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Cowboy Summer Poems | Cowboy Poems About Summer

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

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Details | Cowboy | |

Summer Breeze

Summer Breeze

Summer breeze murmurs
suddently rushes to flowers
Scorching sun
In harvested farm
Cuck-coo-coo-coo
I hear a dove calling
It makes me recall my feeling
Ooh! on this sunny day
"I'm lonely ", I say
Not knowing where to go
Still thinking what to do
Among the kisses of summer breeze
Keep wiping out sweat from my face

Copyright © Mung Danlahpai | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme | |

Cowboys In The Badlands

 The two Cowboys stood at the cliff of a great divide.
Jacob stood, starring across the opening with Bill still
in his saddle, close by his side. The rocky scene was like
A kaleidoscope, every color, ever known.
Is there any other place you would rather be Bill?
Bill said, No Jacob, I don't believe so.
Jacob slowly, climbed back on to his horse and pulled the 
reins and headed North. He started whistling a happy note
and Bill listened as he followed Jacob to the valley
slope.

 Deadwood City here we come, looking for gold and lots of fun,
Jacob shouted! Yep, Bill shouted back, and we need to keep us
a fully loaded gun. The Cowboys laughed out loud as they rode on.
The Cowboys knew Deadwood could make a man so very rich
and they had contracted the gold fever itch. The day's travel was
so very long and hot, and the sun began to sink below the mountain's 
amber, rugged tops.

 They found a place to camp before nightfall and how that fire crackled
as they ate beans and corn fritters, and over coffee talked.
You know Bill, said Jacob. One Summer could set us straight and you 
could pay off the old farm and fix that crooked gate.
Yeah, Bill responded and then you could marry Jenny. Maybe start
a family and maybe even buy the Ole Mill. Yeah, said Jacob, so surreal.  
The Cowboys lay starring at the stars in the sky that clear, crisp night
and dreamed of all the things that gold could buy them, until daylight.

 The Cowboys made Deadwood and Oh, the sights they seen.
They panned every river and every stream. Then at summer's end
they cashed it all in and headed back to Tennessee, to live out their lives
and share with their family the story of their Deadwood dreams.

Copyright © Sharon Gulley | Year Posted 2014

Details | Haiku | |

Gleaming Rifle

The Gun was gleaming
Flashing in the summer sun
Confidence of steel

Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

Work

Work.
Toil.
The pain I put in the ground.
For such a precious thing.
Corn. 
The family enjoys their meal.
They plant their leftover kernels.
And wait for me to tend to them.
Work. 
An endless cycle in which happiness is born.


©Demand4poetry
21 February 2013

Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cowboy | |

Cherokee Summer

Paint ponies by the lodge
White manes

Turned silver in the moon’s glow
Taste of Mother Earth

Burden baskets hang at the door
They hold many seasons

Of worries & fears
The night owl comes

He sings the death song
Your time here has ended

The West door beckons you
Night Owl grows silent

© March 1984



In Memory of Jacob Michael MacCallister
March 18, 1957 ~ January 26, 1983

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy | |

In the Thick

In the Thick

And so, 
	submerged
	By the shadows spun from its trunk
like its leaves the threads of a dripping silk bandana
in a water trough, dunked
cutting back the heat and exhaust
Like iron. Quieting by charm
The blaring noise of the sun
	`for just a moment.

An there,
	Still, shadows upon the backing slopes
	Of baking stone and grass
A-lurking beneath them all
	waiting and collecting as droplets
		Where each time he beds down 
Rises and floods the draw.
Shadows running through the cracks of mud
	Shade out of reach as the rainbows end.
And huddled beneath the words 
	Of my own heart.

But while,
	On the ground, fading in and out
	Do these words seem to rise out
Pointed and formidable
	Chosen to be found
Like a rusty old rowl
Clipped when smashed against
the shade makers bough
A century before now.

And here,
In this thicket of weeds
Beneath this tired old mesquite
	This late afternoon
Whereupon any other
I might uncover a different sentence structure
After I ride up and tie up
	pull the latigos loose
		To shade up beneath it
As an old wore-out cow might do
Acting as though these ideas are as original and new
As writing
:Sometimes this life is too good to be true.

Copyright © Trey Pearson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy | |

The Concert

The Concert


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.

Uproarious applause.

Copyright © Trey Pearson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy | |

It Seemed Summer Would Not End

‘Round the bunkhouse and corral—
Seven years old, without sin—
My yeller dog was my pal—
It seemed summer would not end.

The warm days went by fast—
It was time for me to wean—
The good things just do not last—
I was all of seventeen.

Like a horse the years go by—
Twenty-seven and still free—
All the years they seem to fly—
It seems that some things must be.

I am thirty-seven now,
With a wife and hungry kids—
A ranch, cattle, pigs and sow—
And look back on what I did.

Forty-seven comes too quick—
All my days peel off like bark—
Half my cattle are all sick—
All my days seem bleak and dark.

At fifty-seven comes fear
Of the things now up ahead—
So you live life year by year
And hope you don’t wind up dead.

Sixty-seven shows its face
And it ain’t your best ol’ pard—
Others wait to take your place—
This ol’ life is just too hard.

Seventy-seven’s now nigh
And your bones are weak and old—
So you ask the Lord just why,
Things don’t go like you were told. 

Eighty-seven was a dream
That you never thought you’d see—
But things aren’t as they now seem
And you’re content to just be.

Ninety-seven now comes fast
And it will not be a friend—
But you knew good things don’t last—
It seemed summer would not end.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006

Details | I do not know? | |

And the Seasons Burn

Sage, bows out in final rage
As prairie shows its age
And the seasons burn...

Gone, is the summer upon
A dark gray sky that's wan
As tumbleweeds churn.

Corn, stalks the dead frosty morn,
Cold as the day we're born
When all we did was cry.

So, the far-flung geese do know
When it's high time to go
And all things must die.

Soon, comes the dark mother moon
Amid the scream of loon
Across vast prairie.

How, we heed the call of cow,
No one knows even now--
But it just must be.

Trees, so softly do appease
And turn that final breeze
To what yet must come.

Chills, then starkly cringe the hills
As that cold first frost kills
And summer's struck dumb.

Gone, is the summer upon
A dark gray sky that's wan
As tumbleweeds churn.

Sage, bows out in final rage
As prairie shows its age
And the seasons burn...

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005