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Cowboy Sad Poems | Cowboy Poems About Sad

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

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Details | Lyric | |

Buried Myself Alive

can you remember the time i let you in?
the time i showed you my heart?
the time i shared my soul with you?
the moment i poured out my blood when you needed it?
The second i saved your life?
The hour i saved you from your darkest secret?
The minute where you watched me bury myself alive?
Remember the time when you almost made me cry?
the time i made it a game to play your game?
the day i had my own time and took advantage of myself?
the hour it took to shut you out and let you go away for a long time?
well your going to have to ask nicer than that 

Copyright © Shayla Dendinger

Details | Cowboy | |

The Cowherd

On dark hillside
A lone cowherd
Wrapped in his blanket,
Gazed up at the sky,
Dreamed into the night.
A wisp of crescent moon,
A sky full of stars,
In his thought
He was asking:
Does my small fire shine up to the stars?


Details | I do not know? | |


How can you cause all this pain
You say that you love Jesus so how can you take his name in vain
Every day was so insane
You always like to cause so much pain
What did you have to gain
At times I thought you have lost your mind
How could you be so unkind
Behind all these tears comes shame
I could say you are to blame
But I won't play that game

Copyright © martha heath

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

Details | Haiku | |

Into the sunset

Living lonely lives,
Cowboys are known for riding
Into the sunsets

8 May 2014

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday

Details | Carpe Diem | |


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

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.

Copyright © Maura McGregor

Details | I do not know? | |

New York Rodeo

No 8 second ride for these cowboys tonight
As they start in the morning, losing daylight
Their hats are now ties, tethering true
Not breathing in clean air as faces turn blue

Their motive, the green, but not of a pasture
Not men of free will, but now slaves to a master
When the bell rings, it’s chaos, not for a meal
It’s a dog eat dog city, with true faces concealed

They’re just…

Cardboard cowboys in a concrete canyon
Riding steel horses, reigning in their abandon
Letting loose bridles, for no horses they ride
Spending their days, cooped up, deep inside

It’s a sad way
And a sad day
For New York cowboys

Their fishing hole yonder’s now polluted with clutter
As their southern boy drawl’s replaced with a stutter
No chaps and no stirrups, no boots and no jeans
Their lives are now over, at the end of their means

The bull that they ride are the very stories they tell
From wall to wall bouncing, not sitting a spell
They are always in a hurry, no time for the rose
Not much of a cowboy or anything, I s’pose

They’re just…

Cardboard cowboys in a concrete canyon
Riding steel horses, reigning in their abandon
Letting loose bridles, for no horses they ride
Spending their days, cooped up, deep inside

It’s a sad way
And a sad day
For New York cowboys

Copyright © Michael Degenhardt

Details | Couplet | |

A Cowboy Is

The movements of others to far away lands
Drifted into American folklore, within histories hands

Fur trappers they started many centuries ago
In a country to become as the years truly flowed

Centennial by centennial, amidst wars between they
Slowly they emerged into cattle driven play

The vast expanses of prairies so green
Lured Barons of the beast to their riches they always dreamed

Herds in vast amounts recreating the Bison's exist
Where they eventually replaced in numbers, in numerous consist

The eventuality of the Iron Horse, opened these lands up even more
Sheridan, White Oaks even Tombstone, led to street filled open sores

The James Gang and William Bonney, are two that history has shown
No care for what they declared that the Wild West was their throne

The sad thing about the cowboy era, is in the scenery that was left behind
On many a prairie from their past, where greed has left them so blind

We have the opportunity to look back and rewind, for hindsight allows us to do
So many were never ever heroes, just what do we find in them so true

Just for a moment to the future, whilst countries in our time have been invaded
They are the modern Indigenous, like the past, the cowboys left degraded

The above are written from my heart, if you know me you will know me to be true
For if I was born to the Indigenous, to your ancestors, I'd stand in front of you

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Cowboy | |

I am what i use to be

I am what I use to be
the cild that played 
alone at night in the dark
I am what I use to be
the same little girl who hated to 
cry cause when she started the tears
never seemed to stop
I am what I use to be
the same little girl whos afraid 
of being alone
The same little girl who cried
her first day of school 
I am what I use to be 
but yet i still change
i am the flower bud that 

Copyright © trina aiken

Details | Couplet | |

Ramble With Glen Campbell

Ramble With Glen Campbell

Now that I have become an old-timer
What if I were to have Alzheimer
Disease and things start to forget
But still each day the sun will set.

My memory seems to come and go;
Wasn't that you who I used to know?
And if new song I recently did make,
A much longer time it now does take.

Remember on TV when I had viewed
Some singing cowboy who was tattooed
His hands flew up and down a long fret;
What the tattoo showed was a sunset.

Shiny sunset just happened to be his
Whose soul here on earth will sorely miss
He is glad we still remember his face
Even left a son behind to take his place.

James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran

Please forward this to the Today Show for me.


Copyright © James Horn

Details | Ballad | |


It was bucking bulls and cowboy busting broncos
And the challenge that accompanied each ride
That consumed the heart and mind of my young cowboy
And this fact my Buddy never tried to hide. 
I recall the time we met in Kelly’s diner
He was busted up and feeling rather sore
But the cheque that paid the tab that I presented
Seemed to him to somehow even up the score.

He had eaten there that week and got acquainted,
And I somehow got to know this cowboy’s mind
while the flowers that he gave me on that Friday
Surely showed beside his toughness, he was kind.
We were married in the summer six months later,
On a Friday I recall so very well,
Because Fridays he would always buy me flowers
And then go and ride those bulls and broncs from hell.

Buddy always bought me flowers on a Friday
As he knew I feared the rides that lay ahead
But my man his heart and soul was in his riding 
And I loved this cowboy that I planned to wed. 
Yes he always bought me flowers on a Friday
And I loved this cowboy that I planned to wed.

All our friends had shared that special evening with us
And we raged and partied well into the night,
Then we slipped away to share the morning hours, 
Til the dawn rose and revealed its splendid light.
We both showered and had breakfast at the roadhouse
Laughed and shared the joy that comes with wedded bliss, 
But I sensed a certain tiredness in my Buddy
And I prayed he’d give the ride that day a miss.

Buddy drew the brindle bombshell riders hated
And that beast exploded when it left the chute,
Twisting left then right and suddenly it stumbled
And my Buddy he was crushed by that great brute.
When it came to say goodbye to my sweet lover
There was one thing that I vowed I’d always do 
I would always bring him flowers on a Friday
And I’d tell his child about his father too.
“Bud I’ll always bring you flowers on a Friday”
That’s the one thing that I vow I’ll always do.
Cause you always brought me flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too. 
Yes I’ll always bring you flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too.

Copyright © Merv Webster

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

Copyright © Catherine Devine

Details | Couplet | |

Invisible's Invincibility

I am an invisible man.
Try and see me if you can.

Shy and quiet I remain alone.
Silent is my voice’s tone

No one can feel my pain and sorrow
As I hide inside of my burrow. 

Shadows consume my body and soul
As I embrace the misty cold. 

The reason for my unseen being
Lies in the fact I hate being seen.

This life and existence’s of my own choice
And I choose not to have a voice.

I am silent. Invisible. Inexistent.
Yet I am invincible, an immortal being

Copyright © Granny Face

Details | Free verse | |


A dusty old town-so quiet
a man, a traveler
takes off his pack-so heavy
and reclines for a rest.

they dont know his name, they never do
they wont even bother to ask
he troubles them-his mysterious past
leads them to prejudiced views

but were one to ask, for if naught but a name
what would this traveler say- would he speak?
a word, no. a name, he would give them and pass
"Im Wanderer, the world is my street."

Wanderer-what a name
does it signify much of his life
or is it a code- a cypher?
an enigma to his past.

Copyright © Hannah Stiles-Culver

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.

Copyright © Glen Enloe

Details | Haiku | |

Loosing bet

reptiles rattle sand
the penniless bag nickels
barbarians drink

Copyright © Patricia Sawyer

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

Details | Cowboy | |

I am what i use to be

I am what I use to be
the cild that played 
alone at night in the dark
I am what I use to be
the same little girl who hated to 
cry cause when she started the tears
never seemed to stop
I am what I use to be
the same little girl whos afraid 
of being alone
The same little girl who cried
her first day of school 
I am what I use to be 
but yet i still change
i am the flower bud that 

Copyright © trina aiken

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.

Copyright © Glen Enloe

Details | I do not know? | |

The Lone Rider

A man sits on his horse on a lone hill
The only sound is a steady beat 
of the horses hooves on a lone trail
The two dusty faces stare 
down the path in the lone night
The thought of a warm drawn bath 
lingers in the cowboy's mind
His Job's done, the hands are gone, 
and he is a lone rider once again
The inns' are full leaving him 
no where to go and no where to stay
He rode up on that lone little hill 
and threw out his role
With a saddle for a pillow 
and a mat for a bed
He fell to hard ground as if he were dead
A lone tear roles down his cheek
On that lone little hill
Of the family he left back at the mill
Night is almost gone and day is almost here
He hears in the distance 
the sound of a lone deer
Tomorrow is the day that He will be home
And he will no longer have to roam

Copyright © Erica Ledoux

Details | Cowboy | |

The Fourth of July Hat


We used to celebrate July the Fourth when the kids were young—
Till they grew up and moved away and life became far-flung.

Yes, once we toasted freedom’s day and shot off big fireworks—
Now I sit here in this dark bar surrounded by some jerks.

We used to ride our horses on this Independence Day,
We barbecued and downed a few and for our nation prayed.

Then the show of fountains, Roman candles and Black Cat—
Till judges and town laws ruled: “You aren’t allowed to do that!”

Slowly the country lost its way and now it seems insane—
Shredding our constitution with rights of eminent domain.

Now Addie’s gone and I’m alone to tend to this old spread,
Till slickers come and crowd me off and I’m just left for dead.

Now holidays don’t mean too much and good times just don’t last,
I wonder if folks understand sacrifices of our past?

So on this Fourth I watch fireworks upon a bar room screen,
My wrinkled skin like leather now, but oh, what I have seen…

They’re playing our nation’s anthem and I’m sure liking that,
When some young tough rudely yells: “Cowboy, I can’t see through your hat!”

But I feel a bit stubborn and cling to what I have left
And sit there till he says, “Old man, are you a little deaf?”

Slowly, I take that hat off, and feel for something inside—
Then put on an old folded army cap with deep love and pride. 

Then as the last fireworks fade, and loud rockets burst and whir—
That young man shakes my hand and says, “Happy Fourth of July, sir.” 

Copyright © Glen Enloe

Details | Free verse | |

Shoshone Moons

I am Whispering Elk,
The land
grows dark with white men
like so many ants.
It is time
of green corn moon.
Their tribe grows: blue knives,
buffalo men, yellow hairs.
They speak many tongues,
break words.
Yellow corn moon
fills bellies.
They still come.
Days grow less
like buffalo.
We see blood
on brown corn moon
looking through trees.
Their tribes grow.
I am Whispering Elk,
Our moons
grow few.  

Copyright © Glen Enloe

Details | Cowboy | |

The Cowboy from Cutter Bill's

(for Rod Nichols)

Oh, he rode in from Texas
On that sweet, high road trail—
His bright light was infectious—
His goodness did not fail.

He made us a warm campfire
And welcomed friend and foe—
Passed along gentle wisdom,
Drinkin’ a cup of joe.

He always had a poem
On any cowboy theme—
I’m glad I got to know him
And share that Old West dream.

He often was too modest
And hemmed and just said “yep”—
We cherish things he taught us—
Into our souls he crept.

But true cowboys always leave
Treasures we never see—
And for him we should not grieve
A life of memory.

He rides now on higher ground,
But we won’t soon forget—
His words leave a wondrous sound,
A soft glow in God’s sunset.

Copyright © Glen Enloe

Details | Cowboy | |

Burlap & Barb Wire

That's why you have boot straps, she's heard the old vaqueros say
But she'd throw away all her tomorrows for one single yesterday 
She wishes deep down for a better day somewhere down the road
But for now the grief, loneliness & tears make a heavy load
She's much too young to carry the burden she's been thrown
But there is no other choice, she will push through on her own
She'll ride to hell & back again trying to outrun the pain
But no matter how far she rides, he'll not come home again
Her very own Cowboy Charming, a fairytale come true
Until a cruel twist of fate painted her world faded denim blue
How long will she replay that single moment in time?
A day & forever, she'll still find no reason or rhyme
She has tasted love's passion & felt its cruel sting
Felt both the elation & misery that only true love can bring
She once carried her heart like a balloon, bright & airy
Now she locks it away deep inside & is wary
She's sworn never again to give in to desire
Now, its covered with burlap 
& wrapped in barb wire 

(c) October 2003

Copyright © Catherine Devine

Details | Cowboy | |

A Teardrop Away

I hear a hawk cry to its mate
Takes me back before "too late"
Lonesome lyric desert wind
Sings me into your arms again

How I wish that it could be
not just a dream but flesh & blood reality 
Gone but not forgotten, you will always be
just a teardrop away in my fondest memory

The whisper of the wind brings you back again
to dance among the shadows of my heart 
Thunder echoing down the hills
I hear your voice so close it chills

Lightening dances cross the sky
recalls the laughter in your eyes
Suddenly we're once again
Dizzy dancing in the rain 

Gone but not forgotten, you will always be
just a teardrop away in my fondest memory
The whisper of the wind brings you back again
to dance among the shadows of my heart 

Gone so swiftly without goodbyes
but I know true love never dies
As I kneel at this headstone
I know I will never walk alone

For you'll always live within my heart
guiding me from the deepest part 
Gone but not forgotten, you will always be
just a teardrop away in my fondest memory

The whisper of the wind brings you back again
to dance among the shadows of my heart

(c) January 2002

Copyright © Catherine Devine

Details | Cowboy | |

Tucson to Texas

She says she feels the safest standing in the pouring rain
But it could rain for forty years and never wash away the pain
The bitter taste of grief will always be hers to swallow
Since she lost her heart's desire to that blessed curse called Rodeo

"Just one more ride & I'll be on my way, never more to roam"
now she wanders through an empty house that'll never be a home
how she longs to hear him whistling as he comes through the door
instead the silence is deafening & it tears her to the core

She wishes she could turn back time & stop the hand of fate
now he sleeps up on the hill & she will have to wait
to whisper soft "I love you" or one last "good bye"
she wonders if he hears her, as she silently asks "Why?"

That Brahma wasn't lined out for that chute that day
The rigging that he'd used was new, a present on Christmas Day
It wasn't anything down & dirty, just an exhibition ride
one quick show for the kids & he'd be back with his new bride

Now she sleeps in his old work shirt and dreams of his embrace
she fingers his battered Stetson & pictures his smiling face
No matter where she turns "He's gone" is all she hears
and stretching from Tucson to Texas, you'll find a trail of tears 

(c)August 2002

Copyright © Catherine Devine

Details | Rhyme | |

The Gunslinger

He was a gunslinger from the lone star state,
With a mind full of anger and a heart full of hate.
He wore two six shooters,one on each hip,
With the notches of the dead cut into the grip.
The eyes of this gunslinger showed no emotion or fear,
Every one kept there eyes on him when he was near.
Then along came a stranger,with a star upon his chest,
Looking for the man from the deep southwest.
He called the man out from the lone star state.
He knew that talking was useless,his words would carry no weight.
As they pulled there guns,the gunslinger gave it his best.
But the bullet that struck first was from the man with the star on his chest.
When the gunslinger hit the ground,the marshal asked him why,
The man from the lone star state showed emotion and shed a tear from his eye.
She was just a kid when the gang rode into town,
She was barely sixteen,why did they gun her down.
You finally put me to rest,the anger and hate will finally subside,
And as the gunslinger past away,the marshal finally knew why.

Copyright © Charles Ruble

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

Details | Cowboy | |

Boot Hill Easter

The day did not mean much to him,
That’s why he did not know—
Just how he came there Easter morn
With Tombstone down below.

There’s a tumbleweed a blowin’,
Pushed by the breath of God—
That moves across the distant range
And marks where He has trod.

The golden sun rises again
And bathes each tattered cross—
And like that day so long ago,
There is a sense of loss.

So for a time that ol’ graveyard
Has been again reborn—
As sins and sinners do repent
And they outgrow the thorn.

There’s a tumbleweed a blowin’,
Pushed by the breath of God—
That moves across the distant range
And marks where He has trod.

And so a man walks down Boot Hill,
Touched by the robe He wore—
With Easter and the truth in him—
A doubter now no more.

Copyright © Glen Enloe