*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.
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.
The ranch on which I hang my hat, though short on most the frills,
Is thirteen sections, give or take, of rugged trails an’ hills.
We call it ‘home’, our little world, our very own frontier,
Amongst the cattle, sheep an' goats; the varmints, hogs an' deer.
Today I watched the breakin' dawn an' whiffed the mornin' air,
A time I often set aside for things like thought an' prayer.
A Mockin'bird an' Mornin' Dove, an' other birds at play,
Were there to sing an' set the mood to start another day.
This mornin' saw the strangest thing, like time itself had merged,
An' all the souls who once were here, appeared an' then converged.
In swirlin' clouds of mist an' fog, right off the bluffs they rolled,
Till all had gathered in the glen, the modern an' the old.
The Indians, conquistadors, an' other ancient men,
The soldiers from this country's wars, an' cowboys from back when…
They all had come from yesterday to help me understand
Our link with those who came before, to heritage an' land.
A crazy notion, so I thought, that they could just appear,
But as the morning went along the reason got real clear.
They rode along with me that day to show me things I’ve missed,
The things I’ve seen a thousand times an’ some I’d just dismissed.
Those wagon roads of long ago, still evident today,
Are carved in rock an' rutted earth, not apt to wash away.
They linked the missions, forts an' towns those many years gone by;
An' left their mark for all to see, as modern times grew nigh.
The artifacts an' weathered ruins attest to yesterdays,
When others came an' lived their lives in very different ways.
We've seen their skill in arrowheads they honed from fired stone,
An' craftsmanship in beads an' tools they fashioned out of bone.
At ever turn and trail we took was something to remind,
The Maker must have had a plan laid out for humankind.
The Earth He made’s been feedin' us a half-a-million years,
An' used it's wonder, force an' change to challenge pioneers.
I do not know if they'll return or if they’ll feel the need,
But I’m prepared to ride the trail, where ever it may lead.
We all are spirits ridin’ time with bodies of the Earth,
Whose time has come to take the reins an’ offer up our worth.
The land has been the legacy we cultivate an’ reap,
The life has been the heritage our father’s fought to keep,
An’ we are bound throughout our time with those who came before,
To put our hearts and souls to it, and make it something more.
When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone,
They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday,
In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray.
I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years.
I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers,
Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end,
Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men.
Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame,
But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name.
Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone,
Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone.
The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed
And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade.
From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men
To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again.
A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair,
For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there.
And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade,
The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid.
I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe.
I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue.
Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way,
Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday.
Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will,
That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still;
When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone
And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
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.
For Isaiah Zerbst Contest:
Cowboys in the Badlands 2nd
I'm aware that
They'll dare me to surrender when my burner's unkindled
And the barrel is empty
Since their whiskey is missing
But it's in our blood and baby it's trickling and
We're on a roll
I heard from her and her merciless curves
That the curse'll come first
Just 'fore the rebirth
It's a thought that gets lost when you pitch it with a cross
O'er a plate made of moss so
I'll name it Shell from Sawed-Off
As I paint Hell from Far-Off
Like the Seraphim cherishing the heart
Who can't turn from the art
Like embarrassing a perishing enemy
Yeah, one last taunt
When told to listen as though it'd fix it
Something went missing
Although I didn't miss it
A relation on a ship quite distant and
Where the ocean switched and the compass died instantly
Oh it's in our blood, baby we're tricky so now
Out that ship has sailed
Like the Seraphim cherishing the shark
Who can flip 'round the ark
Like embarrassing a perishing enemy
Yeah, one last taunt
And our sweat is slightly trickling
A whiskey business, the highest feeling
And the pressure is highly tricky
A risky business, a godly healing
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!
Enter a storybook tale
Where I can be
The heroine you hail
Lucid dreams of soft reflection
A touch heated with lust and desired protection
A breathe a gasp as we succeed
Join the fairytale with me
Valiant night within dark eyes
the right movement and I make them shine
like moonlight on the steamy hot spring
care to follow for a little dip with me
Trailing like the water at my fingertips
Grasp me around my hips
As close as the breeze on my skin
Whisper lies as I let you in
Lips mumbling up my thighs
bare heart exposed to the sky
fire burning in my veins
Am I a mistress of this lust or simply a slave
Trembling with desire
Take me till we've lost count of the hours
enter this storybook tale
Where I can be the heroine you hail
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
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
under night skies...
In the 1600's, Europeans lived on the eastern shore
Their numbers grew, they wanted more.
Iroquios, Sauk, Ottawa, and Mohawk were tribes they met
Too many and more, paid our forefathers' debt.
Men moved west thru the Cumberland gap
Daniel Boone led them, wearing a coonskin cap.
Freedom's new country was born in 1776
The indians, however, did not fit our mix.
Lewis and Clark sought a Northwest Passage route
Rivers to cross, mountains to climb, animals to shoot.
An indian girl helped them gain their fame
Sackagewa led them, though few remember her name.
Two years of exploring to the western shore
They brought back tall tales, maps, journals, and more.
With many a tribe did they speak
Here were the Mandan, Ojibway, and Creek.
By 1845 "Manifest Destiny" was the phrase being coined
More indian lands were to be purloined.
In the south, Houston, Austin, and others too
"Texicans" all, under the one star flag they flew.
It was not easy to take Santa Anna"s land
Travis, Bowie, and Crockett went to lend a hand.
They died in a mission on the San Antonio line
Today, "The Alamo" is still their shrine.
Missouri to Kansas to California men went
Their golden passion in mines to vent.
new states joined as the country grew
Lines of covered wagons rolled on anew.
Something was amiss by 1852
Going west now, seemed wrong to do.
The south was rampant with Slavery's scourge
Making men free, would take more that courage.
Lincoln was President, a Civil War, the country bled
Hundreds of Thousands died, eager for it to be shed.
Four years of war, death and destruction
Followed by a euphomistic "Reconstruction".
Names of the west now tripped off the tongue
Dodge, Wichita, Hayes, and Tombstone's tale of the gun.
Hard men faced each other's will
Some of them end...up at "Boot Hill".
Cody, Hickock, Custer, and Earp were names that were said
So were Clanton, the James Boys, Hardin, and Billy the Kid.
The Cherokee and other indians now came into view
Apache, Cheyenne, Commanche, and not least the Sioux.
Pony Express, Overland Stage, Chisholm Trail were names we knew
Moving men and cattle, as the western legends grew.
Then, a seal on the joint was made
At Promontory Point, a golden spike was laid.
The west is part of our unique history
200 years of a nation, men longing to be free.
Listen in the winds around you that blow
Pehaps you will hear it whisper, "Westward Ho!"
God Bless America!!
son what you going to do
with your life
now that you have
no money job
he said papa
I'm going to
leave this town
join up with the rodeo
and break them bulls down
Maybe even rope
me a stallion or
even a clown
Son you better
for theres no money
for bull riders
thrown to the ground
or being stepped on
by a horse or bull
weighing over eight hundred pounds
Papa I promise
Ill make you proud
of your rodeo cowboy when I'm done
not to be thrown or bucked off
to the ground
So papa please come
visit when our show's
for I'll be
the one riding high on
the biggest bull that's found
hanging on for just
eight seconds while I'm
listening for that bells sound
just kicking those sides
of horses and bulls
jumping up and down
with coming out your
top rodeo champion and
bull rider found
The Rodeo Cowboys
Como’ Si’ Yama’, Senor’
Como’ Si Yama’, Por Favor’…
… for Below That Embroidered Sombrero’
Shone Eyes Like El Dorado
He Was A Tall and Handsome Hombre’
Like The Range of Sierra Madre’
…Now, He Sat Center The Cantina
Surrounded by Bonita – Senhoritas
He Smiled, “Buenos-Dias Senora’”
Por Favor, Por Que’ El-Hora’ ?...
If So, Have A Seat, Mi- Amiga’
And Mercedes, Bring Over More Cerveza
He Was… Rodrigo Reyes-Pacheco’
Best - of The West, of Vaqueros’
He Came to Compete in The Rodeos
And Win Fame and Fortune in Pesos’
He Came Thru El Paso De’ Tejas
Thru Dusty Rancheros and Mesas
To Ride on El Toro Rojo
Who Has Never Been Ridden Befo’…
La Viva’… Arriva’ … Rodrigo
The Brave and The Bold Caballero’
Champion Bull Rider, from Old Mexico
Vaya’… Con Dios’ !... Rodrigo
Now, El Toro Rojo, Was Dangerous
For Killing Men, El Rojo, Was Infamous
His Horns Had Pierced Many A Corazon
Ripped Flesh, Like It Was Piñata’ Hung
I Informed All of This To Rodrigo
The Hombre, Was Bent on Being Macho’…
… He Would Ride Toro Rojo, Manyana’
Said “Gracias”… But My Cares Were Por Nada’ !
La Viva’… Arriva’… Rodrigo
The Brave and The Bold Caballero’
Champion Bull Rider, from Old Mexico
Vaya’… Con Dios’!... Rodrigo
… Now, He Wasn’t Loco in La Cabeza’
I Just Didn’t Comprehende’ … “Que’ Pasa”
But I Saw Rodrigo Atop… El Rojo
… ! He Rode Like A Latino – Tornado ! …
He Rode El Rojo, To The End…
Then, Turned ‘Round and Rode Him Again…
Rodrigo had Won… Just Like He Planned…
Because El Toro – Rojo … … Was Mexican !
La’ Viva’ … Arriva’ … Rodrigo
The Brave and The Bold Caballero
Champion Bull Rider from Old Mexico
Vaya’ … Con Dios ! … Rodrigo….
Vaya’ … Con Dios !... Rodrigo o o o o o
for Ruben Ortellao...
I Don't Really Know
What Your Branch of Humanity is...
(Spanish, French or Other)
But I thought You Might Like
This Whimsical Poem...
Oh... And Thank You For Your
Most Generous Comments...
(Cause I Know You Are A Fantastic Poet...
I've Read Several of Yours
and I Love Them Too...)
(P.S. Excuse the Spelling...
I'm Spanish Illiterate (Smile)
my heroes have alway's been cowboys
so giddyup go
my ghost riders in the sky
let that whiskey river
flow through luckenback texas
for I'm a rhinestone cowboy
just a coca cola cowboy
headed for El Paso
strumming my teddy bear song
cross the brazos at wacco
at the 'Y' all come back saloon
just waiting for Poncho and Lefty
bringing that white lightning
wild horses and that burning ring of fire
stays gentle on my mind
for all my rowdy friends have settled down
And it wasn't God who made honkey tonk angels
it was the daydreams about night things
So mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
For I'll go to my grave lovin you
Tribute To Country's Best
The Lonesome Cowboy
Also Trying a new gig lol
I closed my eyes and tried to forget the way you smiled and those dark
You touched my soul and I just wanted you to know that. You blew my
mind for so many years and now I feel so alone.
I cancelled you so long ago, I swore that this was finished. But the only thing that was
ever finished was a lie and I swore to my heart that it didn't.
Didn't beat every time I saw you, Didn't tip every time you smiled. Didn't trip over
myself every time I pretend that I wasn't.
It was all a lie and I couldn't control the fact that I wanted you, every part of you
I would sneak little glances at you out of the corner of my eyes, Remember
that i'm not confident at times I can be kind of shy.
I wanted this to be secret but it was just waiting to burst out, and as the years went
by I find myself dying to see you once again. Is that you I see on the train? I shiver
just at the thought.
How many times am I gonna flip when it wasn't even you just a look alike.
This has to tell me something this has to be a sign, If I ever saw you again I would
jump off a cliff so high.
But then again I remember you were supposed to be cancelled that's
what I told all my friends.
You were no longer viewing in my mind, A past show, just
some long road that i'd done traveled.
It wasn't until some time later that a friend
whispered in my ear, she told me that you were doing ok and then the feelings
started to surface again.
God I yelled at myself can you be anymore pathetic... I wasn't going out like that this
is the last time I write about this person.
I smile knowing that this poem is just the third of many... cancelled? It would never be
fully over in my mind, I mean a girl has to have her fantasies.
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?
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
< she's a hard headed woman
lovin a soft hearted man
when they get together
they join hand and hand
for loves be glory
in this fairy tales story
for she's a hard headed women
lovin a soft hearted man
a hard headed woman
lovin that soft hearted man
though shes stubborn as an mule
but can make that man still drool
as he's so shy
but captured her roving eye
for she's a hard headed woman
lovin a soft hearted man
a hard headed woman
lovin that soft hearted man
now don't you just think
romance can start out as a wink
even if it may be a little lie
come on little boy now give it a try
for she's a hard headed woman
lovin a soft hearted man
a hard headed woman
lovin that soft harded man
Country Western Song LOL
Watch those buckaroos lose their insides when saddled to a wild one untied it’s fer a sight when they ride . Yiddy –up was the wail when a bull of a devil left his trail some kinda fight on the road to hell.
No wonder I headed for Whiskey Row with some forty drinks down below sure is thunder in your hole will rock your soul as you face the mighty cold.
Strums my guitar and softly singing as the cowboys are around the camp fire ringing as the fire is blazinin another day is hazing. Got the notion for prayin as another cowboy was payin and he was sayin
Lord ya know the deeds I’ve done and in the shadows I have hung I just wanted to be thankful for meeting me on this fateful day and in thy range I will forever stay.
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,
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.
What could I really know of the breaks
in the land
huge canyons bleeding red cut by the wind
with the snow swirling around our tires
and fallen to a tumble like icebergs
windshield riming over with a crust of ice
we scrape madly inside
trying to keep cold out
slowing to a crawl
always on the lookout
outside line appearing and gone,
no worries about
cattle led inside to safety to be watered and fed
but what of us?
Will we be trapped clutching a candle
wanting a chocolate bar,
waiting for a tractor?
and all the flat seeming land seems to have ditches
and roof pitches and rushing trees, and a swirl
of slumbering snow
to lumber down in drifts and piles
no fire would ever warm us
until finally we see it shining in the dark
a lantern at a farm
a fleet of snow mobiles to greet us
scurry is off
before our ears turn blue,
would they fall off?
Luckily, not tonight, not in this blizzard,
we have home.
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
24 hours that seemed like 24 days.......
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
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
I feel for the miserable day,
They try to take MY gun away…
< beneath swollen ..... moon
in pasture of...... rolling hills
standing ....hind quarters
a beautiful black ...... stallion
simply took my breath ........ away
A Memory Of Beauty
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.
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
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.
Who am I?
Am I defined by what is near in sight?
Am I defined by what I have done,
Or am I defined by what I could become?
Perhaps I'm of no use.
To him, or her, or I, nor you.
Or perhaps I'm too misunderstood to be defined,
And it is something like understanding that comes in time.
And if to the world I'm never shown,
Yet in my own light I've grown and grown,
And so I can know no happiness but my own--
The reason for my smile, to you, will forever be unknown.
I do not pray for the world to know my name.
For it and verse; the letters are the same.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads,
I pray his pain my words to keep.
Should his eyes rain on my page,
Better tears than storms of rage.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads.
I pray his pain my words to keep.
And if to the world you're never shown,
Yet in your own light you've grown and grown,
And so you know no happiness but your own.
Let the reason for your smile, to you, only be known.