Whistle does the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from
Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices,
From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation.
Roll does the crimson tumbleweed, towards the ghost town known as
Tombstone, a monuments graveyard to the old west.
In this rock cactus garden of venomous vipers, did the righteous
Live, amongst the uncivilized lawless, in this wildness country,
Of the unbridled frontier.
Blinded by greed's lightning flash, for quick money and easy cash,
Did the earth expose evil's shining metal, silver, from deep within,
Accursed is this place, purgatory's hell on earth, its deadly soil marred
And sanctified in blood sacrifice.
Left to the scorpions and rattlesnakes, as the only living inhabitants,
Ramshackle buildings remain, abandonment’s delinquent tribute
To a once thriving community.
But after night fall, others come forth, crossing the threshold of the
Nether underworld, the gun slinger, the gambler, and ladies of
Reputation's ill repute, claim this desert real estate for their own
Dark amusement park, still whooping it up at the bird cage theatre,
Indulging themselves. In all manor of seductions insidious erotic acts
The condemned soulless walk these dusty sandy streets of limbo,
Forever banished are these bastered son's of the gun. Or until the last
Shot is fired at the O.K. Corral, on high noon's final sunrise.
Satan is the lawful sheriff here, in this the territory of the forsaken,
And his loyal deputy the Grim Reaper controls the posses of the undead.
Riding against the redden moon, seeking any innocent soul trying
To escape from this desert prison.
You've drawn the dead man's hand my friend, if you find yourself lost here,
For the condemned show no mercy's reprieve to outsiders, the screaming
Souls shout from above, run lone cowboy run, and don't look back,
For the devils possess rides behind thee, and the dark lord,
Takes no prisoner's alive.
Whistle do the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from
Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices,
From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation.
But light concurs darkness, and death's icy grip fades at the
First rays of sunrise, and all evil must return to their crypts
Beneath the earth, from the dust from when'est they came,
Until the next moon's rising, then wide will the gates of hell,
Swing again, releasing the germinate residences of a city,
Named Tomb Stone.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
One day I was passing time
And wrote these words upon the lines,
I know not where they came you see
The Winds of Time were there for me.
If I could open a door to the past
And there before me were the paths
I'm not quite sure which I would choose
But The Winds of Time would see me through.
The vastness there before God's Hand
Then came the heavens, the seas, the land
Eden, Noah and the Christ Child's birth
Is the path that I see first.
I'm not into Knights or dragon days,
Nor Robin Hood and his saving ways,
But give me a Viking as he crosses the seas
And I'll dream of the lands so wild and free.
The music of Irland calls to me,
Where Kathleen's heart has ever been,
And for Danny Boy the fifes do call
I'll shed my tears lest he should fall.
As Immigrants touched upon our shores
The Indians prepared to fight once more,
But fate stepped in and eased the sore
They'd live in peace forever more.
The battles fought upon this land
To protect us from Tierney's hand,
The Civil War for Freedom's right
The Alamo where comrades died.
At Little Big Horn where our soldiers died,
As Indians defend their homes with pride,
The government later took a hand
And put them on Reservation land.
I remember well, when I was quite young
The days of World War II
And how my father's life did change
When the family business he assumed.
Twenty-four seven was unheard of then,
But that was their working day,
They helped keep our nations trucks on the road
Their battlefield was here in the USA.
I'll choose the path with pastures green,
Horses, cattle and the cowboy scene,
This is the land of my mother's birth
The most precious land to me on earth.
I chose this land and took a stand,
Married a cowboy and we ranched the land.
Though now retired and family gone
This land will always be our home.
The Winds of Time, know well my soul
I'll rest at night with days of yore.
And as I wake a prayer I'll say
Please God, may we have Peace today?
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!
Ah done cum frum tha ol' times
Whar we's jist roams free
I's gots a gun, a hoss un grub
'Un bedroll 'neath a tree.
Sum times ah jist works fer grub
An theys the tother times
Ah's jist watches tha stars 'bove
An sleeps un tha moons light.
Don't likes ridin' un tha rain
When lighten flies 'bouts
T'ain't safe ta be's board youse hoss
If'n youse tha tallest thin 'round.
Seed sum thin tother day
Done made me's feels so small
War a cowboy on 'is knees
An 'is hoss with head bowed low.
Tha cowboy held hat un han
Un front a wood cross
He war prayin ta tha Lord 'bove
Fer all tha pards we's loss.
Theys air up thar, that I's knows
Bacause las night I's seed
Ma frien Charlie ridin herd
Next ta ma pa, Reed.
One days I's 'll be up thar
An sum one down balow
Will looks an watches tha stars shine
Un sleeps 'neath tha moons glow.
When the campfire’s out and you try to sleep,
But things don’t seem just right—
You toss and turn on that ol’ hard bedroll
And see faces in the night.
It just may be dreams or a sense of guilt
That now keeps you wide awake—
It may be bad stew or a wrong you did--
A friend you had to forsake.
You shut your eyes tight and let darkness come—
Pray those faces don’t appear—
But they always come and silently speak
To your conscience and your fear.
You see father’s face like it was those days
And wish you’d both had more time—
To ease all the things that then stood between
Before he died in his prime.
And then there’s the face of your bother Tom,
Who worshipped you like a God—
Till he had fever and you laughed if off—
Then buried him in the sod.
But night always brings another dim face
Of the girl that you loved first—
Before she went and married someone else,
And how your heart about burst..
So when the dawn comes to strike you awake,
And with tired relief you rise—
You still see those faces in sun’s red glare
And know part of you yet dies.
Too soon again bright campfires now burn low,
As the sunset still brings fright—
For you know that sleep is not a good friend
And brings faces in the night.
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
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.
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.
It’s another day, yes, another day
Another day to watch my cronies wandering around
meandering around aimlessly, flippantly like
they have no care…no care in the world
and just like that…bludgeoned by a badly worn cowboy boot!
Guts all over!
One time I dated one of those giddy ones
and I tried to warn her!
She thought she was too cute to be bludgeoned
Too cute…can you believe that?
After about 28 minutes of blissful dating
I left her alone for just a second
and just like that…clobbered by a red stiletto!
Guts all over!
I guess to say it tactfully...
Most of them fall short on the intelligence end of things
They tell me I’m lucky to have lived this long
They all bow to me
I am one of the lucky ones
I am far more clever than most of them
I stay out of sight during the day
and just watch all of the guts
Don’t get me wrong I try to warn them
but they just don’t listen!
They love to go out in the daylight and
scurry around…scurry around the first floor
over the Persian rugs…across the tile foyer
Right in the daylight, can you believe it?
It’s almost like they are asking to be stomped
Stomped just like that by a Skechers Shape-up
Guts all over!
The darkness has settled in now
and alas, it’s now my time to play
I engage in my recreation at night
At nighttime I can crawl through
his jungles of chest hair and mangy mustache
and in and out of her furrows and crow’s feet
I only come out to frolic and meander
when all the badly worn cowboy boots, red stilettos and ugly Shapeups
are safely tucked away in the closet
I swing on the curtain tiebacks like Tarzan
I skate circles over the newly polished hardwood
I dance an impressive Irish jig atop the granite
I merrily skip atop of the flat screen tv
and nestle into the VHS tape opening
I’m so glad they have a VCR
‘Cuz those slots on the DVD players
are tough to get through
I am all alone but it so much fun to play
I bathe in a refreshing pool of milk
left in a tall tumbler in the sink
It’s good for the skin they say
I feast on tasty crumbs in the bottom of the toaster
I’m so glad they don’t ever check there
I’m having such a blissful time
If only my pals would listen to me
and come out and play only at night
when it’s safe
Devastated, I eye the newest addition to the family
I notice his long whiskers from a distance
As he stalks me with malicious delight
I run as fast as I can but ultimately...
It's my guts all over!
Oh lord hear the lonesome cowboys lullaby, singing beneath
The vast prairie open sky.
Hush, do they not lull the restless cattle to sleep, by a soft
Undertones sweet melody.
Drifting plains men, singing of the sorrows broken hearted,
And dreaming visions of their beloved, they've left behind.
Guitar strumming minstrels, of the fire hearth, accented
By the lone harmonica, playing off in the distance
Amongst a sea of cows, and horses.
In harmonic rhythm is this grassroots orchestra, as the fiddler
Strikes up his bow to join in, and playing ever so gently along,
To harmony's rhythm.
On the rocky cliffs mixed in the sandy dunes, the heckling
Coyotes, give an eerie ambiance, to this old western chorus.
Do these desert whyly creatures, howl in perfections tune,
To the wrangler's musical beat, of these wide grassy expanses,
That they all call home.
The rattler shakes it's tail in defiance, against the munching
Prairie dog, whom got away at the last moment.
Listen closely to the sounds of the meadow-lands, does not the crickets,
And locusts, add a natural flavor by their clicking and chirping.
Near the rivers stream, as the winds do blow, along the waters edge,
Another elements assent, is bestowed by the forcing of the reeds, to
Bend hitting them against the hollow log, causing a thumping's,
Drumming, to this uniquest of bands.
As twilight's distant starlight, flickering in the vast
Blackness above, these rambling souls whom wander so.
Down these dusty trails long journey, yearn for nothing
More than to know the quite serenity, of their home
That seems so far away.
Let your music fill your emptiness, for one nights
Beautiful dream, and remember the memory as if it
Were real, a vivid vision of illusion, and rest
In complete bliss, good night my young
Cowboy of the open sky.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
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
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
< 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
Halloween Costume Contest
Livin' won't mean a dang thing!
If killin' is how ya survive!
Killin' does dishonor bring!
with being wanted dead or alive!
Every lawman knows yer name!
tellin' everybody what ya did!
the fastest draw gets the fame!
and on the run stayin' hid!
There's alway an hombre packin' tough!
a rowdy drunk or ornery fool!
just woundin' a gunslinger ain't enough!
death lays the safest rule!
On the run, gotta stay alert!
wild injuns everywhere!
livin' in caves, sleepin' on dirt!
like a mean ol' grizzly bear!
Shootin' straight 'n' lightning fast!
it's how I aimed....and did!
runnin' roughshod, mimics the past...
for me..."The Rawhide Kid!"...
Always gonna remember....
my sweetie pie back home...
keeps burnin' like an ember...
knowin' she's all alone.
The hinges of the swing doors creak as Zack Waverley enters the Rotgut bar
He stands in the doorway his huge frame blocking out the daylight
‘Hey Zack’ I cry ‘Is that a pistol in your pocket are you just pleased to see me’
His face lights up with a grin, ‘Hey sugar, have you got room for me’
I wink at him and smile at his subtle innuendo
Zack was once one of my best customers
Not seen him for years though he left as soon as I fell pregnant
Sparks fly off his silver spurs as he swaggers over to the bar
Double whiskey on the rocks, he downs it in one swig then has another double
Are you read for some action I ask him, are you firing on both barrels?
Zack nods his head and we head for the door to go to the old motel
Suddenly there is a loud BANG and a pistol is fired
Zack falls to the floor as dead as a dodo
A single bullet wound to his chest
My son stands there with a smirk on his face
The smoking pistol in his hands
‘Sorry it had to end this way dad’ he says stepping over the lifeless body
I fall to my knees and cry
Oh why oh why did I lie
'Zack wasn’t yer Pa' I cried
I just gave his name I should never have lied
He was just a man I could never resist
Guess I better tick his name off my list
30th July 2014
Written for A Town Called Rotgut Contest Sponsored by Jerry T Curtis
Her grand gals axed her one time
How did hers ever gits a date
Her done went ta a all gals school
Theys wudn't let no boys in
Ut makes me's won ders
Yep ut sure do
Theys at that datin age
And figgers theys
Finds oot if's hers was a good
Gal er bad.
Her tells um
Theys jist bet er be's
Good gals er else.
Youse cain't gits a good
Feller if'n youse any thin else
An than her tells um it were no never mine
Her knowed where her cowboy her'd fine
Her went ta school
An gots her job
Near tha H bar T rench
What were a real sandy spot
Tha lan' lady her 'vites the cowboy
frum up tha nex rench
Ta comes down fer a little supper
An ta meets tha new gal what are gonna teach.
Theys played cards er sumthin' or so her seys
An when him are ready ta leaves
Her axed him if'n he's cuds
Puts her saddle in the barn, please
Sunday her's was over ta tha school
Gittin ready fer ta teaches tha golden rule
When him done stops an tells her
He are a goin ta the ropin club
An seys theys room in tha car fer her.
Her seys hers will goes with um
But hers did unt axes
What kinda drinks theys serves
Et this club.
Him were a proud cowboy feller were he
His job were m-portatnt youse see
An sum times if'n he gits his work all done
Him jist mights calls her on tha tel-e-phone.
When Thanksgivin comed round
Her wents ta Kansas an seed her folks
An him wents ta Wyomin ta looks at a rench
When him did comed back
Him stops fer a spell
An when him are goin ta leaves
Her walks him oot ta the car ya sees
An tells him hers goin ta a weddin
On June Nine teenth
Him jist looks at her an seys
If'n him are supposed ta be's....
Well youse knows tha rest
Her done it
They's war forty seven years an two weeks
When her gits done tellin her grand gals
Theys mouths was open big
An her tells um
Yep her did
That's how youse
Comed ta be's.
Her telled Billy what her telled tha gals
An him seys, with a spark in his eye
Him were a weldin
"I's never did axed youse ta marrys me,
Youse knows youse er right."
Now when Billy looks down et her from aboves
Her kisses hers wedding ring with love
Cause on theys wedding bands youse'll finds
Tha stars an tha moon fer all times
I's mad that lan lady did unt vites me's down
Then maybe's them gran gals wud a
X.......John e Cowpoke
Get out your guitar
And meet me in the yard
We will play a country song
Yeah we will bang bang bang
Tell the storm comes in—
I like the thunder and all its noise
I like the lightning flashing in the dark blue sky
I like the rain pouring down hard
I even like a little hail
I like the music each storm makes as they put on a show
Some even leave a rainbow
Come on Come on -----
Get out your guitar
And meet me in the yard
We will play a country song
Yeah we will bang bang bang
Tell the storm comes in— Yeah we will bang bang bang
in a word,
in a moment,
without reason or hope,
saline through time…
Where has the American cowboy gone,
Did he ride off into the dust trails of history,
A faded figure, melting into the last horizons sunset.
Nay, unbridled the mustangs run free now,
No riders lasso, snaps against the winds of destiny,
A legacy's true American hero, has finished the
Last round up.
Hey, you'd better halt there, just one dang gone
Minute, you city slicker, them be fighting words,
That you all have just written.
Hush your mouth now, the American cowboy lives on,
Not on horse back, but behind the steel of the
Eighteen wheeler, copy that you'd better, breaker dude.
Show some respectful pride, to the man whom
Has helped to build, this great nation, we all call home.
Driving down the back bone, of America, in the name
Of glory's flag, believe you me brother, a hard
Road does he roam alone, just to keep house,
And home alive.
For all of the feminine persuasion, yes’s em, mam
He still whisper’s, that same old lonesome tune.
Tilting his ten gallon hat, to all you young misses.
After all the convoy man, is still a gentleman
Beneath his rough hued exterior.
Four horse power to the floor, no more, he's
A hell bound creature, in need, for sixty-fives
Speed limit sign, it keeps the old cowboy inside
Alive, down the highway of life.
Thriving on the adrian rush, of the open
Road to freedom, lying ahead of him, no
Boundaries can hold this man, yielding to
The desire for liberation's winds, blowing
Against the trails of progress.
Steel belted radials, burning rubber across
The asphalt turn pike, get far out of his way,
This true road master, swiftness control at his
Command, excelling beyond the boundaries
Damn, don't you all try to fence this free spirit in,
Or he'll run you down, times dead line, haunts
Him, the devil boss's hounds are biting at his heels,
And burden's heavy load, rests upon those broad shoulders.
The Lord God himself does sit, in the passenger seat,
Beside him, heaven's copilot, for this steel driving man,
Bringing him home safely, to those whom love him,
This the convoy man.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
They ride on their horses along the grand canyons,
searching for the canyons' end;
it is believed by Indians that a giant snake created the canyons;
its belly, they say, has gold that can pay an entire American army for years.
A dozen in number, the cowboys have faith on their revolvers,
with their silver bullets to bring down the snake.......
Riding the quarter slot pony
at Woolworth’s five & dime
Would send this half pint cowgirl
back to another time
I was Calamity Jane riding hell bent
to bring the US mail,
Annie Oakley, with dead eye aim,
shooting lint specks off a nail,
In my games of Cowboy & Indian
everyone would win
The Lone Ranger & Tonto
were my two bestest friends
Out in the back yard,
on my old swing set
I created memories
that I will never forget
I would swing & sing for hours
loud enough for the world to hear
I rode the meanest broncs
never showed a bit of fear
I dreamed of Being like Tad or Fox
Weren’t nobody putting me in a china box
while momma dreamed of frills & lace
In my dreams, I always rode ahead of the race
I always wore a white hat
& never lost a fight
Evil wore a black hat
& a heart as black as night
I find myself wishing
more often here of late
That I could return again
to that childhood age of eight
When everything made more sense
& innocence wasn’t lost
I wonder, if I turned back time,
what would be the cost?
© April 2005
One Horse Town
The boardwalks full of people only two stood in the street.
The showdown of the century counting down to thirty feet.
Black Bart said this towns too small for you and I to both be in it.
Today's the day we found out which one of us will win it.
Handy Randy took a spit and looked up at the sun.
He said yep, the truth be known by the time this day is done.
A hush fell over the town folks mother's hid their children's faces.
The two men in the desert sun walked just a few more paces.
The sheriff called out that's close enough! I'm a countin down from three.
Who's the best in all the west this whole damn town will see.
When he called that magic number Barts face turned black as night.
Handy Randy drew his pencil and they both sat down to write.
Randy wrote of springtime rain and the sound of childrens laughter.
Bart penned a verse about Randy moving on to the hereafter.
Then Randy wrote another verse so quick he made it rhyme.
The sheriff said time is up Bart finished just in time.
They filed into the saloon and they ordered up a drink.
While the judges read their writings and told them what they think.
Again the crowd grew quiet as they eagerly watched the show.
Old Hank from the hardware store said he really liked Barts flow.
The blacksmith from the stable stood up and cleared his throat.
And in almost a whisper said I loved what Randy wrote.
Bill that ran the old hotel said there ain't use denying.
My wife is a Randy fan but she always ends up crying.
The barber from on down the street trembled neath Barts gaze.
He said Barts poetry's kinda dark but he likes it anyways.
Some town folks started clapping you could hear the women sigh.
For the third year in a row the judges ruled a tie.
For some folks love the softer side while there's some that like it deep.
And not all men do their dreaming at night while fast asleep.
Once again the call was made the choice was handed down.
Black Bart and Handy Randy stay in this one horse town.
Edwin C Hofert
I found a Stetson cowboy hat
lodged in some tumbleweed
somewhere a hatless cowboy
must be in urgent need
the western sun will be relentless
upon his sweating brow
and burn the tenderness of the face
unless he waits in shadowed boughs
this poor hat has seen better days
it's dirty from blowing around
the band is missing, the brim has holes
from bumping against the ground
where are you cowboy? I have your hat
I will keep it here for you
mount your horse and ride due west
it's in the valley you'll ride through
TO HOVER OVER A LOVER
What’s so good about saying “goodbye”?
Me thinks one should say “good cry”
Because tears flow when ONE HAS to go
And the only good thing about tears is they can make flowers grow
Simply stand near to your garden’s wall
The daisies, daffodils lilies and all
Let your tears water the arid earth
Since that’s about all saying “goodbye” is worth
I’ve heard those words too many times before
And said them twice that many times as I walked out the door
Never to see a part of MY life ever again
Only the light and the darkness of remembering when
Recalling the first time you saw someone’s eyes
Reciting the words you spoke, both winsome and wise
The first time you tasted the sweetened lips of a lover
And felt as if you were a hummingbird born to hover
So I ask once again about the word “goodbye”
As one sits alone on a divan and waits for their eyes to dry
Trying earnestly to forget the days of merriment and mirth
So tell me, what is the word “goodbye” really worth?
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
I do not know?
So strong and self assured
He rides alone always wanting more
Never satisfied with what's between those fences
His spirit will wake up your wildest senses
By the cross and thorns that is emblazoned on his arm
His substance runs deeper than his cowboy charm
A tame Christian man with a spirit wild
A man of God, he is your child
His reckless nature will never subside
Yet humble he still has his foolish pride
His heart is bigger than the tallest mountain high
And you feel weak when you look into his eyes
His hands so rough yet so soft to touch
For him no ride is ever too much
He welcomes the mystery that comes in the night
A lover at heart born ready to fight
The complexity of this cowboy man
Every woman dreams with him she would stand
Alone, looking at the midnight moon
In her dreams, she whispers...sometime soon
You Rode Into My Town
Gunned all The Lonely Deputies Down
Blew-Up The Bank Of Trust, In Our Face …
Where, There Was Hope … Is Now Empty Space …
… Now, I Gotta Chase You ! …
Armed and Dangerous
Jesse James, Would Be Jealous
… of You – Outlaw !
You’re Outrageous …
… and You’re An Outlaw ! …
Stealing Hearts, Like They Was Gold
… Silver Bullets, Are The Lies, You Told
Just A Masked-Man, Running Away …
No Longing-Arms, Can Make You Stay
… This Is Where You Pay (Now) ! …
# 1 On Our Wanted List …
They Told Me You Never Miss ! …
… In A Duel, or A Quick Kiss …
… You’re An Outlaw !
Rustlin’ Cows and Cheating at Cards
Done Knocked Down, Many A Weak and Off-Guard
I Will Chase You Long and Hard
To Show You, How It Feels To Be Scarred …
… My Personal Reward ! …
$ 10,000.00 Reward
A Dollar, For Each Broken Heart
… Better Get A Head-Start …
Oh, I didn’t do Anything / That’s What All Outlaws Sing!
Oh, I didn’t do Anything / Then, This is Just A Real Bad Dream!
Oh, I didn’t do Anything / Stop! … Then, Where’s Her Dadgum Ring? …
You Avoid Honor, Like A Hangman’s Noose
Out There, Wild and Still Running Loose
Wanted Posters, Up On Every Wall
When They Look At It … Tears Just Fall …
… You’re A Real Quick-Draw ! …
Look At That Brim …
Cocked-Low, Like A Trigger-Rim …
… Yeah, That’s Him ! …
… It’s The Outlaw ! …
This is Showdown For Nerves-On-Edge
No More Hide-Outs; Not Another Hedge
No More Ladies, Lying On A Ledge
No More Lies, Or A Broken Pledge …
… See This Badge !!! …
I Shoot Straight From A Curve-Hip …
You Won’t Get To Give Me The Slip …
You’re Gonna Get Wild-Whipped …
Girl, I Know You’re Hurtin’ / But He Was Only Flirtin’
Luv, Stop Your Crying / Break Free From His Lying
Hon, I’m Doing You A Favor / He Ain’t Never Gonna Put No Ring On Your Finger …
He’s An Outlaw !
(Part One of Two)
When strollin' by the ol' saloon,
on chairs they kept outside,
I spied a dried up, lonsome sort
folks walked by, but eyed.
He had a faithful doggie
with head laid on his knee.
The ol' man stroked him softly,
I stopped an' took a seat nearby,
then shared a cut of chaw.
I thought his story might be good-
he reminded me of Pa.
I asked just where he hailed from,
he didn't bat an' eye-
looked off in space, took one deep breath,
prob'ly thinkin' up a lie.
Come from ever'where, Son,
been places you ain't dreamed.
I settled back to listen.
He relaxed a bit it seemed.
An Indian fighter, I once was,
rode with the Cavalry.
Met ol' Yeller Hair himself
in eighteen, sixty-three.
Was wagon master for some folks
seekin' land to claim,
leavin' homes an' fam'lies east-
thought the West they'd tame.
Had a wife I sure 'nough loved,
two daughters an' a son,
the cholera took 'em all one year,
my driftin' then begun.
Did some drovin' 'hind the herds,
eatin' miles a dust,
catchin' strays, an' keepin' watch
for rustlers we could bust.
Owned a ranch in Texas
but never got no rain,
the drought, it lasted six years,
no reason to remain.
I killed a man in Denver,
the bugger had it comin',
he kicked my dog, stole my horse,
broke the guitar I was strummin'.
Cut trees out in Wyomin',
lumber-jacked a bit.
Camp bully always threatnin',
my throat he'd like to slit.
I rode the rails a piece back then,
an' dern near froze my tail,
sittin' in them boxcars
thru' rain, an' wind, an' hail.
Now, I'm nigh on eighty,
an' comin' to my end.
I thank ya Son for listenin' ,
ya seem 'most like a friend.
I reckon that I've lived some,
an' ain't sure now I'm done,
I just take one day at a time
'cause life ain't easy, Son.
As the cowboy rides...
The sun at his side...
The scarf given too...
Him by a girl he knew...
As the cowboy rides...
What warms his inside...
The girl he's left to do...
The range under the stars...
As the cowboy rides...
What brother's do...
Lead and drive...
The great herds outside...
As the cowboy rides...
The Cowboy In The Storm-Cloud
Thunder, Is His Horse
Rearing-Up and Neighing Loud
Aimed Lightning Crack, With Force
Cowboy In A Sun-Cloud
Chase Bad-Guys Away
Pearl-Handled, 6-Shooter, Pow, Pow, Powed !
and Light Posse, Saved The Day
A Cowboy On A Star-Cloud
The Marshal Of A Moon
Galaxy-Badge-Vowed, to Cosmic-Crowd
Uphold Law, Light-Years-Away at High Noon !
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.
Wasn't"t till the stool broke...
That my day of being a cowboy ended...
Still what can one do...
No horse in sight...trucks broke...
Now down to a bucket...
Pretty sad sight a stool tot ten cowboy...
I know it has another name...
But try to get a date in this day and age....
Saying "I Milk'em"...
So far the friends I have keep this secret...but...
After awhile some of us..."You know..."
Brought the girls home...
"Nice touch...",borrowed the truck...
Look's like you have it all....
" A real cattle man..."
Then the truth is heard...
Not a bull is sight...
Not all the city girls know...
"Mine did..."now I sit and ponder...
Should I ever go back...
After being called Jursey...to Daisy's little helper...
My cowboy seems to have died...
"Saying I Milk'em..."