rightly so.....
He carried two colts wherever he'd go...
"The Outlaw"- came, from his death dealing draw!....
during card games or a fist fighting brawl!...
Boom!.... down one went! Boom!- Boom! -3 bullets spent!
Boom!Boom!Boom! hell bound they're sent....
by Kid Colt...The Outlaw Gent.


Details | Quatrain | |

Longing for the ride

Majestic he stands 
Head held high and proud
Until I draw near tack in hand
His mussel to my chest he bows

Our eyes fixed
With deepest affection
Respect from me
From him acceptance 

His nostrils flair 
He inhales my scent
A bond beyond fences
A mutual consent

About horse and rider 
How can I explain
This communion of splendor 
Perpetually sustained

With reverent candor
Can any man compare
Who would be considered grander
Horse or rider if you dare

Nobility without pride
Beauty without vanity
Majesty without disciple
Power without violence 

Do you still wonder why I'm longing for the ride
When he challenges the wind for speed
Brushed by heaven with every stride
Intimacy mounted here on "Spirit's Pride"

My steed and I in harmony
Exhilaration captivates my senses
Pounding hooves, his earthen scent 
Taut muscles ripple in sweat profusely drenched

He heeds the slightest touch of rein
His saddle is my alter of prayer
When he on oceans sands a trot
My soul is healed all disrepair

In bed I lay awake tonight my mind a heavy load
His blaze is blazoned in my memory burned
Of black night mane and chestnut coat
A quatrain tribute to his name he's earned

Still you may not understand
This yearning so many take in stride
Of horse and rider pure joy provider
And oh such longing for the ride
 


Details | Light Poetry | |

Armadilly Billy and the Buzzard Rustlers

Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster, was the Sheriff of our town.
When mangy rustlers went into action, he was wont to hunt them down.
‘The Buzzard’ and his surly gang of rustlers of epically, bad renown…
Had picked Texas and other states clean, and were on the move, NOW!

A terrible dust storm, dumped them smack dab, into our piece of territory.
The evil buzzard leader sat, now contemplating, upon the hangman’s tree.
His gang was ready to rustle, as he sat scoping out, many a nefarious deed.
Their base camp was an Old Box canyon, not far, and full of tumbleweeds.

Now, snail rustling’s a crime, so word got out, of where they’d be found.
As they’d gleaned, every single snail, grazing in all the creeks, all around.
The outlaws were expecting soon, to get away quite clean, with them all.
But the sheriff of our town, Billy was steamed, and he was standing tall.

Billy went on the move, and he meant business, if you know, what I mean.
Yep! He’s tough! He’s mean! He’s focused! His eyes were hard and lean!
While ‘The Buzzard’s’ head was bald, eyes cruel, his stance was cold as ice.
In the box canyon they’d be snail kabobs, by sundown, if Billy didn’t strike.

The snails were easy to follow, just had to follow their trail of yucky slime.
With Billy’s trusty stead Jalopy, they were at the boxed canyon by noontime.
Now, No One, and I mean NO ONE, steals, while Billy’s Sheriff in any town.
That no good, low down, Buzzard better watch out, for he’d now been found.

When Billy arrived they were loading snails into a boxcar to ship for Escargot.
The French black market in Quebec would offer a price, beyond compare so… 
To bring them buzzards down, Billy’s slingshot clipped each wing and tail.
Without their feathers they couldn’t fly so they couldn’t remotely prevail. 

But not without looking each one in the eye, for he was the good guy, after all.
There was neigh a feather left, as they were buzzard bait, way before nightfall.
But who can tell on a buzzard, for they don’t have much to start with, anyway.
Now they were the one’s loaded on a train set to Yuma, to prison all the way.

The moral to my story is that: Crime never EVER pays. Besides…
Snail rustling is just plain dumb! They’re so slow, that it's a pain!

To the music: The Good The Bad and the Ugly.


Details | Free verse | |

HEADS UP-Quirky Cook Off

*This poem was written for Nikko's contest.  The letters "H E A D S" weren't allowed.  I won 1st place in the contest :)


Pimp, Cowboy, Gigolo willfully confirm Cook off
Vow to cook juicy concoction!
Pimp forgot cumin, Gigolo forgot flour, Cowboy forgot corn
Gigolo plotting to corruptly copy Cowboy concoction
Cowboy growling “You forging fool !!!”
Unruly Commotion!!!  
Cowboy flipping Gigolo; Gigolo tromping cowboy, Pimp crying “knockout”!
Conflict fizzling…Cook Off Critic got nitpicky….Implying civility 
Critic nibbling Gigolo gyro concoction…critic crying
Critic nibbling Cowboy wonton concoction…critic vomiting
Critic nibbling Pimp minty concoction…critic grinning
Pimp winking, flirting  
Critic wiggling, winking, flirting 
Critic confirm Pimp Cook off Victor!
Cowboy mournful
Pimp ogling!!! Glitz...Glory
Gigolo crying, “You floozy!”  
Unruly Commotion!!!  
Cop cuffing Gigolo to go to court
Tick tock…tick tock….Tick tock
Jury confirm Gigolo guilty!
Pimp, Cowboy, Critic go clubbing 



Details | Light Poetry | |

Town Called RotGut

Armadilly Billy the Sling Shot Kidster was steadily on the move.
He was leaving the Southwest and his reputation behind, for sure!
Every gunslinger was out for him and of killing he’d become tired.
Even the weather was being surly, as a dust storm was blowing wild.

Traveling way too long, he came across a town he’d never seen before.
The sign said ‘Welcome to RotGut, Rest Here, We’re a friendly town.’
Shelter he was a seeking, in that town of RotGut, only one night, to tell.
His horse enclosed in the livery, he entered the saloon, out of the wind.
The piano was a playing, a lively tune as he, slowly opened up the door.
Everyone stilled, as him they did peruse, as he wandered up to the bar.

The ruckus resumed quickly, as he stated that he was, just a passing thru.
The whiskey tasted mighty sweet, a smell of it lingered in the air, too.
The girls were friendly, so he bought one some, as a patron eyed him on.
A deck of cards flashed in the gamblers hands, as a six-gun laid beside.

The gambler waved him over saying, it’s been kind of dead here, of late.
Surprisingly, no one seemed to know him, no one trying to make a name.
Relieved no one would have to die that night, he joined the poker game.
The night became finally peaceful, as he was welcomed into the game.

Around 2 in the morning, the whiskey and trek was taking its toll, a shame.
He climbed the stairs to his room, lulled asleep by the sounds downstairs.
Morning dawned bright and early, with the dust storm long gone away.
And the room looked, Oh So Different, within the new light of the day.

Curtains faded and shredded, limp with dust, a room full of decay…
Abandoned eons ago... The banisters in the hallway were broken apart.
The saloon downstairs was disheveled, with barely anything left in tact.
Only the table in the corner, seemed to have withstood the test of time.

And sitting right there, at that corner table, a deck of old cards remained.
Not a speck of dust was upon them, as he tipped his hat, a final goodbye.
Then he moseyed out to the livery, which was in equally bad disarray.
No one had been here, in neigh on forever, was all that he could tell.

A dried up old western town, with tumbleweed blowing everywhere around.
Still he left a tip for the care of his horse, for he wouldn’t be unkind, of course.
He left the town of RotGut, a lonely and eerie oasis, in the bright light of day.
At the edge of town he tipped his hat, to RotGut, for the kindness… displayed.


Details | Quintain (English) | |

My Black Cowboy Hat

I have a black cowboy hat I wear on certain days,
like when a night of partying is the only goal.
The wearing of this cowboy hat brings out my wicked ways,
when loudly and with fanfare, into the bar I stroll
and the only thing I don't do is to dance on the stripper pole.

This hat, it transforms the meek little me
into a wild woman , not to be tamed,
I put on quite a show, you see,
because of it, my reputation's defamed 
and of course, it's the hat I've blamed.

I should probably throw the hat away before I land in jail
but it really does suit me, makes me look quite fine.
As long as I have good friends to help me post my bail
I'll wear the hat and party on and really try to shine
and of course the blame is not the hat's, it really is just mine.



~~for Carol Brown's 'Favourite Hat or Bonnet' contest


Details | Free verse | |

THE DUKE

A lone rider sits high in the saddle,
As the horizon's sunrise spreads across,
The open prairie.
Twin pearl handed pistols rest at his side,
As rusty spires clang against wooden planks,
At the deadwood saloon.
Legends cowboys whisper his name,
On the dry desert winds,
A giant of a man whom breathed
Life again into the legacy,
 Of the old west.
His side swagger's walk trademark
On the larger than a life screen.
The duke truly represents the great 
American hero on horse back.
Six shooters drawn at high noon's 
Count down,
John Wayne's the trail dusts equalizer,
He always remained on the right side,
Of tin stars law.
The tumble weeds rolls along a dirt path,
As tall cactus stand on an arried canvas,
Life here is harsh and mean,
Where only the strong survive.
Bold individuals with the inner
Strength against god's forbidden land.
Harden men whom lived by one simple,
Rule I will do what ever it takes
To stay alive.
He'll join the ghost riders,
Forever driving the lords herds
Across the grand divides vast
Prairie sky’s as the sunsets
In the old west.
Alone figure rides high in saddle,
Set against a legends back drop,
Hell bound for glory,
In a cloud of gun smokes fog,
Behold the duke emerges,
With his hat on straight
And gun at the ready.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Details | Cowboy | |

THE GILPY GIRL IN OUR SOIREE

The wren hour drool within that 
very day, When we were taken 
on a forage trip, Beyond the 
karfanchan dangling viaduct,  In 
our own vertigo, And was coll by 
the alien sun of a day,
We passed-by, As enamor was 
with her, Many was about, I 
choose aftermath, As for aeon of 
a time, Yes it was such a 
wonderful voyeur, Had wish it 
lingers us far too off, I puff 
vrouw through my wife beak 
nose, Their ears, eyes stand-out 
like Coco-yam leaf, whilst  her 
frescata inhold my once 
beholden self , Some  whisker 
pups prance  across My vrouw, 
Wanton in their 
Omnishamblings, like a dumb 
duck, Meanwhile like sorts of the 
sky high, Behind their mounting 
shack, And her scamps out 
wrung the furthest spot, As we 
bore off a bit pointing yet, Felt 
we are on the hoof side.


Details | Blank verse | |

PAYDAY

PAYDAY

Out of the chute and in the air
Don't turn your head and run away
I really do need a big payday
Shoes for the kids and tires for the truck
Today has got to be the day

Around the horns and on the ground
The flag is down
Is it enough?
I look up and hear the  time
Steak for all and new Goodyears all around!

But next week is Amarillo


Details | Rhyme | |

The Badlands

The Badlands Can you see what they’re lookin’ at or Hear what they say? Maybe they’re stoppin’ to take time to pray. Could they know the ending is near? Fate may have brought them a measure of fear. We’ve followed them far and seen what they’ve done – And now we see them, here on the run. They don’t want to give up - It don’t seem likely they will. And the scene here around us Brings an ominous chill. They’ve rode these badlands Much longer than we - And they can observe things We never see. I can’t help but wonder what history will see, When this scene is painted by pure destiny. What if we hunted them as long as we did? Then, we became hunted by Butch and The Kid? Author’s Note: Based on the painting “Cowboys in the Badlands” By Thomas Eakins and entered in PSoup contest sponsored by Isaiah Zerbist 9/16/14


Details | Triolet | |

Gunfighter walks


Dark angel of heartbeating pound,
sixth sense of premonition glide,
kin to his ways and scopes to bound,
steel spurs transmit the word around,
the deathwalk starts on dusty ground,
Smith-Wesson guns, tied down his side

Dark angel of heartbeating pound,
sixth sense of premonition glide.

On deathwalk's noon, with light increased,
the shelling slugs will serve the cause,
hands flash and men attend Death's feast,
(gunfighters tho' had ne'er believed,
that once will be 'mid the deceased);
atrocious are, the drawing laws,

On deathwalk's noon with light increased,
the shelling slugs will serve the cause.

Gunfighter walks on dust, midday,
where forty fours will blossom fire,
his eyes traverse the town's details,
a draw of bluff on deathwalk trail,
will have sixes' to beat, twin play,
black coat, gun belt - and dry briar.

Gunfighter walks on dust, midday,
where forty fours will blossom fire.

© G. V. 11/5/2012 All rights reserved
( Ballad - Triolet )


Details | Cowboy | |

Cowboys and Indians

He pulls his hat down low against the chill of the storm,
The numb fingers that hold the reins forgot what it was like to be warm;

    On a grassy knoll silhouetted against the rising sun,
    Astride his pinto pony sits a Native American son;

The blowing snow and freezing rain steal his breath away,
But he knows that being a cowboy, it's worth the price that you pay;

    A majestic, bronzed brave, feathers wafting in the breeze,
    With arms uplifted in obeisance, the Great Spirit to appease!

A worn out calf is stretched across his lap on either side,
Her head resting on his thigh just going along for the ride;

    He offers thanks to Him for the grandeur of creation,
    And for the sun and moon from which he gathers inspiration;

Her momma just like him had been caught out in the gale,
It's just another story to add to the cowboy's tale;

    He asks the Great Spirit to bless his arrow and bow,
    That with true aim he can fell life-sustaining buffalo;

His face is hard and beaten from too many days in the sun,
From early mornings and late nights workin' til a job is done;

    A tear rolls down his cheek thinking of his ravaged, sacred land,
    The broken treaties and those who dealt with deceitful hand;

But being a working cowboy surely has its rewards,
Riding forgotten country that has never been explored.

    With a sad heart he lowers his arms and slowly turns away,
    Determined that from the paths of his fathers he will not stray.

By Tirzah Conway and Bob Hinshaw

The cowboy portion was written by Tirzah Conway and the Indian
portion by Bob Hinshaw


Details | Rhyme | |

What Might Have Been Grand by Wee Luck Mc Gee

Well, Finn and Mc Gee 
Were riding along
Headed back home
When something looked wrong

So, Finn off his horse
Now looked all around
He said, "We are lost
But, there's something we've found"

"Look at this massive 
Whole in this plain
We'll never get home
This is insane"

"A canyon like this
What an unlucky find
We can't ride around it
We haven't the time"

"And we can't ride down through it
There isn't a way
If even there was
We'd be dead in a day"

So Mc Gee very calmly
with shovel in hand
Said "Well, we'd better get crackin'
And fill it with sand"






Details | Rhyme | |

Some Get Gold


Cowboys on a cattle drive
whiskey, sun and song.
Days are hard,
nights are cards,
the rivers run so strong.
Victor’s spoils,
dark horse fail,
they say dead men
tell no tales.
To persevere
is paramount,
and hidden talent
does not count.
Life’s a game,
you raise or fold -
some get gravel,
some get gold…
Copyright © 2013


Details | Sonnet | |

A Cowboy Is

A cowboy named Hank joined wagon trails going west on his horse
He rode the outskirts and back trails of cities in search of a home
He would get a piece of land for growing corn near a river’s source
That would ease his restless soul; put an end to all his groans

He recalled the squalor and filth seen in towns he had passed through
So many miles way back when; he had long since lost count
In his mind his plans stayed fresh; persevere was what to do
At each stop he carved the vision while filling his canteens at the fount

As for one regret-he could not read nor could barely write his name
He would teach himself come evenings, from Grandma’s 'Good Book'
Her legacy, tucked in his saddlebag; dusty, yet, still looked the same
She had raised him on her own when his folks passed on, with all it took

To him, success was the only way he could ever pay Grandma back
Vowed he’d find that land near a river, far from the railway tracks 

~*~

For Tirzah Conway's, "A Cowboy is" Contest


Details | Couplet | |

Fastest Gun In The West

<                                      Now hold on there Tex !
                                        Let me get     dressed  !


                                        Let me saddle up my horse
                                        To trollop around this Halloween course


                                        Got on my chaps
                                        My spurs and cowboy hat


                                       Replica's of forty five's
                                       Riding on my hips very high


                                       With lasso in my hand
                                       This little cowboy has a plan
                                       

                                  
                                      So all you ghost and goblins
                                      It's candies bounty I'll be coming an robbing

                              
                                      And I'll be taking  loot for mummy
                                      And for my daddy who has a bigger tummy










                                                  Happy Halloween To All
                                   Especially little tikes who are so cute and small





Entry For 
Skat's 
Halloween Costume Contest
G.L. All
                                      

 
                                      
                                       


                                     

                                     
                                       


Details | Cowboy | |

Yippee-i-o-ki-ay

Ben raised up a dern disappointment, Daddy, well, he wanted a boy.
Wasn’t nothing under the bleeding red sun Ma could do but keep on a tryin’
Ya’siree, she was one branded filly and dern iffin that filly didn’t birth a maverick.
Daddy, well he had him some hard times a com’n 
and he didn’t ev’n try to hide his fallen face when Sis was born.
that un, well, she was maverick number two!

Daddy was the devil may care sort and him and his seed strayed far afield,
sowing his wild oats, praying for an heir, he himself was one
‘slick hairy dick’ so to speak [that’s cowboy lingo for a maverick himself]
and you know what they say, “The cow plop don’t fall far from its arse”
He kept on pokin’ Ma ‘till he got that boy, all nine caterwauling  pounds!
Dynasty founded, one hell of a shindig was thrown, as luck would have it,
Dad strayed, but not before he taught his gal’s not to take guff from any man!

Out on the range, Dad rounded up a couple more Betty’s
“Yehaw, did that brand sizzle” got his self a couple more bucko’s
for the dynasty and another sweet filly, all of them mavericks to the core.
Funny thing is old Dad’s gal’s got more balls then most men.
So, I guess in the end [wink] he taught us well!


*This is a Cowboy Poem, it is a maverick to it's form because

Cowboy poetry is rhymed, metered verse written by someone who has lived a significant portion of his or her life in Western North American cattle culture. The verse reflects an intimate knowledge of that way of life, and the community. 
[Never lived in the West, don't like anything that looks at me with one eye! 
"...names have been changed to protect the innocent."

P.S. I'm the maverick!


Details | Dramatic Verse | |

The White man

He was young,
Had his guns on his hip.
Walkin the streets,
With a cigar on his lip.
The town folk were scared,
They knew what he could do.
They have seen what he done,
To a chosen few.
The leather he wore,
Was stained from the powder of his gun.
A sign of the battles,
That the slinger had won.
A family moved in,
That no one knew.
A white man,
And a wife that was sious.
The young man decided,
The lady would not survive.
Because of her color,
She would die.
In the street,
In the middle of town,
This is where the slinger,
Where he gunned her down.
The white man,
Anger in his eyes,
Decided to give the slinger,
A surmise.
Leave this town,
Be gone by noon at best,
Or feel a bullet from my gun,
Deep in you'r chest.
The slinger smiled,
I am too fast,
You are an ole man,
You'r time has past.
You'r time has come ole man,
Take you'r stand,
But I tell you now,
Better have a fast hand.
When the smoke cleared,
The slinger lay on the ground,
With the white man,
looking down.
The slinger had just one last request,
How did you learn to shoot that way?
The white man answered,
I'm the son of Doc Holiday.



Details | Cowboy | |

Billy The Kid

There were many outlaws in the old west.
But one outlaw stood out more than the rest.
And his name was Billy the kid.
He was a very fierce gun fighter, that showed no fear, or remorse on who he killed.
Billy was quick at the draw with his colt 45.
So whoever went up against billy the kid, was surely to die.
So the next time you think of a outlaw from the old west, Think about 
Billy the kid because that outlaw was one tuff cowboy.


Details | I do not know? | |

WINCHESTER MODEL 73 the Gun that Won the West

          WINCHESTER MODEL 73 - The Gun that Won the West
Deputy why don't you leave that cowboy alone?
He ain't doin nothin, he's a long way from home.
Can't you see that Winchester by his saddle horn?
If you know what's good for you, you'll leave him alone.
Deputy why don't you let that cowboy ride on?
Do you think he carved them notches out just for fun?
Can't you see that Winchester by his saddle horn?
If you know what's good for you, you'll leave him alone.

You think that Winchester looks good to you.
But one more notch is all you'll be I'm warnin you.

Deputy why don't you let that cowboy ride on.
He won't even slow down unless you draw your gun.
Don't you know that Winchester's not there just for fun?
If you know what's good for you, you'll leave him alone.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet