Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/billy_the_kids_great_escape_467774' st_title='Billy the Kid's Great Escape'>
Sentenced to hang in the town of Lincoln,
Billy made his bold escape.
Both of his guards died from thinking
that a shackled young boy couldn't break away.
I've often wondered what thoughts were going through his head
as he stood staring out that window chained to the floor by his bed,
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his greatest escape?
Did he already know that his hanging would never come to be?
Was he already aware that before night fall, once again he'd be free?
Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in the barrells of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet dirty whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell screamed angrily,
"or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing an unarmed man in cold blood
who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here
and guard the Kid until you return."
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place,
but one thing's for sure,
Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other
during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall,
Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a humorous grin.
While in the outhouse Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuff.
"You fall in there Kid?" Bell laughed, "You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went and got Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing,
but Ollinger would indeed be the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more gray hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed,
"The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun
and whispered, "..and now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart
just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you son of a b*tch!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone,
but I'll kill anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer
and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eyewitnesses admit
that the Kid looked upon him and said almost tearfully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse reared up and threw Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, but none made a move or a sound.
Once again Billy mounted the horse
and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many claim that as he rode out of Lincoln County
that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever. It would also be his last.
"I had no intention of killing either one of them. My plan was to tie and gag Bell and then get out of there before Ollinger got back, but then things went terribly wrong.....I certainly didn't want to kill Bell, but I had to in order to save my own life....I never felt happier than when I gave it to old Bob. I said, "Look up here old boy and see what you're getting". I then blasted him in the face and breast. He use to ride me to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore."
- Billy the Kid
Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster
Long poem by
Steven Medellin | Details |
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.
Copyright © Steven Medellin
Long poem by
Jerry T Curtis | Details |
We've been riding now, for days
On this dry and dusty plain
Headed to a land, that's never tasted rain
The posse has been thinning out
As men head back to town
So, that just leaves you and me
To track these Outlaws down
Standing on the rim of
One of God forsaken places
I'd probably let them go
And just post pictures of there faces
But they shot down my deputy
Who was my youngest son
So I'll ride right into hell
'Till I catch or kill each one
I won't blame you, if you choose
To turn and ride away
For you'll probably end up dead
If you follow me today
All right then, Mount your pony
And you better save your breath
Here's an extra gun to tote
And a tin star for your chest
Don't worry 'bout me Sheriff
I know that I am young
But there's one thing that I'm good at
Is using these here guns
I know there is a danger
Don't think that I'm insane
You may have, been a Ranger
But, William Bonny is my name
Well Kid, if that's true
You best have seven lives
'Cause you're gonna use up six today
In order to survive
Put your rifle cross your lap
Keep your pistol left untied
And when the shooting starts
Be prepared like hell, to ride
The Kid was really smart
He followed what I said
As we rode our ponies down the slope
To an ancient river bed
I got a little nervous
But what else could I do
With a killer at my back
In a land controlled by Sioux
The day was cold and dry
But the Sun was shining bright
I had hoped to get this over with
Before, being stuck here for the night
The rocks ranged in color
From purple to blood red
And the jagged hills and cliffs
Made the earth looked cut and bled
It was a wonderment to me
That creatures could survive
Without water trees or plants
It's amazing they're alive
Then Bonny saw the first man
High-up on a hill
Snatch-up his rife with his hands
And cocked it for the kill
I did not see the man
'till I heard the rifle tattle
As the silhouette slumped down
And fell off of the saddle
"Why'd you do that Billy
Now they know that we're here"
Then shots rang out, from the hill
As I felt one graze my ear
He cocked his lever action
As fast as He could shoot
And two more shadows fell
From their horses on that butte
I rode like hell for cover
And Billy followed suit
And as we dove behind a rock
I saw blood run down his boot
I said Billy, "you've been hit"
He said, "It's just a scratch"
But I ripped the sleeve off my shirt
And used it as a patch
"Well, I stopped the bleeding, Billy
But do you think that you can ride
If your leg starts to numb
You can loosen what I've tied"
I turned to see our horses
Were clearly out of reach
And in the rife that I gave him
Had one round left in its breach
Then I heard the Outlaws yelling
And their guns were blazing so
I stepped out from behind the rock
To face this evil foe
From behind the hillside
A dozen rode towards me
The red dust that they kicked up
Made it hard for me it see
The odds weren't in my favor
Just one bullet for each man
With my guns both fully loaded
I prepared to make my stand
As death was drawing nearer
I watched my life pass by
And it ended with the image
Of me watching my son die
The outlaws now were closer
A blaze with all their guns
While bullets whizzed around me
My back now toward the sun
I drew both my pistols
Calm and slow, deliberately
Then took real careful aim
At the first two I could see
Then cocked each hammer back
And the squeezed each trigger tight
I could not afford to miss
Or waste a bullet in this fight
Stay Tuned for the next issue
BAD On BAD
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Copyright © Jerry T Curtis
Long poem by
Roy Jerden | Details |
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 when I was 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 when I was 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
Copyright © Roy Jerden
Long poem by
Amy Green | Details |
-LAST DAYS OF OLD BEN-
“See that man up there on the mountain, son?”
“Yeah Pop, why’s he a’jes sittin there starin’ out at nuthin?"
Well, son it ain’t nothin’ he’s seein’…Just nuthin we can’t see, know what I ‘m sayin’?” confused the boy just agreed.
'"He’s a legend, that there Ol’ Ben. From times long past before e’en when I was borned,” Now he just sit’s on his old nag waitin’ for sumthin, just not sure, and can only guess what. They sez Ol’ Ben was a rascal way back when, boozing up moon shine, not carin’ a world fer nuthin’ or no one. Well, Old Ben got caught one day he did, they throwed his sloppy drunk hide in the tank fer a long time.'
'Bet he didn’t care none, he din’ have nuthin to do.
As time went on, Ben got ought’n jail ‘n’ went right back to his thievin’ ways. As we all expected, the law was jus’ bout ready to throw him in the canner and toss the key down inta a well furev'r, when Ol’ Ben he saw something that took the fight right outn’ him ‘n’ made his chest swell.'
'Comin’ round the Sheriff’s desk were the prettiest Southern Bell you ev’r did see, an’ Old Ben dropped his jaw- from that day on…. Ol’ Ben turnt into a man…. He fell in love with sweet Lindsay Lane, banker’s daughter- And they ran off to the range- and lived on what they can'. That little Southern Bell did’t care Ben was a wrangler, she loved him for’ver. But Oh her Daddy’ did care, he put up a fight’ ‘n’ gave reward money if’n someone’d kill Old Ben, you see, but Old Ben was too wiley. He knew… he always knew her Papa wuld git 'em somehow. That Pappy o’ her’s was a pain in the ass, and so they couldn’t never really get away. Rumors ran ‘round town lika a nuthin’, there was gonna be a showdown! Firse light 'n ba’ween Ben ‘n; her Daddy., Soon as that li’ Southern Bell heard, she begged her daddy to leave Ben alone, her daddy wasn’t havin’ it, and Ben knowed that’d be the only way they would be rid of her father.'
'So The mor’n came of the quick draw- I ‘membe, it were misty, foggy that day, culdn' see nuthin'. Both men drew guns walked 100 paces and shot! BAM! N dat was the day Old Ben really did change. Turned a rascal fount love inta a sad sad shell o’ a man..His Southern Bell tied him up in the night, so she would be the one to draw- hopin’ as soon as her daddy saw’ it were her, mebbe he’d let them go. But the anger and fog hid her daddy’s senses, he was a red burstin’, he took’n his pistol he shot. Shot her right in the head, blew the hat off (she wor’d Ben’s clothes) and there in all her glory- blond hair dusted with red.'"
" Welp, her daddy done took his own life, but Ben, Old Ben and that old nag just stayed up in them hills forever- and to this day they visit the place his beloved lost her life.”
Don’t know, can’t fathom eve’, a love that strong, one day you’ll look up there on that mountain and Old Ben will be gone.”
Copyright © Amy Green
Long poem by
Victoria Anderson-Throop | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_stargazers_ride_______for_wild_wild_westcowboy_contest_468167' st_title='THE STARGAZER'S RIDE for WILD WILD WESTCowboy contest'>
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
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
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop
Long poem by
Jimmy Anderson | Details |
I had fallen in love with a young Mexican maiden in the town of El Paso
Completely mesmerized by her eyes had me following her wherever she would go. In
Rosa’s Cantina, the music would play and Catalina would whirl. She became my world and
there was nothing I wouldn’t do for this Mexican girl!
A wild young cowboy came in with his handsome features and wicked grin. He
carried arrogance within and he immediately rubbed me wrong. His lecherous eyes watched
my Catalina dance as the pianist played and sang his song. Too much whiskey, he’d
consumed. As this young stranger went to dance with my Catalina, I jumped up grabbing
him by the arm, spinning him around to face me. A powerful right hand knocked me to the
ground and his look was so deadly. My Catalina screamed, ran to my side, kneeling,
touching my face. A pistol in his hand, wild-eyed, I said, “Outside. This is not the place”.
It was high noon when the patrons poured out of Rosa’s Saloon. The heat could
not be avoided or beat, for it was a hot June…
I and the young stranger stood facing each other in the center of the dusty road.
Hands ready at our sides anticipating the next episode. On either side of us, people young
and old stood quiet for the event. My fear was controlled and I itched to draw my deadly
instrument. I was distracted for in my eye, in the sky was the glare of the sun. I did not
want to die for as he flinched the bullet exploded from my gun.
Cowboys would later say it was the faster gunplay they had ever seen. Lighting
fast came a blast from my quick draw. I felt a fire burn through my chest but I knew the
handsome stranger was dead. Catalina knelt hugging me to her breast and her tears began
to fall. The young stranger lay lain but would my death be worth the kill? I felt my life-force
drain and an eerie chill. I listened to Catalina cry as I was scared inside Rosa’s cantina. I
did not want to die and leave my dear Catalina!
Closing my eyes, I lost conscientiousness. To my surprise, I awoke, seeing my
princess. “Catalina, I thought I had died and left you alone! Kneeling closer to my
bedside, “The bullet went through just below the collarbone!” I said, “Marry me Catalina. For
you are my world, my heart”. She kissed my lips, “Yes, but first I must depart, as my
Father is ill but I will return to you, soon. The next day, I watched her leave for Nashville
with the promise to return the next June…
*Written fir Deborah Guzzi’s “Giddy Up! Little Doggies/Watch Out For the Indians”
Copyright © Jimmy Anderson
Long poem by
Darryl Ashton | Details |
THOSE NOSTALGIC U.S.A. WESTERN COWBOYS
Not one for afternoon TV,
But cowboy films appeal
Those Western romps from
From Fox, Republic, RKO,
Gnarled prospectors pan
(Not as much as they’ve
Forced to buy supplies ‘on
And hope to file a claim
A dusty stage brakes to a
The townsfolk get a nasty
The saloon’s new owner
steps on down,
Peroxide hair and Paris
She’s here to set the town
Bring entertainment every
That evening, on a different
Her dancers quickly all the
Cattle ranchers rule the
Each with their own
With marauding Indians
The townsfolk live in
But Randolph Scott or
Will save the day and
prove that he
Is constant, firm, upright
and strong –
But then, we knew that
The heroin’s virtuous
The baddie, dastardly
One thing you can be
sure and that’s
The villains always
wear black hats.
The sheriff quakes
behind his star,
When trouble comes,
he’s in the bar,
A weakling in the
Don’t look to him to
save the day.
A fight erupts, a bar-room
And suddenly, a free-for-
But Mitchum, Widmark,
Big John Wayne
Will bravely set things
Or Audie Murphy in Yankee
As the 7th Cavalry burst on
The villain’s dead, his gang
So all that good can now
From Deadwood, Dodge
And all the trail-stops in
Our hero rides out, bold
Looking for more folks to
He rides off in the setting
With peace restored, his
job is done.
With classics like High
Noon and Shane,
We’ll never see their likes
With Gunfight at the OK Corral,
Really lifted the town’s moral,
And when they saw Billy The
The baddies all ran – hiding
behind a garbage lid.
Alias Smith and Jones
They didn’t kill folk – as
they did care.
Jessie James, and brother,
They travelled the USA,
and robbing the banks.
In the old wild west – the
cowboys knew best,
They would always draw
guns – to put to the test,
In the saloons they drank
wild whisky, and cavorted
Then yelling and dancing –
til early morning.
This is how; The West Was Won,
Being quick on the draw – with
Blazing Saddles, was funny
from the start,
Especially those beans – that
so made them all fart!
Copyright © Darryl Ashton
Long poem by
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/doozies_and_whozies_of_the_wild_wild_west!__synopsis_(for_deborahs_contest)_226322' st_title='Doozies and Whozies of the Wild-Wild West! SYNOPSIS (For Deborah's Contest)'>
Eighteen hundred and three begins U.S. destinies.
Merriwether Lewis and his comrade, William Clark, agrees –
They will go forth, avoid Frenchmen, fighting growling grizzlies.
To find a water trade route that flows west to the Pacific seas.
Louis and Clark, embarked, sparked, as told in fabled stories.
They recorded river routes, brought reality to theories.
Studied plants and animals; documented scenic glories.
Consulted and contracted, trading posts amid vicious furies.
Trekked across uncharted lands located fort sites…more armies –
Front line, westward bound, frightened believers fought death and disease.
Life was no breeze fighting scurvies, scabies and rabies.
Said faithful Mormon emigrants who lived through winter’s freeze,
Constantly strong, many survived; God, spawned opportunities.
Hope filled a great salt basin and faith staked its new boundaries.
They paved a western desert trail despite anguish…lost babies.
Joyous fate, eighteen forty-eight, James Marshall’s good news carries.
Gold, when struck, at Sutter sawmill launched benevolent envies.
Strong daring men left right away like ants from crooks and crannies.
Hunting puffed-up fantasies soon changed young men to gypsies.
Horse thieves with double barreled guns, cattle wrestlers, and bullies
Diversely found the wild “Wild West” very few brought their grannies.
One historical service in the early eighteen-sixties,
Raced with news through the trees for $5.00 per half-ounce if you, please.
Skinny riders flew horseback over plains to mountain quarries!
Swiftly from Missouri to far west and back the news carries.
The cost reduced, $1.00 per ounce, gained popularities.
The trustworthy message service to the telegraph concedes.
Martha Jane Canary since ten years old stopped calamities.
Rough and tough, boldly thriving alone, says the western stories.
Brave Calamity Jane knew “Texas Ranger” mentalities.
Annie Oakley also emerged from western necessities.
When her father died, she hunted sure shot feeding families.
Her mother’s needs spurred Annie’s aim and riding proficiencies.
Western gun slinging marshals sequestered few juries.
They dependably hunted cattle wrestlers, killers and thieves.
Defending the right, saving lives, shielding women, and lassies.
Bounty paid posses help men choose the right while solving quandaries.
Dependable men, like Wyatt Earp, protected settlement peace.
Halting commotions, daily stopping mischievous flurries.
Some writings were truth-less “Doozies”, but within brave hearts fact abides.
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Long poem by
cherl dunn | Details |
Whistle does the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from
Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices,
From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation.
Roll does the crimson tumbleweed, towards the ghost town known as
Tombstone, a monuments graveyard to the old west.
In this rock cactus garden of venomous vipers, did the righteous
Live, amongst the uncivilized lawless, in this wildness country,
Of the unbridled frontier.
Blinded by greed's lightning flash, for quick money and easy cash,
Did the earth expose evil's shining metal, silver, from deep within,
Accursed is this place, purgatory's hell on earth, its deadly soil marred
And sanctified in blood sacrifice.
Left to the scorpions and rattlesnakes, as the only living inhabitants,
Ramshackle buildings remain, abandonment’s delinquent tribute
To a once thriving community.
But after night fall, others come forth, crossing the threshold of the
Nether underworld, the gun slinger, the gambler, and ladies of
Reputation's ill repute, claim this desert real estate for their own
Dark amusement park, still whooping it up at the bird cage theatre,
Indulging themselves. In all manor of seductions insidious erotic acts
The condemned soulless walk these dusty sandy streets of limbo,
Forever banished are these bastered son's of the gun. Or until the last
Shot is fired at the O.K. Corral, on high noon's final sunrise.
Satan is the lawful sheriff here, in this the territory of the forsaken,
And his loyal deputy the Grim Reaper controls the posses of the undead.
Riding against the redden moon, seeking any innocent soul trying
To escape from this desert prison.
You've drawn the dead man's hand my friend, if you find yourself lost here,
For the condemned show no mercy's reprieve to outsiders, the screaming
Souls shout from above, run lone cowboy run, and don't look back,
For the devils possess rides behind thee, and the dark lord,
Takes no prisoner's alive.
Whistle do the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from
Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices,
From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation.
But light concurs darkness, and death's icy grip fades at the
First rays of sunrise, and all evil must return to their crypts
Beneath the earth, from the dust from when'est they came,
Until the next moon's rising, then wide will the gates of hell,
Swing again, releasing the germinate residences of a city,
Named Tomb Stone.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn