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Cowboy Angst Poems | Cowboy Poems About Angst

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

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Details | Cowboy | |

Modern Cowboy

I love that cowboy, lean and tall...
I see him lumber to the stall,
To cool his horse from ridin hard,
He tips his hat...says, "Howdy pard!"

I love that cowboy in his jeans,
With well-worn chaps and leather's sheen.
Those boots and spurs that fit so well...
The way he chats and sits a spell. 

I love that cowboy's manly ways...
Perhaps a rumble in the hay?
He's talkin rough around the guys,
But makes this lady swoon and sigh!

I love that cowboy on a ride,
I see him ropin...tannin hides...
But what's this ringing that I hear?
His trusty cell phone...loud and clear!


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 | Lyric | |

Viagra and Beer

Too much Viagra and beer.
Too much Viagra and beer.
My wife was out of town,
I hit every club around.
Each time I'd hope to find
A horny woman here.

Country Bob's was the last club that was open.
Near blind drunk and horny, but I was still hopin'.
A pretty woman gave me a glance,
Smiled and said, "Nice pants.
Honey, I'm ridin' if you're ropin'."

A few hours later, I was in a Helluva mess
She's still ridin' hard and screamin', "God, this is the best!"
I was dizzy and light-headed. I had pains in my chest,
But she wouldn't stop long enough to call EMS.

When I came to, I was home in my own bed,
Next to my lovely wife; and this is what she said:
"I picked you up at Country Bob's, my dear;
And there's gonna be some changes around here.

You were fantastic last night;
So, I only think its right
If I supplement your diet 
With Viagra and beer."

Viagra and beer. Viagra and beer.
She treats me like a king,
Says I make her body sing;
So, I'm happy on my diet of Viagra and beer.

Yes, I'm happy on my diet of Viagra and beer.

Submitted by: Buzz O'Words
Written: 3/3/14

Details | Sonnet | |

the sniper

The Sniper 

The man who in his delusion shot and killed Kyle
 all American sniper who boasted of killing
167 Arabs. A film was made and USA applauded
and no doubt it will receive an Oscar.
A movie that totally lack empathy, what does one
expect of a Clint Eastwood, only this sniper Kyle
was for real and not a western invention.

Is this a war movie? Deeply disturbing morality,
killing for the sake of it. Our hero Kyle found his
death on the shooting range and the man who 
killed him was an American soldier too who put
an end to our false gods and war values, for him 
a lethal injection awaits the killer of the American dream . 

Details | Cowboy | |


I'll cut you into little pieces, 
push you down underground. 
I'll let maggots feast on you, 
just to see broken flesh. 

I'm glad you understand my twisted self, 
and you take part of my daily bread. 
I'm going to hang you from 
the highest star in the heavens, 
burning your laughter from your lungs.

I'd be joyful, emotionless, 
wreckage not even God Himself can undo. 
Underground the maggots chew and chew, 
hey girl there I see you.

Details | Cowboy | |

Too Far From the Trail

Has America’s spirit strayed off the trail?
Have we found what’s in every canyon
Or have we failed?

Will we let the bad guys win and try no more?
See Lady Liberty as something
To just deplore?

Have we seen the elephant grow soft and weak
As the donkey only sits and brays,
But does not speak

Or see the wild anger in our horse’s eyes
As they promise us those gold cities
And tell more lies.

America has strayed too far off the trail—
We wait a great judgment from the West
Cloaked in black veil.

Details | Lyric | |


Down on my luck again--it's nuthin' new.
Just outside of Pecos, with a dream that's overdue.
But I got my entry fee, here in my boots, 
and I don't intend to lose.

All broken up again, it's nuthin' new.
Just outside of Pecos, with a busted rib, or two.
But I got my entry fee, here in my boots,
and I don't intend to lose.

There's a bronc, I know, waitin' here in Pecos,
wantin' to throw, every cowboy in Pecos,
I been throwed a time, or two.
It's the rodeo, takin' me to Pecos,
but you never know, this might be my last Pecos,
since I met you.

Wonder if that bronc ever could be rode?
Just outside of Pecos, and my feet are gettin' cold.
But I got my entry fee, here in my boots, and I don't intend to lose.
I'll ride that bronc, I know,
I'll ride that bronc, I know.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

The simple songs

Take him since it were
your foreboding morgue,  
Even at this point of 
moribund time, 
Take me you monks and 
nuns in synod, On behalf 
is rollicking, and 
opprobrious that am the 
oracle , The simperer of 
all billings, 
Buried ever in your unruly 

Details | Cowboy | |


In a room stark & white 
A nightmare he will ride tonight 
Twisted sheets in a rider's grip 
as he settles in for that fateful trip 
silently he screams & shouts 
This time there'll be no turn out 
The final clash of beast & man 
In the mind's arena plays out again 
Once was a time he was among the best 
Until that Brahma stepped on his chest 
Now he's locked in a ride he can't quit 
as his wife & his family at his bedside sit 
How he longs to be up & out of this bed 
Away from the demons in his head 
But you can't drown a nightmare in morphine 
And every night he rigs up again 

In a room stark & white 
She'll replay the ride tonight 
"Just one more ride & I'm done 
I've got to help raise our son" 
He'd said as he climbed in the chute 
and straddled that Brahma brute 
With a nod & a prayer, he marked out 
His last would be his best, no doubt 
Then, with a sudden twist & a flash of horn 
The cowboy from his seat was torn 
She watched him fall & struggle to rise 
Numb to the crowd's horrified cries 
Now she sits here each night without rest 
Cradling their baby boy close to her chest 
How she longs to have him hold her near 
Later, she reaches for the bottle to chase the fear 
But you can't drown a nightmare in whiskey 
And every night she rigs up again 

Under the arena's bright lights 
He'll dance with a nightmare tonight 
Wearing a greasepaint smile to hide the pain 
He plays out that fateful ride again 
One step out of rhythm & rhyme 
He'd lost the race against Brahma & time 
Word's haunt him still of a Cowboy's last request 
After that Brahma had stomped on his chest "Tell Katie I love her & I'm sorry for this" 
"If I'd listened to her, I'd not be in this mess" 
"You & the boys take care of her & my son" 
"I hear the chopper landing, guess this ride is done" 
How he wishes he could run that race once more 
The memory pushes him hard, it won't be ignored 
But you can't mask a nightmare with greasepaint 
And every night he rigs up again 

A wild Bullrider, loved one or clown 
no matter the poison the memory won't drown 
Nightmares, whiskey, greasepaint or morphine 
Can't kill the demons that ride through your dreams

Details | Cowboy | |

ABC's of Love

Don't get hurt in the summertime
love sure hurts in the summertime
love burns hot in the summertime
I'm tellin you!
Don't love much in the wintertime
love is tough in the wintertime
there's not much you can do with love
in the wintertime.
Spring is a bad time to love someone
before you know it they're up and gone
Autumn is no time 
to fall in love.
Don't fall in love in the Fall
that's all.
Love sucks.

Details | Cowboy | |

Moccasin Moon

It slides softly in the night sky,
That pale moccasin of the moon—
It lights up a snow-bleached prairie—
Whispering summer comes too soon.

We trace the trail of coyotes—
Avoid the dark dens of the bear—
The full light of your white footprint
Lures us now to your fatal lair.

Oh, we chant into the black dome
Of all the things that used to be—
There’s no more Indian summer—
Long gone are Cree and Cherokee.

Yet, still the silky stealthy tread
Brings back images bright and keen—
Of lost Native Americans
Where so few are now seldom seen.

But moons do not let us forget
All the wild blood shed on both sides—
As we trace steps of moccasins
To where the dark of the moon hides.

Yes, it walks gently in tall sky,
That faint moccasin of new moon—
So gently it illuminates
As we dance mutely to its tune.

Details | Cowboy | |

Dream Rider

(for “Cody” Brunner 1986-2007)

Some said he was just a kid,
Then coming into his prime—
But he had those cowboy dreams
And he knew it was his time.

They said he’d made his mind up
And that some day he’d go far—
He roped, rode and dallied up
His dreams of the PBR.

He woke up on those mornings—
Rode off to the URA—
He was sixth in the money—
Had to ride that bull that day.

There were no words to stop him
That his ma or pa could say—
It was an 8-second fact
He’d ride that big bull that day.

And when the gate was opened,
No bull there could get his goat—
He blew off high and wicked—
The bull came down on his throat.

Oh, there’s little here to add
And not too much left to say—
But Cody went 8 seconds
And he rode that bull that day.

In all our life there’s sorrow—
Things don’t turn out so it seems—
But we hold that rope tighter
As we ride out all our dreams.

Details | Cowboy | |

An Empty Place by the Campfire

There’s an empty place by the campfire
That no one had noticed before—
Once filled with poems and old stories
About the Old West and its lore.

I can still hear the tin cups clanking,
The soft sipping of the hot joe—
All the tunes of the old Chisholm Trail—
Things only a cowboy would know.

The fire’s warm but somehow we’re still cold,
By what’s gone from our fire and heart—
We know the loneliness soon leaves us—
All the things of this earth will part.

But now all our voices are hollow
And there’s a void left by the flame—
New riders will soon fill that old place,
But somehow it won’t be the same.

There’s an empty place by the campfire
And all of us know that it’s there—
We know that ours will be empty, too,
When there’s no more stories to share.  

Details | Cowboy | |

The Pox Man

Oh, he rides though forest, he rides now through the hills—
The Pox Man is coming and he kills and he kills…
He lays waste to the red man and the white man, too—
He brings that soft darkness to both me and to you.

It may come with blankets; it may come with his horse—
It marks and gives you fever to run out its course.
He’s a tall, solemn scarred man that fills you with dread—
He may spare you your life or he’ll leave you for dead.

Oh, turn from the Pox Man – to him you do not pray,
His mercy is random, he has little to say.
He will ride off now soon - touch the weak with his breath—
He’s giver and taker – yes, we know him as death.

Details | Cowboy | |

Those Lucky Trees

Thanks, Joe,
Was one of those trees Fred's?
I'll send you some ointment...

Details | Cowboy | |

Last Suburban Cowboy

He's the last of the suburban cowboys
At the end of the cul-de-sac.
Oh, he may still have that Western Channel
To bring his memories right back--
But those days of Roy Rogers and Trigger,
They're now just fading to black--
He's riding alone in his condo home
And that's the gall dern sad fact.

He ate those sweet Sugar Pops with ol' Jingles--
Watched all those westerns on TV--
Drank down all that cold milk for Hopalong--
Wore cowboy hats and boots with glee.
He had him a fine Rifleman's rifle,
Gene Autry's new cap guns for kids to see--
But he sure did hate all that real estate
That kept him from being free.

He may be the last suburban cowboy
'Cause kids now do the video game--
But in his mind he's still young Rex Allen
Riding over that painted plain.
But he likes to think the guys in white hats
Have not all gone down in a flame--
'Cause deep in his heart there still is a part
That seeks out the cowboy's name.

Details | Cowboy | |



“Shall we dance?” the lady asked ever so politely
And oh how the lady danced ever so lightly
It was as if she  \hovered an inch above the floor
And I never enjoyed dancing with a partner more

I begged the band to belabor the point
For it was the music the woman would anoint
She baptized the band as sanctified oil
And to the lady my soul became loyal

She took to the tile, a temptress, my muse
And when she asked for more no man could refuse
The brass played with class and the flute wasn’t mute
And her elegance was a fact God Himself could not refute

Mine eyes beheld the majestic majesty of grace
And simply holding her caused my heart to race
She dance me into a dream of loveliness and lace
Whilst the band grew jealous of  what was in my embrace

Her gracefulness begot beauty and grandeur so bright
While the vocalist sang a song about undying delight
But then I heard four words that dimmed every light
When the M.C. announced the final dance of the night
               © 2011.…..Phreepoetree  ~free cee!~

Details | Cowboy | |

Rhyme of the Ancient Rodeo Rider

Travel trailers, trophy buckles
And Blue Ribbon bottles,
Litter my ol’ lonely landscape
Of rodeo battles.

I lost a few and won a few
And traveled down the road—
I lived for that 8-second ride—
Thought town jobs were a load.

I cowboyed up and cowboyed down—
Touched too many a heart—
I never realized all those dreams—
Greet folks at the WalMart.

Trailers, trophies and stale warm beer—
Rodeo don’t seem real—
They’re all just empty as my life—
Now I know how cows feel. 

Details | Cowboy | |

Cubicle Cowboy

He rides amid gray fabric canyons
In the cubicles of his mind—
Just provin’ himself an office hand
Among the others of his kind.

His plains are far as he can stretch arms
And touch each side with fingertips—
His range is that brand new cubicle,
With that he has to come to grips.

He’s just herdin’ that old computer
In the open range of his brain—
Without all those old-time western dreams
He surely would wind up insane.

His cubicle’s all full of posters
Of old silver screen cowboy stars—
Western memorabilia and more,
That keep him away from booze and bars.

They say he’s a cubicle cowboy
And they may be ‘bout half way right—
Because in his mind he’s a cowboy
Till he rides away in the night.   

Details | Cowboy | |

Blue Moon Christmas (continued)

But she would not even read it – she knew what lay within—
A red rage toward her country now the fire that was her friend.
Yet just a few days later on a now black Christmas Eve—
Another knock was heard from a cowboy come home on leave.

And Jim Blue Moon stood on the porch with presents in one arm,
A proof against dark forces wishing all of us great harm. 
He said like Twain, news of his death was exaggerated—
And with smiles his wife helped him in, and they celebrated.

Yet in the haze of happiness and all her loving care,
Only now did Liz realize Blue’s left arm was not there.
But snatching life from death’s dark rider is a precious thing,
And nothing could dispel the joy their reunion would bring.  

Then came the new Christmas day, which now seemed so clear and bright—
Yet Blue held back - flexed his cold metal arm in morning light.
“I wonder if it was worth it?” Blue mumbled at the sight—
But Liz nodded and said: “Yes, you did the thing that was right.”  

Then they slowly opened presents - three united again—
Later dad and mom came over, and each rodeo friend.
“PBR’s done,” dad whispered in a voice like from the grave—
“Heck no!” Blue then replied, “I just lost the arm that I wave!” 

Sure enough, with prosthetic arm, Blue rode the bulls once more—
Till he volunteered to go back to that faraway shore.
Alone, Jim’s wife held their child and the inner one so new—
As a full, pale Christmas moon rose and slowly turned to blue. 

Details | Cowboy | |

Bubbles on the Lake

An ol’ cowboy was just sittin’
On his horse for sittin’s sake,
‘Mongst the trees of time regrettin’
Those brief bubbles on the lake.

They reminded him of childhood—
They brought back his very youth—
When all things were simple and good
And a man’s vow was the truth.

But things got so complicated
As all the years made him wise,
And he loved things he once hated
And life became compromise.

So here he’s now just awaitin’
In this world that he did make—
To shun or shake hands with Satin
As bubbles burst on the lake.

Details | Cowboy | |

No God West of Ft. Smith

There is no Sunday west of St. Louis
And no God that’s west of Ft. Smith—
So says the frontier adage that’s truest
And confirms the last Old West myth.

Wild Bill Hickok had him a dead man’s hand—
They found John Ringo ‘neath a tree.
Billy the Kid was shot where he did stand—
They never found Butch Cassidy.

Jesse was shot unarmed by a young creep,
Belle Starr was shot-gunned in the back—
Wyatt Earp died years later in his sleep
And the Dalton boys all got whacked.

Dirty Dave Rutabaugh did lose his head,
Doc Holliday died of TB—
And Wyatt Earp shot Curly Bill stone dead,
But what became of “Buckskin” Leslie?

John Wesley Hardin was shot in a bar—
Frank James lived to a ripe old age.
Cole Younger wrote down most of his memoir,
Buffalo Bill soon was the range.

Now west of St. Louis Sundays do thrive
And west of Ft. Smith they’ve found God—
But the frontier is no longer alive
And the Old West is a smile and a nod.

Details | Cowboy | |

Waddie Peacock's Last New Year

(The real Waddie Peacock, described only as “an old L.S. cowpuncher,” had the 
distinction of being the first person buried in Logan, New Mexico’s first cemetery 
in 1910.) 

It seems a man rides restless when he’s alone on the rim—
No one to rein him in a bit, no one to bury him.

So Waddie Peacock sat astride his horse reassessin’—
Dreamin’ past those frozen plains, tryin’ to count each blessin’.

He’d been an ol’ L.S. cowpuncher since hard scrabble youth,
But with the years and creakin’ bowlegs, he now sought the truth. 

He didn’t go out ridin’ much on that December trail—
He holed-up in an ol’ line shack till wit and nerve did fail.

But here he was on New Year’s Eve watchin’ those lone star skies,
Knowin’ that each man’s life is short, before he ups and dies.

Come fall he’ll head his hoss out to Logan, New Mexico—
Say goodbye to the L.S. boys and then he’ll have to go.

Some say there’s silver down Logan way - he’ll pack up his gun—
A brand new town and way of life – a brand new risin’ sun.

But now ol’ Waddie Peacock waits the start of this New Year.
He pats his faithful horse and knows with life there is no fear.

Somewhere a cowboy clangs a bell and shoots into the air—
The New Year comes like all the rest – ol’ Waddie just sits there.

Somehow he feels this year’s his last, and that he’ll be called home—
And Logan’s where he’ll soon now rest beneath the land and stone.

Details | Cowboy | |

On the Bitterroot

It had been some thirty years,
Back when I was young and free—
Before I lost all those fears
And left to see what I could see.

But time can make you humble
As you turn into a coot—
And come back where you stumble
Along that windin’ Bitterroot.

Our house’s like a tumbleweed
That the night wind somehow saves—
Frail and old and gone to seed,
Near all the family’s graves.

So I’ve followed this river
That they named the Bitterroot—
Once taker, now a giver
And an old bitter man to boot.

I’ve come back to find those dreams
That cowboys often now lose—
Along rivers, lakes and streams
And in saloons and cards and booze.

But seems some feller once said
That you can’t go home again—
At leastways till you’re done dead
And they ship you where you begin.

So now I’m headin’ on out
And I may go on a toot—
But now I know what life’s about
Back there on the Bitterroot.  

Details | Cowboy | |

Blue Moon Christmas

Jimmie’s dad was bent and wise, a man that life had rode by—
But Jim still recalled his words when he would laugh and half cry:
“Life’s a fragile balance between honor and what’s true—
A rare, livin’ miracle like a winter moon that’s blue.” 

Jimmie started busting sheep when he was only six—
His dad taught him to ride and shoot, and do those fancy tricks.
He grew long and lean on that ranch and helped with the chores—
And rode the broncs and young bulls then, keeping track of his scores.

His name was Jimmie Moon, but his friends just called “Blue”—
‘Cause kids like him were few and far and his heart was strong and true.
He had wisdom beyond his years – he had seen the light—
He never did the easy thing; he did the thing that’s right.

It came as no surprise; he married a girl named Liz
Folks knew was large with child that was another man’s, not his.
But that was fine with Blue and he still followed his star—
Ranching now part-time and riding bulls in the PBR.

“It’s not like the ol’ days,” smiled his dad, not being funny—
“Then bull ridin’ was for buckles – now you’re talkin’ money!”
But just as Jimmie Blue Moon was on the edge of fame—
September 11th happened and stirred within a flame.

Though his family begged him not to sign and go away—
He enlisted in the Army just the very next day.
Sure enough, his service to a cause became a fact
And he was sent far off to war in a place called Iraq.

Then months and years rolled by as Blue only rode iron tanks—
Never forgetting his wife and child, for which he gave thanks.
Then came a Christmas season when Blue’s ranch was deep with snow—
A knock on the door brought news Blue’s wife did not want to know.


Details | Cowboy | |

Scattered Some

“I loved my fellow man the best
 When he was scattered some.”
                        --Badger Clark (from The Old Cow Hand)

There are those that have been herded too long
And no longer realize from where they come—
There are those that hear no music or song,
While there are those that must be scattered some.

We weren’t meant to live one on the other,
On a little patch of mossy ground—
We need not hear what each one does utter—
Sometimes it’s best when no one is around.

We all need to be free to ride our way,
That is perhaps each man’s rule of thumb—
We all might love each other more they say
If we were all free and scattered some.

Details | Cowboy | |

The Fifty-Seven Brand

Through darkness three sons rode the land—
The father fallen like a tree—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.

That death mark made each one a man—
Age fifty-seven he died free—
Through darkness three sons rode the land.

Those years went by like snaking sand,
Their father’s death a memory—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.

As each year dappled face and hand,
His age at death still held the key—
Through darkness three sons rode the land.

The inner dread they could not stand,
When fifty-seven each would be—
They feared the fifty-seven brand.

But as each touched that fatal strand,
Their hearts would numb and spirit flee—
Through darkness three sons rode the land—
They feared the fifty-seven brand. 

Details | Cowboy | |

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

Oh, where have all the cowboys gone
That weren’t afraid to speak their mind?
Oh, where have all the cowboys gone—
Have they rode off with us behind?

We used to know the right from wrong
And not all things were for a buck—
Our boys once grew both tall and strong
And all they needed was some luck.

But things have changed in this dark land
And correctness is now the word—
We’re all afraid to take a stand
And America’s now absurd!

So now we take Christ from Christmas
And are afraid to say His name—
The ACLU now makes a fuss—
And we all have to play the game!

So now we all stick up our hands—
Robbed of what all the brave have died—
And let the bad guys make their plans
As our leaders played tricks and lied.

But our time will come once again
And we’ll ride strong and still be free—
If we call the Almighty, friend,
And open hearts and eyes to see.

Yes, where have all the cowboys gone
That aren’t afraid to speak their mind?
Yes, where have all the cowboys gone?
They have not left us all behind.

Details | Cowboy | |

The Rider With No Face

It seems like in some dream or in some other place,
I first saw that image – the rider with no face.
It was no homemade mask, scarf or old flour sack,
Just newly scarred flesh with piercing eyes that stared back.

He wore a dark sombrero and rode a pale white horse—
Never said a word ‘cause he had no mouth of course.
I could see his black holster with silver inlay
As sun glinted on it and clouds all rolled away.

And though he had no lips, I swore he spoke my name:
“Turn to thyself,” I heard him say, “never know shame.”
Then he turned round and trotted off into the black,
As I quickly took aim and shot him in the back.

Then as I stood by him and watched him slowly die,
He began to then change and I did not know why.
I looked at that nameless face and there I did find,
A face I now recognized and that face was mine. 

Details | Cowboy | |

Prospector at the Intersection

It was just another road construction
Of a brand new super highway,
Only seconds just saved from destruction
On that cold, cloudy winter day.

The back hoe was about to crush it sure,
When the archeologist whoaed—
And they gently pried open and then tore
The pine box so long ago sowed.

Inside were some old fragile human bones,
And shreds of a prospector’s clothes—
An old hat and boots brown with earth’s tones—
Someone long dead from the gold rush’s throes.

Construction was briefly halted right there
For sonar searches of that land—
Finding echoes from more graves safe from care,
Laid to rest by a loving hand.

And so the decision will then be made
To cover or just move them all—
As the simple plans of man are then laid
For a graveyard or shopping mall.

And the story will so quickly just dim
Of that lost prospector’s demise—
As none care what ever happened to him,
As a gull wings out toward the west and flies.