Son, would you tuck in your shirttail
Was something often heard
At home when I was a youngster
With harsher action inferred
My otherwise kind hearted Mother
Had shirttails as a pet peeve
That boys were just naturally sloppy
Was something she wouldn't believe
It didn't seem to matter
That action was big in my plan
Like building a fort or a tree house
Or a game of kick the can
As long as my trouser tops covered
The tail of my shirt complete
Dear Mother seemed quite contented
And smiled at her son so neat
But catching fly balls and gophers
Are surely not meant I'd say
For shirttails tucked in and tidy
From the start to the end of a day
Well now that I'm older I smile
Each time I check my belt line
And straighten my shirt without thinking
Like a habit that's learned over time
Some Mothers have talent for teaching
Their lessons to boys of school age
Who think that neatness can't happen
'Till life's reached a much older stage
You see my reflex for shirttails
Was taught by a Mother with grace
Who sewed to each shirttail bottom
Two inches of fancy pink lace!
Copyright © Bryan Smith
I do not know?
In a little West Texas cow town years ago
There was an old doctor by the name of Hill
Little man, mild mannered, cheerful until made mad
He doctored old cowboys and drunks when things got slow
His usual cure was a kick in the butt and a pill
He had some regular people that weren't to bad
Doctor Hill had some that lived far out of town
On ranches and God awful places Doc was carried
There was one family that lived on a ranch way far out
There name was Brown
An old mother and two daughters not married
The old mother complained to hurt everywhere about
She claimed to be bed ridden, could walk as good as you and me
She fell out of bed one night, the sister did not know what to do
So the called Dr. Hill at ten
So late at night the got in his car to go see
He had been there five times before, he knew what to do
Laying there on the floor, she had done it again
Doc told them to get a blanket and a pillow and put them on the floor
He made a pallet for her and ten he said
"Let's roll her over on to the mat
Put the pillow under her head , then headed for the door
His little round face was turning blood red
Then he said, "Now damn it fall off of that"
Copyright © Danny Nunn
or tired love?
and weak games
Look at you!
Your such a lame!
Me cry?! Ha! Not no more!
Five point five years
What a joke?!
All you do is lie
Keep smoking your life away!
Wake up before its too late!
Before this love turns into hate!
Your too old to act this way!
Your too comfortable
You cant stay!
In my life!
In my way!
Goodbye to you!!!
Copyright © MARGARITA VERA
‘ Yellow Rose of Texas ’ Haiku # 14
A Lone Star Shone On
A Yellow Rose of Texas
and Bluebonnets Grown
Copyright © MoonBee Canady
Young Cowboy On The Battlefield
Remembered His Mama’s Words
‘Just Make It Home, Son …’
Her Voice Echoed, As He Heard …
Rapid-Fire and Revolution
Missiles, Right and Left
Bomb-Blasts and Confusion
… and Silent Tears, He’s Wept
… Every Day, A Minefield
Every Night, A Raid
Every Moment, A Terror
Trying to Make Him Afraid …
Any Second, A Horror
Of A Buddy, Laid To Rest
Every New Tomorrow
Wondering, What’s Next ?
The Cowboy On The Battlefield
Vigilant and Brave
Stood Ramrod Tall and Terse …
Looking At Her Grave …
‘Just Make It Home, Son … ‘
… Echoed Thru His Brain
‘Just Make It Home, Son …’
… Echoed Thru The Rain
And Just Before She Was Laid To Rest
She Said, ‘Just Make It Home, Son …’
And With Those Last Words, She Blessed,
And Said, ‘I’ll Be Waiting, When You Come …’
* * * *
… Old Cowboy, On The Battlefield
Remembers His Mama’s Words
‘Just Make It Home, Son …
… and We’ll Celebrate Our Return …
Of Note: In The Words Of A Lady Rocker,
Pat Benatar: ‘Love Is A Battlefield’
(but I Say, 'Life Is A Battlefield'
Copyright © MoonBee Canady
You see that man over there
sitting stern faced in his chair?
Look closer, see that twinkle in his eye?
That's a glimpse of softness that you spy
You see that woman laughing there
dancing eyes & witty air?
Look closer, see the iron & grit?
That's a glimpse of strength, wrapped like a gift
They made me who I am today
tightened the reins when I went astray
The calming center in a teenage storm
The home fires that still keep me warm
He gave me the gift of discipline & control
She is the sunshine that fills my soul
He taught me young of the cowboy ways
She set my passion for words ablaze
He taught me to be fair & just
She showed me kindness was a must
He showed me how to draw respect
She taught me to rely on humor & intellect
A parent must first be your teacher
sometimes judge, jury & preacher
Their wisdom guided me in my youth
They guide me still, to tell the truth
(c) August 2003
Copyright © Catherine Devine
T-Bone was our camp cook
when we went on the trail,
whiskered an' b-grizzled
with a wit that never failed.
He took no guff from anyone,
not even the boss man,
'cause he controlled his eaten too
when he rattled those tin pans.
He made bakin' powder biscuits
'n beans most ever' day,
an' swore the meal was hardy
an' kept hunger pains away.
He always brewed black coffee,
you could cut it with a knife,
an' had a squaw he took along,
he claimed she was his wife.
We'd cross wide open prairie
an' ford the ragin' stream,
while T-Bone would maneuver
that bedraggled two-mule team.
Chuck wagon, he kept well supplied,
not only with our grub,
but also with some medicines,
liniments, an' rub.
He allowed we tie our horses
to the wagon wheels to eat,
if we was still on duty,
an' not long upon our feet.
That cook was most obligin'
in the middle of a storm,
he'd break out extra blankets
just to try an' keep us warm.
Sometimes we'd get to teasin'
an' call him Mother Hen,
'cause he always was a fussin'
an' keepin' track a men.
They say ol' T-Bone's mother
was a barroom girl from town,
an' he never had no daddy,
at least, none come around.
But he musta had some learnin'
'bout the good Lord up above
'cause our cooky was a Godly man
that filled his heart with love.
We laid the man to rest today
an' many tears was shed,
'cause ever'one loved T-Bone,
an' hate the fact he's dead.
Copyright © Tamara Hillman
Rainbow circle never ends
Mother, sister, daughter, friend
sitting in your circle there
colorful skirts fanned
as you each braid
the other's hair
fills the air
joy & anticipation
for the dance
tonight is shared
Captured now forever
image burned into
this cowboy's heart
reminding me forever
that a circle
has no end
Grandmother, Mother, sister, daughter
Copyright © Catherine Devine
Make Your Family First!
I know a person who had “a change of heart.”
And very shortly his family “fell apart.”
He was involved in doing “so many things.”
He neglected the duty of what family brings!
He became so involved in helping others…
He neglected his wife and his kids’ mother!
At first, he had the best of intentions…
But failed to give his family any kind of attention!
He was so busy, and away from home so much.
It didn’t take long for him to be “out of touch.”
Very soon he found his life “way off course…”
And heading down the path of a divorce!
He began to ask himself the question; “why?”
As he began to hear all of his kids cry!
Beyond all of the chaos and “chatter.”
He decided that his family DOES matter!
He quit doing many of the things he once did.
And asked all of his family to please forgive!
He’s now the kind of dad that he needs to be!
And is with his family so faithfully!
May this be a lesson and reminder to us all!
How quickly we can get up. How quickly we can fall!
May we put an effort into our family
as number one!
Every mom and dad! Daughter and son!
By Jim Pemberton
Copyright © Jim Pemberton
I do not know?
She has felt a rope with a mustang attached,
Threw berries into a biscuit batch,
The holes she’d patch in clothes and shoes
She loves her life and has paid her dues,
She has tallied and rallied, opened the gate,
Chased and paced and could hardly wait,
For true love to come calling and fulfill her life,
Yet the blue of her falling and the dreams of a wife
Would have to wait until there was more time in the day,
For her fate would not dawn on her or come her way
Until she gathered her emotions and set them aside,
Till she lathered all horses she started to ride,
And found out that tough is not all that there is,
And what she’s done comes back on her the takes and the give.
She has gathered and sorted she’s worked dawn till dark,
She’s been lathered and courted, jerked drawn and embarked,
Into places with horses she never thought existed,
Keeping paces through courses that she has enlisted.
She has draped and dallied, taped and cursed,
Coped and prodded, roped and worse,
She has caught things she didn’t want to and tried to turn loose,
Been drug, whipped and burned, yet learned to cook goose.
She has folded, molded, tarried to long,
Charmed harmed, and done things wrong,
Brought laughter where tears stain the face,
Taught love, soothed fears, she has attempted grace.
She has held many a child, colt and calf,
With the hands the size of mans only half,
And the calluses that line them may dull the feel,
Yet her heart it binds them to a mother so real.
She has procrastinated, assassinated, tallied and stewed,
Migrated almost been abominated, is liberated and has brewed
Over family, friends, dinner and such,
All she has, all she wants which isn’t that much.
She has cursed God, loves the bible and believes in Amen.
If she had her druthers she’d do it over again,
And the source of remorse behind her eyes,
With all her give up and failures that she tries to disguise,
Only haunts the face that in the mirror lies.
Wink, Nod and Sigh
It taunts a trace in the lines of grace and gives her knowledge she can now recognize.
Then that moment is gone, she fixes her hair, with a hum of a song
that gently tickles the air,
The wind in her wake is the after math for she has learned to walk another path
To keep her life whole , that is imbedded deep within her soul.
And with a wink, nod and sigh,
She boldly walks by.
Copyright © A. Kathy Moss
6. Billy, the Kid Part 3
On April 10th, 1846 on the ship Devonshire from Liverpool,
one Catherine McCarty, age 17 arrived in New York during times most cruel.
She made this long journey to escape the famine occurring in her native Ireland.
We don't know if she arrived alone or with family
or whether she was married or accompanied with a boyfriend.
The passenger arrival manifest has her listed a servant as the occupation she did.
Based only on her age and her name, many historians have speculated and proclaimed
that she's the mother of BILLY the Kid.
Billy's mother died on September 16th in the year of 1874.
She was 45 years old according to her obituary.
Combine the above information and we know one thing for sure.
Immigrant Catherine shared the same age and name as did the true mother of Billy.
It seems that due to health reasons, Catherine McCarty's life had gone onto
searching for dryer climate out west as a single mother of two.
One of her sons would live a full life and then fade into obscurity.
Her other son would die very young and become one of the greatest legends to ever be.
To Continue Go To:
8. Catherine McCarty Part 2
Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster
THE SUNDANCE KID
Lively bursts of sudden air arise out of my sighs of rushed venom-
-out pops my eyes.
I can't believe my sight--I see my kid in Sundance dance,
all eager to please and pump.
The courage gives the love, it lives, it's alive
it's spreads out of his body, only five.
While he's flying off the ground I think to myself, he's got to be kidding around.
What's up is love and freedom and dancing in the sun.
My son lit, light bright and orange yellow streaks coming out of his being.
He's just being a kid, right?
He kicks up his small, brown stamped leather boots,
with little blue jean jeans and his red bandana shirt.
His hat on his head is cowboy suede and he yelps,
"I am the Sundance Kid, and rain drops keep falling on my head", as he falls into
the muddy dirt.
I swirl and twirl, my brain rambling, and blankly stare in strange glaring curiosity.
"How does he know who the Sundance Kid is?" "How does he know Raindrops
Keep Falling On My Head?"
And just as I am pondering the mysteries of a child's consciousness, a bicycle
built for two rides by and the rain begins to pour in front of my panicked,
frightened astonished adult face. My child begins to sing "Raindrops Keep
Falling on My Head" and I hear the sound of music.
Copyright © Marla Stone
The memory keeper respectfully scribes this euology to Georgia's sweetest peach.
Over three decades ago on a warm spring day, displayed was not emotion, but the
"Mrs. American Beauty"s portrait. It ain't so until I see for myself, so I took a look.
She looked mighty fine, no need to be hidden behind what the rest of the world saw.
Now I can tell them that picture on the wall wasn't the best one of all. I remember
Better ones I no longer have. At sixteen she wore a long white dress with a dozen
Red roses and a piece of paper tied with a red ribbon. I salute the proud woman
Standing tall dressed blue. Later a mother without makeup holds me in her arms.
She holds my brother's hand as he wore a cowboy suit and hat.
The Southern Belle of the Ball is still on the wall with the brown curls cut and dyed
The dark of night. I remember rides in boats and her notes floating in the air filled
With seagulls cries and they ask why the song bird was put in a cage.
Thrice engaged she kept on ringing the wedding bells until Hell's rage killed her,
Fueling the fire into the Devil's words. Her beautiful heart was heavy with so many
Epithets. She missed her second Dad and a boy in a cowboy hat.
No more words to sing as her loving lungs collapsed, as she headed for God's
Forgiving Heaven, toe-tagged Jane Doe, nobody special. Everyone should have
Known she was June like her birth month. Beautiful inside. A warm summer night.
Copyright © June Ellen Smith