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Cowboy Nostalgia Poems | Cowboy Poems About Nostalgia

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

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Details | Cowboy | |

One of Texas's Best

“Back in my day” his stories all would start
I’d  lean in close to listen though I knew ‘em all by heart
He was a living legend, one of Texas’ best
Not just another lawman with a tin star on his chest

He fought along “RIP” Ford & John Coffee Hayes
When Texas was wooly & wild, back in the good old days
“One Riot, One Ranger” I’ve heard it said many times before
from fighting off Commanches to turning the tide of a range war

A Ranger never faltered, never imagined he could lose a fight
He’d  go hell bent for leather just to turn a wrong to right.
From Nueces to Salado Creek he patrolled the border land
Dealing out swift justice with a smoking Colt sitting easy in hand

Hardin, Iron Jacket & Sam Bass thought they could get away
The Rangers ran them down to ground, the stories still are told today
Great Granddad was a hero, one of Texas’s best
Not just another lawman with a tin star on his chest

He passed on the legacy & the stories I’ll now tell
as I hear his voice echo when I start off,  “ I remember well”
So tip your hat & raise your glass to the Rangers out there on patrol
and to all the Shadow Rangers, Rest in Peace, God rest your soul

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Rhyme | |

SHERIFF'S LAST RIDE


When visions crawl into his dream to grate against a hilltop’s ire, a sheriff flicks like soft campfire where hazy winds dip low ,midstream. Bandit frays stab a roguish past… he gazes at Time…in lone sojourn as plucks of hummed guitar return, to soothe a mind now calm, steadfast. Though old wounds bite the edge of glow a hundred stars bathe eyes quite whole, and moonlight kindles to console the raid of dark through glazed halo. From where he rides, the visions fade in homage to a pure moment… that on warm breath of contentment, morning knights his final crusade. 4/18/2016 For Rob Carmack’s Lyrics Contest Inspiration from lines of the song, ‘God Hates a Coward’—Tomahawk

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy | |

Condo Cowboys

Those condo cowboys are clingin’ to things that used to be,
Starin’ out those city windows or sittin’ on balconies.
They can still smell the country, the ranch, the horses and the range—
At times they wear cowboy hats, though folks might think them strange.

And like those cowboys long ago, they’re roamin’ in their soul,
From Nevada, Arizona and old Colorado.
They’ve seen and done so many things that most can only dream,
Yet still they have the urge to cross one more mountain stream.

But now they’re just old cowboys, that’s all that they want to be,
They seek no big fortune, high status or fine pedigree.
They see the world too clearly, seldom hold or mince their speech,
They live the cowboy code and keep life’s truth within their reach.

Those condo cowboys are special, each one from a unique mold,
They just keep on ridin’ life’s long trail and never do grow old.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005

Details | Rhyme | |

Western Skies Of Spring

We have waited long and now momentarily pause
to lose ourselves in the Western skies of spring;
our mellow looks follow them until dusky evening...
ask the awe-captured painter how they seduce! 

Even the big mountains in the background seem blue,
below them discover lovely bluebells that surely ensue
beauty by waving in prairies dotted with yellow daisies;
spend an afternoon in contemplating the red canyons!

And resting beneath the motionless clouds, be dazzled
by radiance: deep moments of awareness can stupefy;
go back in time by imagining the same light blue sky  
that the old explorers saw heading West to seek gold.

Walk farther towards the blue lake, wide and clear,
it steals indigo from the above sky to look pretty;
the cactus in full bloom proclaim the desert's glory
once seen by young, wild cowboys who chased deer.  

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy | |

My Roots Run Deep

My roots run deep & strong here in this place you curse & scorn
I couldn’t think of a better place than here to have been born

you say this is a dead end town, where dreams whither & die
I know this town has nurtured my dreams, seen them soar & fly

You say the cowboy has left & gone, run off by urban sprawl
Yet every morning, I still hear the young calves bawl

you talk of crime run amok & people no one can trust
I choose my friends carefully & fight for the right & the just

You say this is no place to raise a child, that they’ll not learn respect
but its our job to raise them up, their course in life direct

You say that no one gives a damn about another’s plight
but I have seen this town come together to turn a wrong to right

You say this town holds you back & you will never gain success
I can feel her sing my praises as I aim to do my best

I will stay here in this valley & no matter where I roam
I know my roots run deep here & I will always come back home

Pack your bags & go on down the road in search of better grazing
One day you will come full circle & return here to your raising

For your roots run deep here too, though you may curse & shout
and roots, home & belonging are what life is all about


© October 2003

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy | |

The Whittlers

The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a shaded downtown refuge, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.

Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to speak of mice and men and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they sure could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.

They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd  trot out all their stories and tell them all again.

There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.

And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.

"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.

Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”

If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
I guess the folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.

The stately county courthouse still stands strong upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers would carve and hold their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.

© December 28, 2013

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cowboy | |

The Waxed Coat Man

In crackled tintypes bent with long ago,
Amid flaxen sunset and skies of cherry—
In worn leather-carved ancient scenario,
He dare not lie in milkweed prairie.

He rides resolute toward that sweat-tinged fame,
Always the heart’s hero of our once young eye,
As pale ivory range sighs softly his name
And we all know the real reason why.

It is high sage country that he will ride,
As that tin sun burns alabaster away—
And new birthed rains roll off his cow rancher hide,
So his soft summer’s mirage will stay.

Some see him crude – of but limited worth—
Lacking pure knowledge or certain savoir-faire—
But born of bone plain, he is of no fool’s birth—
A force of nature that’s always there. 

From coat’s patina past years slide, of course,
As lines are spurred so deep into his Sphinx face—
But he’d rather be poised high atop his horse
In no other country, time or place.

His heritage is long – it’s here he’ll die—
He rides his own land in cruel spring rains and snows—
And like that wax jacket, he’ll keep his hopes dry,
Because ranching is all that he knows.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2008

Details | I do not know? | |

The First Goodbye

laying in your bed
watching you
get dressed
the permanent ring in the
back pocket
of your blue jeans
i’m missing you already

Copyright © rachel blake | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina | |

The Legendary Wild West

Back in the days, when men bold,
spun golden legends;
of exploits in the wild west;
of punch-in and herd-in cows
and saloon brawls where they’d shoot
and scores of bullets roared.

Stories of the Iron Horse’s roar
and gunfighters and marshals, bold;
Of gamblers, who’d go shooting
for the stars in cards; those were feats of legend.
Days when plains of cows,
fur-painted the landscape of, the old west.

These are the breed that won the west,
as across the plains, the Iron Horse roared.
those are the backs worn, herding cows;
the exploits of the brave and bold.
those brave and haggard legends
made of silver spurs and pearl-handled shooters.

You’re darn toot-in, shoot’in
like that, was what won the west.
While the Iron Horse died, its legend
lives on, belching out its roar,
across the plains, so bold.
Still, cowboys herd and rope their cows.

Modern day cowboys, herding cows
by truck and shootouts 
no longer ring so boldly.
Wild no more, is the west,
where now, only cars and planes roar.
Yet, there still live the legends.

They aren’t as great, these new legends, 
but it doesn’t phase the cows.
They calmly graze, amid the airplanes roar.
Though one may say, “shoot,
it’s spoiled now”, the legends live on, in the west, 
of heroes brave and bold.

The west will always, have its legends, Though trains no longer roar.
Cowboys will always rope their cows, as they did in the old, wild west.
Upon museum walls, stories of the shootouts,
are told; of ancient heroes brave and bold.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme | |

The flying censor shipment

Unlike the newspeak of today                                                                                           the media rodeo plays the bull                                                                                         clowns chasing a scripted  delay                                                                                       boxed up and ready to go fast food for the loll                                                                   the upper end following the lower end                                                                            Yet political satire's even keel will transcend                                                              while the real bull gores the clowns                                                                                 He can be ornery when being contained                                                                            coming like a federal expess roaring down                                                                        newsmail bringing the letter restrained                                                                             the same package to every town the same                                                                        package of the willing consripts freight                                                                              in the End a older railing bull holds his own wieght

Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2014

Details | Carpe Diem | |

Pricked

Your  love pricks me like a rose each thorn grows but no one knows Your so full of 
it as it shows so carry on now go on, go. I'm fed up with the phony and  i'm 
through with the tears, you couldn't pay me all your money to make up for those 
years. Someone help me I feel faint how could I think he was such a saint and 
worst of all I let me fall into a spiral down below. A magic called love carried 
by the dove of someone I use to know.

Copyright © Sam Ruby | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku | |

'Yellow Rose of Texas' (Haiku # 14)

‘ Yellow Rose of Texas ’ Haiku  # 14

         A Lone Star Shone On
         A Yellow Rose of Texas
         and Bluebonnets Grown

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Epic | |

The Darkness at Noon

     The Darkness at Noon

Tombstone never looked so good
With doomsday coming down 
On the dusty Arizona town
The OK Corral near by 
The Clanton-McLaury gang on hand
With no one else about
The Earp boys in the wings
Thinking things out
Doc Holliday also in tow for the show
The darkness at noon began 
Guns rang out
30 seconds flew by and 30 shots fired
2 cowpokes fell to the ground expired
Justice prevailed that afternoon
Though darkness shadowed the mood
A legend began that cold dark day 
When noon turned into night 
In old Tombstone
                                                                                                                   (Darkness at noon contest en

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cowboy | |

In the Long Ago & Used to Be

What do you see when you look at his face
Weather beaten & etched by hard work’s steady pace?
You see a broken down drunken old fool
I see a vaquero, a cowboy old school
These cattle, those horses, this land are his life
They helped him provide for his children & wife

The Vail brothers, Escalantes, Leons, Acosta, Andrada
From the X-9 to Del Lago, Rincon Creek to La Posta Quemada
Lopez, Etheridge, De La Ossa & Daly, all hard working men
Holding strong to the traditions of a life from way back when
From the base of the Rincons, their cattle once freely roamed
These Cowboys are the lifeblood of this valley we call home

I looked up to these men & others like them when I was a youth
They taught me to work hard, stand tall & always speak the truth
They rail at the developers who never seem to keep their word
Praying that they’ll still have enough ground to run their herds
They watch as suburbia comes flooding into a valley once pristine
As ticky tacky houses turn good grazing lands into an urban scene

The word out on the city streets is that the cowboy way is gone
But as long as there are horses then the Cowboy will ride on
Somewhere up in New River, a cowboy still rides out tonight
To gaze out over a moonlit range, far from the city’s blight
In Cascabel, an Old Vaquero & his grandchild working the pen
Are doing their part to see that the cowboy way never ends

What do you see when you look in his face?
Weather beaten & etched by hard work’s steady pace?
You see a tattered old man, shaky hands & blurry gaze
I see the heroes of my youth, hear the tales of the glory days
When cattle outnumbered people & Cowboys still roamed free
Back when the West was Wild, back in the long ago & used to be

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy | |

The Beach House

I’m building castles in the sand
on the shores of a grey, grey sea.
The clouds have gathered overhead
and the shells are wave-washed clean.
Footprints wander down the shore
of the vast and vacant sea,
the waves are buffing them away
and turning the sand sateen.
Beyond the berm and the waving grass
inked upon the setting sun,
someone sits in a house of glass
as sand through fingers runs.

I’m watching seabirds dodge the stars
when the waves reflect the moon
and pulling seaweeds from the rocks
they drearily festoon.
And the sand’s run out of the fingers now,
and the drink’s run out of the cup;
the house of glass is quiet now,
all the shutters drawn up.

Copyright © Ashley Poort | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme | |

The Cabin-Memories

The cabin, shuddered in the cold,
But the way was tough, so none grew bold,
So the cabin shed a lonely tear,
The days grew into months then years!

One day a young couple wandered by,
And the rustic cabin, they did spy,
They were looking for a quiet place,
To set up home, a little space!

So they settled for this piece of land,
Additions to the cabin planned,
The wife was pregnant, all could see,
So a room was added, to hold three!

The cabin sighed, with great content,
As the plans unfolded; the money spent,
It heard again the sound of happy laughter,
And smiled as it echoed from the rafters!

Soon progress grew; many others came,
And put up homes, the land was tamed,
The cabin wept; as it was so sad to see,
The clearing and cutting down of the stately trees!

It longed once more, for days of old,
When legends grew, through stories told,
Of brave homesteaders who struggled to tame the land,
And it was born, by, sweat, toil and two strong hands!

©03/03/2012

Copyright © Jane Richer | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cowboy | |

WILD STICKHORSE REMUDA

   Ponytails and blue jeans 
Sat at Papaw's knee, 
Watching as he whittled 
On old branches from a tree. 
    And while he talked of cowboys 
And big old Texas ranches, 
He trimmed away the rough spots, 
While I dreamed of pony dances. 

     A wild stick horse remuda 
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,  
As he peeled the bark away.
     Using his "Old Timer"  
And carving in my brand, 
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand. 

     Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too, 
As they kicked up dust behind 
This cowgirl buckaroo. 
     With reins of pink hair ribbon, 
Shoe strings and baling twine, 
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie," 
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine, 

     "Sassafras," and "Blackjack," 
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat," 
I never did corral 'em -- 
I just left 'em where they sat. 
     But next mornin', on the front porch, 
'stead of roamin' wild and free, 
They'd found their hitchin' rail, 
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me. 
  
     Along our trails together 
There were many lessons learned, 
Like bein' a cowboy through and through 
Is something that you earn 
     We'd partner up together, 
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots. 

     And often, when I wondered 
What to do on down the road, 
He'd always tell me, "little girl, 
When you get there you will know," 
     Sometimes you have to let things go, 
Sometimes you stand and fight, 
And anything worth doin', 
Is still worth doin' right. 

     With my wild stick horse remuda, 
We rode the range for miles, 
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart 
By the way he'd laugh and smile, 
     I still have his sweat-stained Stetson, 
His boots, and his old knife, 
Sometimes I take them out 
Just to measure up my life. 
      
     And hold him closer to my heart, 
And know I have to try, 
To live up to the honor 
Of the wonder-days gone by. 
     On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way, 
I’d give up everything I own 
To ride with him today. 

    My wild stick horse remuda 
Was quite the varied band, 
Born and bred with me in mind 
And trained by his own hand. 
     I’m longing for the legends, 
And the way we used to roam, 
With my wild stick horse remuda, 
And the man that we called "Home." 


Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005

Details | Free verse | |

Tears of My Heart

if poop could be named anything what would you name it?  id name it bob and id make him sit on a log in a bog and say get out of here you hog that looks like fog from a bog thats near a log with bob sitting on it who attacked the wacking wackers with all his heart and shattered, he fell to the floor.  dont name your poop bob because then youll have tears in your heart.

Copyright © Matt Poopenheimer | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cowboy | |

When the West Was Legend

Few now look back on those times that are gone
When Hoodoo and Rudebaugh rode rough stock;
When Clantons and Cowboys carved out Tombstone
And the West was legend with Wyatt and Doc.

There's Jesse amd Frank and Youngers of course--
Daltons and Wild Bunch and many forgot;
Billy the Kid and that Wild Bill Hickok--
John Wesley Hardin: another hard lot.

Too few now know of old Buffalo Bill--
Cowboys are just jokes and those to be feared;
Good western movies are rare and too few--
Ranch land is shrinking and too often cleared.

The Old West is fading and few give a damn--
Long gone are Bat Masterson and Luke Short;
There's no more Blackjack Ketchem or Black Bart--
Belle Starr's forgotten and Judge Roy Bean's court.

Few now look back on those times that are gone
When Hoodoo and Rudebaugh rode rough stock;
When Clantons and cowboys carved out Tombstone
And the West was legend with Wyatt and Doc.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cowboy | |

Still Here

Though you slipped
from this earth 
so long ago
nigh on twenty years
 
I still feel you
here beside me
Hear your voice 
within my soul 

As I walk 
behind the back chutes
at the Sonoita Rodeo
your ghost elusive
follows me 

I guess it's true
what the old ones say
about gone but 
not forgotten 

For You're still here
in heart & spirit
every melody & tune
I dance in memory
with you

(c) September 2002

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy | |

Trails Old & New

From the Black Hills to the prairies,
he sighed as his eyes turned hard & dark
That was the path of the Buffalo,
His finger traced a wide & sweeping arc
You could tell he longed to be out there
Just his dreams & the wide open plains, 
Crying out in triumph, as a buffalo he slew
Now, the prairie is filled with big rigs & amtrak trains
Still he dances & honors the old ways
and waits for the prophecy to come true
 
From Texas in to Saskatchewan,
he sighed as his eyes turned hard & dark
Along the Western Trail they pushed the longhorns
His finger traced a wide & sweeping arc
You could tell he longed to be out there
Just his dreams & a dusty cattle trail
Now, the cattle trails are covered in asphalt
And Big rigs haul everything from cattle to the U.S. mail
Still he rides & honors a time long past
Marveling at the blending of trails, old & new 

From Hoover Dam out across the desert,
he sighed as his eyes turned hard & dark
That's the route the big rigs run,
His finger traced a wide & sweeping arc
You could tell he longed to be out thereJust his dreams & a wide open highway,
In a decked out Peterbilt, shiny & brand new
a different road, another adventure as night blends to day
Hauling cattle, freight or cars, didn't matter
each sunrise brings a different picture window view 

© January 2004

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Haiku | |

WESTERNS

   Westerns are such fun
  A Cowboy in a white hat
John Wayne - "Chance, John Tee"

Copyright © Dan Cwiak | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy | |

Ghost Town Church In Snow

Guess it was ‘bout mid-December
And a winter storm was howlin’—
Was roundin’ up strays I remember
And my belly start to growlin’.
I come upon an ol’ ghost town
I’d rode through many times now past—
There were some ol’ buildin’s left round—
I reckon most things jest don’t last.
Yet there in whirlin’ snow and haze
Stood the remnants of an ol’ church,
That had once seen much better days—
Its cockeyed cross carved out of birch.
A coat of snow made it all clean,
Made it full of hope for mankind—
The whiteness gave it a new sheen
Now at the end of its long line.
No one remembered the town’s name
Or the people that once lived here—
Its history had been reclaimed
By time and heavy snows each year.
As I straightened up that ol’ cross
And thought of folks singin’ inside—
I remembered all that we’ve lost:
Those that lived and loved and then died.
If there’s a moral to this town
And this snowy church all alone—
It’s be content with what we’ve found
At the place we humbly call home.

  

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006

Details | Cowboy | |

'The Cowboy On The Battlefield ... ' (Cowboy Poem # 12)

Young Cowboy On The Battlefield
Remembered His Mama’s Words
‘Just Make It Home, Son …’
Her Voice Echoed, As He Heard …

Rapid-Fire and Revolution
Missiles, Right and Left
Bomb-Blasts and Confusion
… and Silent Tears, He’s Wept

… Every Day, A Minefield
Every Night, A Raid
Every Moment, A Terror
Trying to Make Him Afraid …

Any Second, A Horror
Of A Buddy, Laid To Rest
Every New Tomorrow
Wondering, What’s Next ?

The Cowboy On The Battlefield
Vigilant and Brave
Stood Ramrod Tall and Terse …
Looking At Her Grave …

‘Just Make It Home, Son … ‘
… Echoed Thru His Brain
‘Just Make It Home, Son …’
… Echoed Thru The Rain

And Just Before She Was Laid To Rest
She Said, ‘Just Make It Home, Son …’
And With Those Last Words, She Blessed,
And Said, ‘I’ll Be Waiting, When You Come …’

                    * * * *

… Old Cowboy, On The Battlefield
Remembers His Mama’s Words
‘Just Make It Home, Son … 
… and We’ll Celebrate Our Return …


Of  Note:  In The Words Of A Lady Rocker,
Pat Benatar:   ‘Love Is A Battlefield’
(but I Say, 'Life Is A Battlefield'

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Cowboy | |

Cowboy Preservation

I cowboy on this acre here
To preserve the legacy I hold dear
This is the life I’ve chose to lead
In my children, I’ll plant a seed

They may one day choose city life
with its equal parts of glitz & strife
But deep in their hearts they’ll heed the truth
And hold fast to the teachings of their youth

Along with their ties & suits
I’ll bet you they’ll wear cowboy boots
Though far & wide, I know they’ll roam
This ranch will always pull them home

For on this acre that you see
Was instilled in them a cowboy legacy
I’ll cowboy on this acre here
for it’s the bond that keeps them near


© August 2003





Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy | |

Small Boys Trains and Outlaws

There was  derelict old Steam engine, 
I  played on when I was ten,
I'd hear that lonesome whistle blow,
and the old west would live again,

I rode with Billy Miner's gang,
To rob The CPR,
Climbed onboard  that rusty engine,
hollering "Shorty,  check the baggage car!" 

I wonder if the ghost of ol' Bill Miner,
ever watched us at our play,
 Small boys re-enacting ,
a near forgotten day.

Forty years and more have passed...
I still hear that lonesome whistle blow 
My pony snorts impatiently ,
She knows it's time to go. 

"Pull up your masks and draw your pistols!"
We come around the engine at a run,
Three riders on fast horses,
flashing hooves and blazing gun.

That very same old engine,
I played on as a child,
Now hauls tourists back in time,
to when the West was wild.

Old railroad men and cowboys ,
re-enact a bygone day,
While the grinning ghost of Billy Miner,
watches us at play. 


 
 



 

Copyright © Mike Puhallo | Year Posted 2005

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.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005

Details | Couplet | |

A COWBOY'S LIFE

You could see the lone figure in the pale, fading light,
Bedding down the doggies for a restful night.

He had been in the saddle since early morn',
Now feeling the aches of the drive that made him feel "worn".

The three other horses he had taken from the remuda that day,
Were now being tied and fed, as they whinnied and neighed.

"Woh, cattle...Woh, cattle", he sang softly to the steers,
Another six weeks on the trail and he would be filling his night with beers.

When the herd was quiet, the first 'Nighthawks' came,
He sighed with relief, as he tugged on the reins.

In just a few minutes he was putting his saddle and bedroll aright,
 the grub made...biscuits, beans, and salt pork for tonight.

Then he unbuckled his gunbelt and laid down in his place,
Knowing full well, he'd be up before dawn to relieve the man on the trace.

It was hard work but he loved it, or so he said,
More of the Chisolm waited for them up ahead.

Yet it was the cows, the horses, the danger, and freedom he dared, 
And those few other comrades whose journey he shared.

Yes, it was this "Cowboy Life" full of its highs and lows,
It was all that he needed, and was the life he chose.

Copyright © Dan Cwiak | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy | |

Rodeo's Renegade Roses

Gather ‘round younguns, there is a story to be told
About some renegade cowgirls & their ride for the gold
They made it look so easy, feathers, flowers & a smile.
Guts & grace, they had plenty, quitting wasn't their style

They snugged up their riggin' & grabbed for air
Winning Champion titles with style & flair
If Lucas, Krieg & Greenough hadn't led the way
Would any of us be here in the arena today?

Henderson, Riley, Hastings & Creed
To the "Men Only" rule they all paid no heed
They broke records & bones, faced derision & fear
Riding Broncs, Raising families, they juggled home & career

Nasty wrecks were a given but they seemed to bounce back
In one unforgettable event, Tad's girl picked up the slack
From Calgary & Cheyenne to OKC & San Antone
Though there are many others, these ladies stand alone

Hat's off to the Rodeo's Renegade Roses
At tradition they turned up their noses
Bronc busting, trick riding, a rough riding ballet
They showed us how to win & made it look like play

They were never reckless, just a bit wild & bold
Now its up to you & me to see their stories told
They left mighty big boots to fill, bless them one & all
We know that they ride with us, as we heed the siren's call

Lift a glass high in honor for those who paved the way
Three cheers for the Renegade Roses still bucking out today

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy | |

Circles Made of Stone

As we journey wide in life
On strange ranges far from home,
We often stop and ponder
Old burnt circles made of stone.

They are last meager remnants
Of some campfire long ago—
Where pards and tired travelers
Would share a hot cup of joe.

The fire would blaze but briefly
Then be just smoke as they’d part—
To rise again down the trail
Where another fire would start.

Yes, they’d slowly gather rocks
And form that new ring of stone—
Build a blaze to ease the night,
So they’d not be all alone.

But those days are mostly gone
With stone circles left behind—
Cowboys seldom come this way
And good pards are hard to find.

And while fires now seem to die
And a cold north wind does moan—
There’s always comfort in a fire
In our circle made of stone.

And so we all go our way,
Build rings all the farther—
Honor roots and family,
But most of all, our Father.

Yes, now we’ve come full circle—
Return to earth as it lays—
A circle of completion—
Like brief dust of earthly days.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2007