*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 bullhide 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, is 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-Tonkers’, tattooing the mocking bird.
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.
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!
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
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)
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
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
*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 !!!”
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!
Pimp ogling!!! Glitz...Glory
Gigolo crying, “You floozy!”
Cop cuffing Gigolo to go to court
Tick tock…tick tock….Tick tock
Jury confirm Gigolo guilty!
Pimp, Cowboy, Critic go clubbing
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.
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