The Farmer woke,
Before break of day,
And for a little rain did pray.
Then hitched his team,
And plowed the land,
Given him by the Master’s hand.
The Cowboy awoke,
And a prayer he sighed,
“Please give us rain, for the prairie is dry.”
Then in the heat,
He did rope and brand,
The cattle given him by the Master’s hand.
At night, before sleep,
The Farmer read,
The words from the Bible that God had said,
“If you’ll keep my Commandments,
In it’s season I’ll make it rain,
And you shall eat,
And your land shall fill with grain.”
The Cowboy fell asleep remembering,
A verse his Ma had read,
A promise God made and the words he said,
“Love and serve the Lord God,
And it shall come to pass,
That I shall make it rain,
And for the cattle, there shall be grass.”
So each resolved, in his own way,
To be a better man,
And follow closely the Commandments,
And there-fore save the land.
And though they never met,
They prayed for the same thing,
And watched the sky for the clouds,
And the rain that they would bring.
And though it was long in coming,
The drops fell upon the land,
And revived and refreshed these special places,
Given by the Master’s hand.
The Farmer and the Cowboy,
Each prayed for the land of which they were fond,
And through their belief, they saved the Earth,
Through the Lord’s Common Bond.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
The pain I put in the ground.
For such a precious thing.
The family enjoys their meal.
They plant their leftover kernels.
And wait for me to tend to them.
An endless cycle in which happiness is born.
21 February 2013
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
As deep thunder in the distance growls,
I ponder now just how to begin,
This dark story mid coyote howls
Of the ghost cowboy on the wind.
It began upon a stormy night
With soft pounding rain like horse’s hoof—
And I could not sleep, try as I might,
With that tempest hard on my roof.
The blind lightning lit and shook the room,
The horses cried and paced the corral—
They seemed to sense an impending doom,
But they or I did not know how.
Then the cabin door blew open wide
And I heard his spurs now clear as sin—
There was no place that my mind could hide
From that ghost cowboy on the wind.
Then guns like thunder roared in the night
And a hot rain of blood slapped my face—
I fired wild and cursed with all my might
As I heard his boots run from that place.
The storm is gone now and skies are clear,
But I ride toward clouds like long lost kin—
Thunderheads in the west are now near—
I am that ghost cowboy on the wind.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2008
There ain't nothin' a cowboy is prouder of than his faithful horse,
Except that is, maybe his hat and his pointy-toed boots of course!
In sleet, snow and rain he'll pull the old hat down over his ears,
As he stands guard over the restless herd of skittish steers!
He'll wear his old sweat-stained hat to Saturday night dances,
And to protect him from the sun and rain while fixin' fences.
At the end of day he'll guzzle a coupl'a beers, his thirst to slake,
Plantin' his boots on the brass rail with his pards to take a break!
He'll wear his old slouch hat from dawn 'til at night he hits the hay,
Never doffin' it for nothin' 'cept if'n a pretty lady passes his way,
Or use it to water his hoss and feed him oats is the other exception!
For the niceties of society and the social graces he has little affection!
Maybe he can't afford a fancy pair of them Levi or Wrangler jeans,
And he must tolerate Cooky's tiresome chuck of bacon and beans,
But when it comes to his hat and boots he won't compromise.
The hat must be a Stetson and Tony Lama boots are what he buys!
He throwed his leg over his saddle horn one day and had this to say:
"Boys, when I come to the end of the trail and cash in my chips someday,
I don't want you fellers a-carryin' on and a-bellerin when I'm gone.
Jes' promise you'll bury me in my dusty hat and scruffy boots and carry on!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2012
This is the story of the rainmaker who came to our town.
Promising he would make it rain as everybody gathered round.
For the price of two hundred dollars you’ll see rain this very night.
For two hundred dollars the price was quite right.
They met his price and he started his dance.
Without a cloud in the sky what was the chance.
He beat on his drum and he pranced all about.
Raising his hands to the heavens and often he’d shout.
He beat his drum louder and more often he’d shout.
The sky was so clear and the spectators had doubt.
Then all of a sudden from out of the blue.
Lightning struck down and he said that was just for you.
Well he pranced and he danced and he turned all around.
He said look to the skies there’s clouds to be found.
Where did they come from a few minutes ago there was nothing there.
It feels so heavy such a strange feeling to this air.
The day had turned dark the clouds were so black.
A bolt of lightning just spoke with a horrible crack.
We all started to run as the rain fell all about.
Except for the rainmaker he just continued to shout.
Well he was soaked to the bone but he just wouldn’t quit.
Like he was in a trance or having a fit.
We all hollered and hollered don’t be a fool.
But he kept on dancing and shaking that metal rainmaking tool.
Then lightning struck him and he lit up the dark.
And where he stood was only a pile of ashes and a small burnt mark.
That was the story I remember as a boy of long ago.
The story of the rainmaker and his traveling show.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007
THE SUNDANCE KID
Lively bursts of sudden air arise out of my sighs of rushed venom-
-out pops my eyes.
I can't believe my sight--I see my kid in Sundance dance,
all eager to please and pump.
The courage gives the love, it lives, it's alive
it's spreads out of his body, only five.
While he's flying off the ground I think to myself, he's got to be kidding around.
What's up is love and freedom and dancing in the sun.
My son lit, light bright and orange yellow streaks coming out of his being.
He's just being a kid, right?
He kicks up his small, brown stamped leather boots,
with little blue jean jeans and his red bandana shirt.
His hat on his head is cowboy suede and he yelps,
"I am the Sundance Kid, and rain drops keep falling on my head", as he falls into
the muddy dirt.
I swirl and twirl, my brain rambling, and blankly stare in strange glaring curiosity.
"How does he know who the Sundance Kid is?" "How does he know Raindrops
Keep Falling On My Head?"
And just as I am pondering the mysteries of a child's consciousness, a bicycle
built for two rides by and the rain begins to pour in front of my panicked,
frightened astonished adult face. My child begins to sing "Raindrops Keep
Falling on My Head" and I hear the sound of music.
Copyright © Marla Stone | Year Posted 2007
Indians and trappers now have parted,
The trading post’s a ghost-town in the sand;
I wonder if they saw it when they started
How they’d lose their freedom and their land?
The open range is prisoned now with fences,
There’re no more antelope left to kill,
The sound and smell of rawhide leaves your senses,
Now the cowboys work down at the mill.
The rivers that we used to swim are flowing
As muddy like the color of the sky,
The birds that used to gather here are going
North to find a cleaner place to fly.
But what’s the use of standing softly singing,
There’s nothing really changed by one more song,
Tomorrow’s getting closer and it’s bringing,
Showers that are overdue too long.
Everybody knows the frontier’s faded,
Everybody says it’s worth the gain,
No one sees the paradise we’ve traded
Now is melting in tomorrow’s rain.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2009
In a crowded concert hall musicians stir.
Coming to life, the wind slowly swings a loose screen door.
Half a mile away, the wide open door is but a dot
Diminishing the darkness from the heavens above.
Through, shines a spotlight
a single stalactite of the sun;
A note sweeps across the hall, amidst the chattering of insects.
Hearts pound, fists clench and tremble,
In the desert, heat shimmering carries a whimpering,
awaiting the breaking of drought.
Cumulous swirls. Dust. Blackened bunches of grass swept free from war hardened roots.
The orchestra tunes. A rolling clap echoing off cliff and canyon walls.
Demanding attention. The Chaotic warm-up decrescendos,
falling away and the now darkened hall waits in silence.
The conductor, lifts one hand gingerly,
mirroring the gods, lightly commanding the elements.
First violinist appears and bows dutifully.
Taking her seat in the company.
Then, slowly, painfully, music begins.
Soft as down, distant, slow.
All ears crane to catch the first drops lightly falling on sweltering desert stone.
A simple melody, yet boldly wrote
to saturate. Composed solely to touch the lives of those who know.
Picking up speed, loose and free, diving harmonies lifting morale, settling dreams.
Running down trunks and off limbs
dancing down canyons, pattering on tin
Lathering every pattern, every page and music stand
Note and instrument
There, for all in the dim to see
The resounding proof
of a hope that literally floats on the breeze.
Then, brass unwrap mutes and salute,
with percussive cracks, pounding the steaming ground.
Strings float in and out in torrents, near, far, wave after wave.
A thousand voices breaching and expanding beyond the horizon.
Surpassing the sun's intensity.
Then, lightning flashes coda and the final cadence booms.
Copyright © Trey Pearson | Year Posted 2016