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Long Cowboy Poems | Long Cowboy Poetry

Long Cowboy Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowboy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowboy poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Steven Medellin | Details |

The Whiskey Bottle Wish

The Whiskey Bottle Wish

 	One late summer night outside a saloon in the mid-west, an intoxicated Dusty Rogers, stumbles out of the Bar nearly taking one of the revolving doors with him. As he flutters on out, he catches his fall on the walkway hand railing in front of him. Focusing his sight with a loose grip holding the railing, the other hand has tighter grip on a bottle of Whiskey. Hesitantly letting go of the rail he musters up enough hand eye coordination to fix his hat and pull up his pants. As the drunken man walks down the strip of a quiet town... A quiet town after all the rooms in the bathos are vacant, when all the liquor has run dry from every bottle, far after all the lead and gun powder filled the air ... It's then a quiet town. An hour walking and countless chugs of sweet, sweet whiskey; the drunken Rogers, has been taking over with the urge to piss. He sees a hallucination of a building up ahead about ten feet away. He pulls up, face nearly inches from what he thinks to be the wall of the building, but is in fact a towering cliff side standing over fifty feet staring down on him. He starts to piss on the cliff side soaking his pants and boots. He places the bottle down with his left hand as his right hand is stretched out flat on the wall holding himself up. He's leaning forward so much it appears as if he were holding up the mountain. He begins to mumble.

“You drunk. You will always be a drunk... That's all they ever spoked about me. But, why? How did this... How did any of this happen?” His right hand slips and his face crashes into the jagged cliff side in front of him. He groans in agonizing pain while he is lies in his urine. Bludgeon face he shouts up at the stars. 
“Damn you! You tooken everything from me. You left me all alone! Why didn't you take me too! Am I not good enough for death...? I do anything to feel the blaze envelop me. Like they so did... “Wiping his tears he whispers. “You should have tooked me with them. I should have burned on that train with my family... That was my destiny instead I bare the mark of Cain." looking up at the sky as if expecting an answer. “Just sit up their laughing as you strip everything from my hands and fill this void with this damned bottle."
 As he continues to wipe the tears off his face, he gets to his feet zipping up his pants and is about start to walk along the mountain side. In his peripheral he's sees the shimmer behind him. Turning around he Picks up the bottle of whiskey and stops to eye ball the remaining two or three gulps. Looking at the bottle and he starts to rub the side as if where a lamp. “I wish to see my family" holding back the tears forming in the corner of his eyes. "You took everything from me so in return, I'll take all of you!"
 He takes a swig and starts walking along side of the cliff shouting obscenities. In his anguish he stumbles and trips upon a metal beam railing falling flat on his face. Instead of picking himself up, he reaches for the whiskey and goes to take an even bigger hit from the bottle. Franticly shaking the bottle to get out every drop out he chucks the empty bottle in the air. The bottle never breaking hits the ground skipping and flipping along the gravel. Below his feet wooden planks placed about a foot apart from one another lay in a row. Running up the side, adjacent to the planks, runs a solid steel beam. The drunk has no idea he has stumbled onto train tracks leading into a tunnel right through the mountain. He thinks he is walking down a hand railed stairwell leading to a basement. He walks on the tracks towards a tunnel, he loses his balance and reaches for non-existing handrails but the rails are too low to grab so he trips over a plank of wood and falls on his face once more.

“What...What kind of crap is this?" he cries as he lays out on the floor half conscious. Suddenly he starts to laugh the intensity grew as he was trying to get to his feet. He only manages to sit up facing the blackened tunnel ceiling as if it was a starless night sky. “What are you waiting for? Stop toying with me. If you want then come take me. I'm here..." a loud whistling sound comes charging through the tunnel growing louder each passing second. With a shaky voice and a sense of uncertainty he asks.
“Trumpets? Is that roar trumpets I hear? Is that you?" as the ground starts to tremble the sound grows immensely; numbing all senses. Then, a bright light comes ripping through the darkness like a bullet through midair. The light striking his glossy eyes blinds him. The ground rumbles violently as the whistling sound becomes deafening. He chuckles and spreads his arms wide open and says “You finally answered my prayers." he closes his eyes, and black was the last thing he saw.

Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details |


            The Serb Dog by Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
     There was a bunch of soldiers standing around watching
a house burn and somebody said "Was that somebody screaming,
did you hear somebody scream?" 
     "Shut up idiot," said the lieutenant. "You don't want
the Serbs to have anything when they get here do you?" He
was from Dodge City and some of the other guys called him
Cowboy. Most of them had joined the unit in Naples and this
was their first assignment in what used to be Yugoslavia.
Now it was Hell.
     They could hear faint gunshots coming from over the
hill and everyone knew time was running out. Around the
corner a bunch of people was being herded out of town but
not everyone wanted to leave. They could hear some of the
older peoples voices pleading not to be put on a bus, but
nobody knew what else to do. The children only cried and
some of the soldiers tried not to think about the children
crying. Finally they heard the bus door slam shut and the
sound of the engine as it roared into movement then
gradually the sound disappeared behind the distant gunfire.
     "I heard they signed today," said one of the soldiers.
"Did you hear,
lieutenant, about them signing a ceasefire?"
     "Let them sign," replied the lieutenant "I will sign,
too. Torch that house over there. Who cares about another
cease fire?"
     "Why didn't you join the Croats, Cowboy? What ever made
a nicefellow like you sign on with us cut throats?" Everybody
snickered but Cowboy got over being irritated by their
remarks the first week. 
     "They didn't offer enough money," he snapped.
     Suddenly a dog came running down the road and one of the
soldiers said "Get that damned dog!" Everybody started
shooting at the same time and the dog started running and
jumping and yapping all at the same time then disappeared
behind a house. 
     "That's one lucky dog!" somebody said. 
     A captain came running up and said "Why were you guys
shooting at that dog?" 
     One of the soldeirs said "It was a Serb dog." Somebody
else said "It was in heat!" 
     "Well don't shoot no more dogs," said the captain.
Then the dog stuck its head out and a shot came from across
the road, shattering the stone building right next to the
dogs head. The dog let out a yelp and started running down
the road, away from the soldiers. 
      "Look at that dog run!" shouted the captain. "Don't
anybody shoot! I like that dog! Run Dog! Run Dog! Don't
let them shoot you!"
      Just then a volley of gunfire echoed from behind
the buldings and bullets could be seen hitting the ground
all around the running dog, then some bullets struck the
dog and it fell over without a sound. Some other soldiers
came around from behind the buildings across the street
from where the dog had been and they were laughing.
     "That was my dog!" yelled the captain to the other
     "That was your dog?" asked one of the men.
     "Yes, I said so!" repled the captain. "Didn't I just
tell you it was my dog?"
     "You just killed our dog!" snapped the lieutenant. 
     "We thought it was a Serb dog," the soldier said. "How
could we tell it was your dog?"
      "Well, you be careful about shooting dogs from now
on!" snapped the lieutenant. "Good dogs are hard to find
around here."
      "That dog was rabid!" laughed one of the soldiers
who shot the dog.
      "That dog was in heat!" laughed a soldier in the
first group.
      "That dog is dead!" said another guy. Everybody
started laughing.
      "Get back to torching those houses," said the
      Suddenly they heard the dog yelping and when they
looked down the road they saw it running again. Everybody
started screaming and shooting at once and the dog
disappeared into a bunch of bushes just as some bullets hit
the dirt all around it.
      "That's the luckiest damned dog I ever saw!" said
the captain.
      "Guess it wasn't a Serb dog after all," laughed
the lieutenant.
      "Guess not," said a soldier. "No Serb dog could be
that lucky."
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Long poem by Roy Jerden | Details |

Keep It Turnin' to the Right

Oklahoma cowboy, tough coal miner’s son
Born in Henryetta, south of Tulsa some
Raised by daddy’s momma, taught him wrong from right
Daddy taught him ropin’, taught him how to fight
Herding made no money, its stock was really down
Mamaw feeling poorly, dad mining at Old Town
Seventeenth of December, in the year of twenty-nine
Dad was shoring timber, 9th west entry of the mine
The gas ignited close to him, he never smelt its breath
It belched fire and thunder, and everlasting death
Sixty-one they counted, who wouldn’t see the sun
Twenty-five weren't recognized, they buried them as one
On that fatal Tuesday, the boy became a man
Had to make a living, had to have a plan
Heard about the oil patch, got a chance to try it
Drill the earth for all she’s worth; just keep it turnin' to the right

Some they called him weevil, some they called him worm
Some they wouldn't speak to him, figgered he was just short term
They told him "Open up that vee door; go to get the key
It's in the possum belly, in doghouse number three"

Took his turns at floor hand, at first a little green
Became the fastest broke out hand the driller ever seen
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

The driller called him partner; the pusher called him son
The other roughnecks shook his hand, and took him in as one
Got up on the monkeyboard; learned to spin the chain
Pumped that mud and shed his blood, and worked right through the pain

On a bitter frosty evening tour, in a cold December snow
He saw derricks lit like Christmas trees in the distance far below
He saw the fairyland of the refinery, shining through the night
He saw Mother Earth and the universe, all turning to the right

He got a job as driller, to West Texas he would go
A boomtown named McCamey, southwest of Angelo
Hired a shack from Pansy, put money in the bank
Drove his pickup out of town, seen the million barrel tank

The oil patch was a hard life, moving all the time
But he saved a lot of money, didn't waste a dime
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

Sent his kids to college, working through the years
One became a teacher, the others engineers
He hung up his hardhat; he shed his steel-toed shoes
Then one day he passed away; he'd finally paid his dues

Made it to the Pearly Gates; they handed him his wings
Handed 'em right back to them; said "I don't need these things.
I want to do some drilling. That's my heavenly plan."
They said "Go talk to the Devil then, cause he's the company man."

Old Scratch needed hellfire; he always come up short
Too many bankers and lawyers and others of that sort
When he heard they had a driller, he jumped up with delight
He danced a jig, "You've got your rig. Keep it turnin' to the right."

Now he drills for hellfire; in the derrick he's got Jake
Buck and Sam on the platform; Sonny's on the brake
They all grin like demons; they're all where they belong
Doing what they love to do, they sing their roughneck song

"We all eat caliche and sniff the devil's brew
Play dominos with Satan and whip him at forty-two
Work all day on Sunday and honky-tonk all night
We're oilfield trash and we'll take cash to keep it turnin' to the right

We all love West Texas; it's like the Promised Land
Horny toads and rocky roads, and even dunes of sand
Dust storms every morning, northers every night
We get tans and freeze our cans to keep it turnin' to the right"

The lingo used around the rig you won't hear much in church
It'll curl your hair and make you stare and leave you in the lurch
So close your eyes and realize it's gonna get much worse
Drink your beers and plug your ears; here comes the final verse

"We p*ss longneck Lone Stars; we f*rt Frito pie
Give us ****, and we will spit some Red Man in your eye
Don't **** with us, or we will cuss and bring you to the fight
We're low class, but we kick *** to keep it turning to the right"

Click "About this poem" above the title to see the notes.

Long poem by Tobias Musyoka | Details |


My beautiful friend
Hey. You daughter of beautiful Zion
Brighter than the city of Jerusalem
Yet I find no pleasure i you
O daughter of Jerusalem
Beautiful than the summer stars

Through the tender nights ahead
Illuminated with candles of life and laughter
Precious memories reserved in deep within
Where the greatest treasures dwell
The purest of all darkest places

And the adventure of finding the oracles
Believed to shine deep in the seas
Far in the islands of hope
Where the current and storms roars so loud
And ruthless because they rule
Wow. Have seen her walk like a gazelle
Down the stairs her stare appealing
Long hair tail brushing her shoulders
A sweet glance but bitter experience
O daughter of Jerusalem

Oh. The view of her sleep
Is the utmost morning by the ocean
Her full lips are saccharine blended
Have seen a great treasure hidden beneath ego
Slyness in her priceless exquisite iris
Mmmh. My hands have exploited her heart
All over from the outside
The lovely taste of the beautiful ovals
But she is a deceiving cunning beauty
You daughter of beautiful Zion

Pride. Something have never fathomed
For it resides where only gods know
All in the name of finding the truth
Mostly hurting to the core of my humanity
Wails of lies decorating my trust
Yet I don’t learn because I treasure my friendship
Hoping one day someone will
For promises are oaths we not break
I live this life because of people like you
O daughter of Jerusalem

Lies. You jab my heart with a hot piercing needle
The pain so much I can’t bear
To you is only a good joke
To me is another worse day
Worse because I trust you with my life!
But what I got in return was the middle finger
Rising up to the heavens
I don’t know why
My beloved friends always hurt me most
I don’t know why
I never let them go
Help me understand why, my beautiful friend 
Know I will treasure our friendship no matter what

From there above all mankind
Far in the heavens of no return
Where beings pay homage to he supreme
The creator of the universe and stars
The potter of our form and thoughts
He stood
Knowing not of his lonely venture
In finding the astray mortality and truth
His heart thirsty of knowledge
He believes in writing he can beat the gods
And uncover their vow of silence and secrecy
O daughter of Jerusalem

Smiling they force their way
Through the labyrinths greened path
Dew and leaves brushing their heads
For mortality is more vital
Oh. The oceans that’s are very far
Full of killer animals and breads
Full of dangerous thoughts and bliss
Full of mendacious tongues and eyes
Full of full moon and smiles of hope
The simple symmetric opposite of oneness
The unshakable law of the universe
O daughter of Jerusalem

How could I forget?
A cowboy never forgets his boots
Horses he can always find in the desert
Boots only in certain stores
O how could I possibly forget?
My position is so well painted
In the darkest of all inks that even blind can see
You daughter of beautiful Zion
With your fathoming tales of war
Yet I can find the words for you
Because I tread in the rough terrains
Covered with mud
And venomous snakes
But after every bite I smile
For am following my way
You daughter of beautiful Zion

Why do people lie?
To those be worthy of truth
Why do people hold to lies?
When the ropes are too short
Their eyes so beautiful when they do so
For they hold the key to your next move
I will never like lies
In this life or the next
Truth hurts less than lies
For I don’t know who to trust anymore
My beautiful friend

Long poem by Stephen Kilmer | Details |

Reflections of Cold Wars

Dad is that you?    What are you doing there in the mirror?

I am trying to shave and I don’t need any help.

Do they shave in heaven or is it just cribbage and puzzles?

Do you like it there? 

 Does it matter?

Yes of course it does.
As long as you feel better that’s all that matters.

Inside the monkey smiles and knows you want it to be better you don’t to have to sweat it. The guilt would kill you. After everything he did for you…….. Shutting down your dreams of college and trying to force you into the military . Making sure you never had enough money to get out of the hood and for Christ’s sake take care of your sister’s virginity. I survived only to look and be just like him.
And now what are you going to do? Dig the same hole. To late some asshole out on the peninsula has already started. He claims it cures cancer. All I know it that he stands in it for hours without moving and chants some mumbo jumbo. Too many years in special ops with the Air Cav can cause that to happen to a man. Hot LZ’s and medevac’s can make a man plum crazy- the things he sees.
They are everywhere and nowhere. Kill them all and let God sort them out was my mantra. If it can’t shoot and it ain’t breathing then it can’t hurt me. Stay low and keep moving cause if you stand still you become a target and if you get hit you become as statistic on a chart going round the world while they zip you up in body bag. And for what the CBS evening news with Dan Rather? Was it worth it; is it ever worth it to save freedom? What are we saving it from? Common belief would have us think that within every gook there was an American dying to get out. That ain’t the truth. For every gook there was a man and wife and a family and at the least they wanted peace. The question is who didn’t want peace? Was it the war machine in America? The Soviets do not want Americas to have a foothold in their territory. Is the domino theory still in effect or are there men that just never forget? I think when it comes to safety money wins out every time.
Wars leave people lonely; waiting and wondering what happened to the people they love. Some times they find each other and share the pure joy that only a human can fathom. Other times it never comes when we are left to wonder why we lost someone in the first World War. He was young and full of spirit. The old men egged him on trying to remember if they were peeling potatoes or sitting in a forward area shooting at Germans.
The cicada’s are out tonight and they are busting my balls. I can’t get that noise out of my head. I saw my head Doc today and they did an CAT scan but from preliminary sources it appears to be A OK. I don’t care what they say I still hear the Cicada’s and they aren’t waiting around for the next 17-year cycle. They are here now and they are in my head. No amount of drugs or alcohol seems to be able to drive them away. My Doctor chalks it up to my rock-roll-days and basically says that I am all but screwed and will never get better. I guess he's betting the odds that I will be dead before they find a fix. I am good with that. I am always up for a good wager. One day he will hear the choppers. And as old Willie Nelson once said, “There’s more old drunk’s than there are all doctors so I guess I will have another beer.” But if this buzzing doesn’t stop there’s going to be a momma with one less cowboy to have to have worry about. War kills people in the strangest and most mysterious ways.

Long poem by Briana Lynn Minard-Adler | Details |

Armin Babic

I cannot believe that I used to have a crush on you,
You are cold, heartless, and MEAN!
I never talked about you, never did anything to you,
I never deserved that, you had no need to be so mean.
You stooped so low, never had I seen someone do that,
People told me you were like this, I just didn't believe them.
I didn't believe her when she said you were a womanizer,
Didn't believe you were a Cowboy Casanova, well you showed me,
And never will I do that again, you made me believe,
Believe her, snf you made me believe you liked me, you led me,
Led me on, and then you were like, "I don't like you."
Well guess what I didn't care then, and I sure don't care now,
Cause I loved my hubby all along,
Love him more than anyone and anything, I love him and only him!
I cannot believe I used to have a crush on someone like you,
I swear you are the spawn of Satan himself,
And I feel sorry for girls who date you or fall in love with you,
I do, because all you do is play them like a game.
I don't hate you, but I don't like you like that anymore.
You led me to believe you liked me, and then you said it was all a joke,
Yeah well you were a joke.
You were a pill, I was willing to take,
I am glad I didn't take you,
You are an unmistakeable , unidentified drug.
I am a good-bad girl, I can tell a bad boy,
But even I didn't see this, didn't see that you like this,
The boy with beautiful brown eyes,
Are now dull, no longer do they shine,
That brown hair, that I loved, is now just a memory,
The boy born on February 18th,
The one that I thought was perfect,
God what the hell was I thinking??
Don't ask if I'm alright,
I don't have the answer,
But if you ask me if I want to hurt you badly, I will say,
Say yes without hesitation.
You have no idea how bad I want to hurt you,
But then again I don't.
Half of me hates you,
The other half can't bear to see you,
The game you played on me,
It was cleaver, but it was also cruel and hurtful!
I want to hurt you like you hurt me, but I could never that mean.
I could be as mean as you,
The person who doesn't know how much what he does hurts people,
I bet you don't care either,
Because that's just the kind of person you are.
They tried to warn me, those two girls, M&H,
But I didn't listen to them.
I didn't listen to them, because I am not the kind of person,
The kind of person, to believe what other people say, without,
Without knowing about you, getting to know what you're like, 
Until you do that to me.
Until I learn on my own, that's the kinda person I am,
I take the time to figure people out, instead of judging them,
Judging them by how they look like, and what people say,
That's the kinda person I am, I am a strong Redneck Woman.
And I will never change who I am, change myself for anyone,
I will not change for anyone.
If you don't like me for myself, then you don't deserve my time, or my words, 
Or my anything.
This is officially the end of me and my poem, 


Long poem by Roy Jerden | Details |

Call Me Tex

When I was just a teenage lad, and growing up out West
I never wore a cowboy hat or fancy leather vest
Never put on cowboy boots or western shirts with snaps
Never wore tooled leather belts, much less a pair of chaps

To be in style the Ivy League was what one wore to school
A skinny tie and button-down was how you dressed up cool
We wore Weejun penny loafers and tapered chino slacks
The boys all sported flattops, kept up straight with wax

Rock and roll and sock hops, my dance was then the twist
Cotton-eyed Joe and two-step didn't even make the list
Good ol' Willie Nelson could hardly make a sound
'Cause the King and Frank Sinatra were the coolest guys around

But when I joined the service, and moved outside the state
It didn't matter where I went or if I spoke my name out straight
For a while I thought I had some kind of omnipresent hex
'Cause anywhere outside Texas, they'd always call me Tex
When I said over yonder, they'd all say “Over... Where?”
When I talked about a horny toad, I'd get a funny stare
It didn't matter if my name was Buck or Roy or Rex
'Cause anywhere outside Texas, they'd always call me Tex

When they shipped me overseas, I thought that I would die
Couldn't get a Dr. Pepper there, or any Frito pie
When I wanted longneck Lone Stars, all they had was Beck's
And all those Europeans would always call me Tex
Any label kind of burned me, so right then I made the call
I'd learn to talk just like those guys, to hide my Texas drawl
I practiced on my diction, with elocution persevered
And soon the sideways looks and grins had finally disappeared

I traveled all around the world, got married overseas
Learned myself a few more tongues and got a few degrees
Now if I talk to British lords or English-speaking Czechs
When I masticate the lingo, they never call me Tex

Finally made it home one day, after way too many years
Came back to salute old pals and maybe share some beers
I wondered how the touch of time had treated all those lads
To my surprise, those preppy guys had all turned into their dads

Each one wore a cowboy hat and dandy leather vest
Some sported a bandana, some with bola ties were dressed
Some shod those M.L. Leddy boots with fancy pull-on straps
Each had a set of bootcut jeans and western shirts with snaps

Something then came over me, something that felt right
I heard my voice inside me say "Well boys, ain't y'all a sight!”
That educated accent that I'd worked so hard to gain
Had evaporated quicker than a light West Texas rain

I guess that you can travel, and learn lots of fancy stuff
But with friends who knew you when, there's no way that you can bluff
They might be polite with you, and humor you no doubt 
But you're better off to cut it loose and let it all hang out

They all let out a holler, yelling “Waitress bring the checks!
Give 'em to that ugly hombre yonder with the handle Tex.”
Now if I were any other place, I'd likely wring their necks
But when I'm home in Texas, then you can call me Tex

Long poem by andrew delapruch | Details |

the last of the funerals

“the last of the funerals”

today “the last of the funerals”
takes place &
the killings in CT get placed on the
alongside the deaths at Columbine,
Virginia Tech...

those were the “big ones” right?

well, now, Aurora was a “big one,” right?
but it didn’t happen in a school, hmmm…but
12 died & 59 were injured---
still, everybody can attribute that to the
fact that the kid had orange hair, liked the
Joker & since he did it at the opening of a film,
it made the whole bloodbath almost cinematic
for those in the nation who didn’t die there
or weren’t affected personally by the dead &
injured, right?

sure seemed like a dvd extra to the new
Batman film, the way the media flashed his
picture in that courtroom over & over & over
& over & over & over & over & over,
every hour on the hour.
still, isn’t it true that 3 kids were killed
on 2/27/12 at Chardon High School in Ohio
when Thomas Lane blew them away?
(but he was caught & he only used a 
.22 in doing so, in some rural town…so it
must not have been dramatic enough? 
he must not have packed enough hardware.)
what about One L. Goh’s killing of 7 
in April at Oikos University in Cali,
where he shot nursing students 
“execution style” up against a wall?
(but he was 43 years old & ended up
surrendering later at a Safeway, having
used a .45 semi-auto handgun, so…
still must not have been dramatic 
enough?  he was 43, over the hill, definitely
not sexy enough.)

do you remember hearing about those?
were those killings media-buzz-clip-newsworthy?
how about the killings on 2/22/12
in Norcross, Georgia (5 dead), or 
2/26/12 in Jackson, Tenn. (1 dead, 20 inj.),
or 3/8/12 in Pittsburgh, Penn. (2 dead, 7 inj.).
or 3/31/12 in North Miami, FL (2 dead, 12 inj.),
or 4/6/12 in Tulsa, OK (3 dead, 2 inj.), or 
5/29/12 in Seattle, WA (5 dead), or 7/9/12
in Wilmington, DE (3 dead), or 8/5/12 in 
Milwaukee, WI (6 dead), or 8/14/12 in Texas
near A&M (3 dead), or 9/27/12 in Minn., MN 
(5 dead, 3 inj.), or 10/21/12 in Brookfield, WI
(3 dead, 4 inj.), or 12/11/12 in Portland, OR
(2 dead)?

hmmm…maybe the body count wasn’t big enough
to catch the eye of the six o’clock & the 
eleven o’clock as well?  

(think this will be “the last of the funerals?”)
(just who exactly are the “good guys?”)

blame it on video games.
blame it on music videos.
blame it on horror movies.

right, mr. NRA? mr. cowboy-gotta-hard-on-whenever-there’s-

just like those who see the 
increasing tropical storms &
increasing mass drought &
then say there is no such thing as global warming,
this america watches the wave of violence growing within
the belly of its empire &
then says that there is nothing wrong with the increasing
tension, stress, oppression & struggle,
brought on by the preference of profit over people,
giving rise to it all.

Long poem by Victoria Anderson-Throop | Details |


                                             THE STARGAZER'S RIDE
                                         (or THE LAST SPURRING LICK)

                                        Saddle shoulder-tossed like feather light
                                        Aging cowboy strutted for the crowds
                                        The throngs that mingled in his mind
                                        From past glory, cheering loud.

                                        Across his shoulder down his back
                                        Leather mended with great care
                                        Oiled and rubbed with tender hands
                                        A woman never stirred such love.
                                         Excitement scuttled--- colors blazed---
                                         whooping kids these afternoons—
                                         Livestock stirr and kicked the stalls
                                         inhaling echo pumped excitement’s blur—

                                         Colors mixed with fear and joy
                                         Set the boldest man on edge
                                         Broken bones mere memories--
                                         Blotted out behind the thrills  
                                         That bucked behind the unknown stalls.
                                         A sudden certainty grabbed him
                                         As real as bucking in the stalls
                                         His breath still strong and stalwart sure
                                         The sounds and colors shimmered on

                                         Visions flashed from death to glory
                                         Called to thrills that grind the soul.
                                         He'd had his fill of limps and aches
                                         No delights in growing old .

                                         Today he'd end his life on fire
                                         A rank Star gazer sucking back
                                         His time the best—tho body crushed
                                         He’d give this crowd a shattering crack

Rodeo Terms:
spurring lick--the movement of a cowboy's feet
Rank—hard animal to ride
Star gazer- animal that bucks with his head up
Suck back: animal that suddenly switches direction

Long poem by James Blubaugh | Details |

A Cowboy's Last Dream

They had camped near a bubbling spring with one lone mesquite tree.  The day had been hot and dusty, and the respite from the glaring sun was welcome.  The large herd of cattle had quenched their thirst at the near-by river, and were now settled for the night.  The soft lowing of the animals added a melody to the quiet evening.
The old cowboy finished his supper and left the company of the other trail hands. 

Making his way to the shade of the mesquite, he leaned back against the tree and relaxed for a few minutes.  The sound of the spring made him sleepy, but he had no desire to give in to the impulse at the moment.  Removing his wide-brimmed hat, he brushed the dust from it and laid it on the ground.  He was dressed in faded jeans which had seen too many hours in the saddle.  His denim shirt was dirty and damp from the day’s long journey across the hot prairie.  A red bandana hung loosely around his leathery neck.
He could smell the leather and sweat from his saddle lying nearby.  Probably repulsive to some, but like a sweet perfume to his senses.  Reaching into the saddle bags, he removed a bundle wrapped in a heavy piece of mackinaw to protect its contents from the ever-present dust.  Unwrapping the bundle, he gently removed an old Bible, it’s brown leather cover beginning to show the wear of years, and the pages stained by soiled but gentle hands.

Tonight, he didn’t open its pages.  Instead he held it close to his chest, gripping it with both arms as though it might fly away.  He was tired from the long day, but something was different about tonight.  

He glanced up at the stars and thought of the God who was big enough to create the universe, and about the love of Christ which brought Him to this earth to die for sinners such as this old cowboy.    

His feet were tired, but he didn’t want to remove his boots.  He knew he had one more journey to make today, and he would make it with his boots on.  
As he continued staring at the sky, one of the stars began to grow brighter and larger.  It looked like it was coming closer, maybe coming just for him.  
And then, it wasn’t a star at all - it was Someone he had never seen before, but instinctively knew who it was.  His tiredness slipped away and he began to feel like a young man again.  He began to rise toward the Star-Person, knowing that everything was going to be all right.

As he began that last journey, he looked back and saw an old cowboy slumped against a mesquite tree.  He was still wearing his boots, and also a smile across his weathered face.  His journey was over and he was going home.

Long Poems