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Cowboy Dark Poems | Cowboy Poems About Dark

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

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Details | Cowboy |

The Dark Horse Upon the Hill

He was an old Crow Indian
Rejected by all his kin,
That never fit in any world,
But now lived among white men.

He must have been near one hundred
In our scale of years on earth,
And acquired a wealth of wisdom
From the first day of his birth.

All his words would tell his visions,
And I can hear them all still—
Especially his prophecy:
The dark horse upon the hill.

The time would be of many storms,
And grim changes would occur—
There would be wars and many deaths
And the bloody, silver spur.

The chiefs would be great and many,
Yet their medicine be bad—
And on the land would be defeat—
Squaws would wither and be sad.

Yet, there would still be one more feared
To trap us with his cruel will—
The one that spoke of hope and change:
That dark horse upon the hill.

And so the once great nation falls
And becomes like all the rest—
The mighty banner now unfurled
As it sinks into the West.

Yes, that old Crow saw it all then—
Now we know the coming chill—
We hold blinded eyes open to
The dark horse upon the hill.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2010

Details | Couplet |


Who am I?
Am I defined by what is near in sight?
Am I defined by what I have done,
Or am I defined by what I could become?

Perhaps I'm of no use.
To him, or her, or I, nor you.
Or perhaps I'm too misunderstood to be defined,
And it is something like understanding that comes in time.

And if to the world I'm never shown,
Yet in my own light I've grown and grown,
And so I can know no happiness but my own--
The reason for my smile, to you, will forever be unknown.

I do not pray for the world to know my name.
For it and verse; the letters are the same.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads,
I pray his pain my words to keep. 

Should his eyes rain on my page,
Better tears than storms of rage.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads.
I pray his pain my words to keep.

And if to the world you're never shown,
Yet in your own light you've grown and grown,
And so you know no happiness but your own.
Let the reason for your smile, to you, only be known.

Copyright © Kristopher Higgs | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cowboy |

Camp Fire Tails

Gathering of wood all day i go

My mind filled with memories of the past, excitment grows

So many nights around the fire

Laughing, singing, stories abound

Heat of an open fire makes the evening chill go away

The moving reflection of light against the trees looks scary at times

You can only wonder what's outside the lights glow

Peacefulness sets in now time to relax

More stories said i will always remember

As the fire and embers go dim the light goes too, night becomes dark another day ended


Copyright © Neal Churchill | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cowboy |

Ringo's Last Ride


It’s way back in the eighties, of  the eighteenth century,
the bad man Johnny Ringo, did stalk Arizona free,
from Lukeville  to Sonoro, he dealt his darkest hand,
and sought to take the silver, from outlawed Mexican band

With Curly Bill and Scott Corley, he ambushed smuggler’s
band, their heavy bags of silver, sure lookin kinda grand,
gunshots smoked the many, some were kept for sport,
tortured in the hot sun, without a kindred thought

Now Ringo took to spendin, his gotten gains with glee,
and tabled games of poker, he played while he was free
but Wyatt Earp got wind of  him, or so the story goes,
and shot him thru the head one day, sleepin peacefully

Now many’s took the claim, for shootin Johnny thru,
but others say he took his life cos drinkin made him blue,
and if you want to see the place, they laid his body down,
he’s in West Turkey Valley, on the other side of town

Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |


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

21 February 2013

Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013

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 | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |

The Return To RotGut Part 1

They say he had three Mothers
The Earth, the Wind, and Water
And His father was the Sun
And the Moon was his daughter 
He wore a gun in his belt
With clothing made from hide
As He walked, He made no sound
And never broke his stride

Folks say he was part Cherokee
Others say, part Crow
There wasn't any clarity
There was no way to know
He wore a shiny locket
On the inside of his shirt
That he took out of the pocket
Of a dead Comanche’s' skirt 

The feather in his hat
Made the white folk all take notice
And on his belt a sack
With an ancient Aztec Poultice
The myth, was he knew magic
Taught by spirits raised by  Shamans
And because His birth was tragic
He was thought to be a Demon 

As he passed through our town
The People, looked away
Afraid of being cursed
They where glad he didn't stay
The sun sank in the East
As the wind blew from the West
And he walked in a straight line
Like a man bent on a quest

He climbed up to the foothills
Where the Injuns made their graves
There he raised them from the dead
As he made them all his slaves
No one knew his purpose 
For the dead upon that mound
Not at least, until that day
He came back to this town

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |


Can you see his steel blue eyes?
measuring you up for size
Gun placed low around his hips
A cigar hangs from his lips

He moves slow and yet he's fast
Those who challenged didn't last
Coffins lined up at the door
Now the losers are no more

You are young a little brash
He seeks honor you seek cash
In the end one will remain
Men choose paths that lead to pain

Young and quick you take your chance
Sadly it's your final dance
He shoots you right between the eyes
You're dead before you realize

From his eye a tear does fall
He doesn't look quite as tall
He just turns and walks away
Another Cowboy's lost today

Shadow's Cowboy Contest

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

Eternal Son Lightens my Dark World

Man neither angel nor beast
Strive for happiness
Become street smart
Became colorful

Offers variety of lifestyles
Delighted to alter
Thankful for almost tragedy

Saved me from the dark
Truth brightens
Eternal Son is Father Christ
Brought light to my dark world


Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cowboy |

Moccasin Moon

It slides softly in the night sky,
That pale moccasin of the moon—
It lights up a snow-bleached prairie—
Whispering summer comes too soon.

We trace the trail of coyotes—
Avoid the dark dens of the bear—
The full light of your white footprint
Lures us now to your fatal lair.

Oh, we chant into the black dome
Of all the things that used to be—
There’s no more Indian summer—
Long gone are Cree and Cherokee.

Yet, still the silky stealthy tread
Brings back images bright and keen—
Of lost Native Americans
Where so few are now seldom seen.

But moons do not let us forget
All the wild blood shed on both sides—
As we trace steps of moccasins
To where the dark of the moon hides.

Yes, it walks gently in tall sky,
That faint moccasin of new moon—
So gently it illuminates
As we dance mutely to its tune.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2008

Details | Cowboy |

Shadow Riders on the Wind

With campfire's red embers fading
And cattle bedded down for night--
A veil of clouds is descending
And the horses don't quite seem right.

In the distance a storm's brewing
With silver flashes of pale light--
Snakes are restless with strange doing
As thunderheads come into sight.

A deep faraway rumble stirs
The air from each valley and glen--
There comes faint insect hums and whirs,
Like shadow riders on the wind.

We can hear their horses trotting,
We can smell the dark scent of death--
It stings noses like cows rotting--
It takes away our life and breath.

We do not know if end is near--
The horses whisper like a friend,
As we wait for mute skies to clear--
Like shadow riders on the wind.

Dawn lights the sky and comes nearer
As sunrise washes us from sin--
It's all an answer made clearer
Like shadow riders on the wind.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

The Return To RotGut Part 3

A single soldier stayed
To guard against the animal
From digging up the grave
He felt awful for the Injuns
Disgusted by their plight
So from his bag he took a chalk
And upon a stone, did write

These Injuns lie beneath this land
Through no fault of their own
Their only crime, was to take  stand
And defend their rightful home 

Part 3

It’s been 12 years since that day
Now the wind blew from the east
A strange scent in the air
Which frighten, all the beast
And with the wind came sickness
A plague upon the town
It left the people, weak and feeble
As the virus spread around

But I alone stayed well
And never once felt ill
But at the edge of town
What I saw gave me a chill
He wore feathers in his hat
And a cloak made of rawhide
But he didn't have his gun
Just a pouch tied to his side

He made his way, straight to me
As I stood there on the walk
Then using broken English
He began to talk
He said that in his sack
There contained an ancient cure 
That could make the town's folk free
From all that they've endured 

To be continued

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cowboy |

Border's End

I did not drive the roan that day,
Just saddled up my old dark bay,
To check out fences far afield
And breathe in life with all its yield.

Near border’s end I came upon
A fresh, dead cow down by the pond.
I wondered why it had died here
With water and spring grass so near.

I spurred my horse and reined away
But something said that I should stay—
I creaked down from my saddle’s reach
And saw the cow had died in breech.

I knew they should be buried soon,
By light of day or dark of moon. 
I left them there, that calf and cow
And rode back home in thought somehow.

I had forgot that scene of death
Till summer quickly took my breath
And once again I passed that shell
Of twisted skin and faded smell.

The worms had done their work it seems 
On frenzied flesh and faltered dreams.
Yet, still I stared like at a grave—
Thought how we took but seldom gave.

Then autumn came and tinted trees
With colors each low creature sees.
So on my horse I sought them out,
To answer what this life’s about.  

A mute Madonna—sticks of bone,
Still nestled there so all alone.
We live and die, the season’s dawn,
We’re all breech born before we’re gone.

In winter’s wind the world turns cold
As cow and calf and man grow old.
Yet, now there’s no sinew or hide 
To hint of life or what’s inside.

Death’s passion passed and so did I
To pay respects and say goodbye.
For man and beast all die as kin—
I will not ride this trail again.


Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy |

Brahma Dark

Death rides a pale horse, it is often quoted
to resurrecting bitter memories it is devoted
But the killer of dreams is Brahma dark
and with a twist of its head, hits its mark

I’ve ridden the memories until I’ve about lost count
Sometimes I wonder which of us is actually keeping score
and I’d gladly welcome that pale mount
just to dare to dream once more

© July 2004

Copyright © Catherine Devine | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy |


He rode in from Texas, calmly chewing a piece of straw. Folks rumored him a Ranger, some sorta man of Law. An expressionless face, eyes close 'n stern. Long barreled pistol, well kept 'n tied down firm. It was the thirtieth of October, I remember it well. Sit back 'n relax, I'll narrate the Stranger's tale. Beer 'n whiskey shots, made the Stranger's tongue loose. Tugs at his scarf, revealed scars from a noose. Said he'd come to Denver, to escape the prairie fires. Recipients of his story, placed him amongst certain liars. Utterances of bright lights, in a calm night watch dream. Stampeded cattle, loud voices 'n a haunting scream. Empty hollow eyes, like death the Stranger was cold. The annual midnight curse, is what the Ranger told. Awoke in the saddle, by a Dark Angel of certain death. Calm night air stirred, vapors rise from cattle's breath. Focus controlled visions of the chilled dark night. Squinted images appear from his questioned sight. At one stroke past midnight, the curse we all had seen. The Stranger changed to a man of straw, twas now Halloween! By Jim "Ish" Fellers Copyright © : August 31st, 2003 ~ Sunday

Copyright © JW Fellers | Year Posted 2009

Details | Cowboy |

It Used To Be An Open Range

In these dark days of war and death, in these days of turmoil and change—
In these days of political correctness, it sure does seem strange,
How once we did what we wanted – it used to be an open range.

I know now how it must have felt when they strung the range with barbed wire—
An era ended on those plains; the land and men put up for hire—
A way of life and freedom gone – a hard rain that put out the fire.

And nowadays in word and rhyme, it seems poets are all fenced in—
To write of history and yesterday, just seem to be a sin—
They only want these modern ranching times and not those way back when.

We know the world has changed a lot and all our freedoms have a cost—
It seems liberties’ now another word that comes each year with frost,
As mournfully we gaze on sunsets and dream back on all we’ve lost.

So hoist another cup of Joe and raise your drink for one last toast—
Like phantom bison and wild horses, our free ways give up the ghost
And sadly we lean back in saddles and lose the thing we love most. 

In these dark days of war and death, in these days of turmoil and change—
In these days of political correctness, it sure does seem strange,
How once we did what we wanted – it used to be an open range.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006

Details | Cowboy |

Deadwood Hill

(At Wild Bill Hickok’s Grave)

Those bold Black Hills of South Dakota,
Darkly murmur of all your Badlands—
You have left now like the Lakota—
On that hillside your monument stands.

Hills pulse under Ponderosa pines—
Strong night breezes have yet much to say—
Legends linger on lips and pale shrines—
They know that Wild Bill once passed this way.

You sleep long in this last resting place,
That now overlooks sinful Deadwood—
It is here that we still see your face,
Yet ponder if you were bad or good.

They moved your petrified form it’s said—
Casket opened, though some thought it wrong—
Your dark face yet perfect, though long dead—
Your fair hair still so flaxen and long.  

Jane Cannary lays mute beside you—
A calamity that is no more—
As you study those cards in the blue—
Play that dead man’s hand from a far shore.

Saffron leaves and stern winds shape your grave—
And your name’s one that we all know still—
As you raise dark death’s ante and save,
One last red ace to trump Deadwood hill.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2007

Details | Cowboy |

Blue Moon Christmas (continued)

But she would not even read it – she knew what lay within—
A red rage toward her country now the fire that was her friend.
Yet just a few days later on a now black Christmas Eve—
Another knock was heard from a cowboy come home on leave.

And Jim Blue Moon stood on the porch with presents in one arm,
A proof against dark forces wishing all of us great harm. 
He said like Twain, news of his death was exaggerated—
And with smiles his wife helped him in, and they celebrated.

Yet in the haze of happiness and all her loving care,
Only now did Liz realize Blue’s left arm was not there.
But snatching life from death’s dark rider is a precious thing,
And nothing could dispel the joy their reunion would bring.  

Then came the new Christmas day, which now seemed so clear and bright—
Yet Blue held back - flexed his cold metal arm in morning light.
“I wonder if it was worth it?” Blue mumbled at the sight—
But Liz nodded and said: “Yes, you did the thing that was right.”  

Then they slowly opened presents - three united again—
Later dad and mom came over, and each rodeo friend.
“PBR’s done,” dad whispered in a voice like from the grave—
“Heck no!” Blue then replied, “I just lost the arm that I wave!” 

Sure enough, with prosthetic arm, Blue rode the bulls once more—
Till he volunteered to go back to that faraway shore.
Alone, Jim’s wife held their child and the inner one so new—
As a full, pale Christmas moon rose and slowly turned to blue. 

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006

Details | Cowboy |

That Old Heartpine Gate

So cinch tight my shimmering dark sorrel
With fine hand-tooled saddle of silver inlay—
I’ll pull on my calfskin chaparajos
And through that old heartpine gate I’ll ride away.

I’ve been too long on this sagebrush prairie.
Through many a rancho gate welcome and not—
With some I stayed and herded and prospered,
While with some I gave up much more than I got.

But I’ve rode toward that last gate in my life
And next that rosadero I’ll sit for awhile—
Until that bright entryway swings open
And I ride in meek and accepting as a child.

So cinch tight my shimmering dark sorrel
With fine hand-tooled saddle of silver inlay—
I’ll pull on my calfskin chaparajos
And through that old heartpine gate I’ll ride away.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005

Details | Limerick |

Jokes so Costly

Amidst strong foes, in real, he plays the hang
disturbing a hive to trouble the gang
one on a town to sweep
ride on sea with a jeep
placing the hand on a poisonous fang.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2017

Details | Cowboy |

Last Freedom Fighters

     Last Freedom Fighters 

      They fought battles to conquer and spread the good news, it became a mighty 
state, ports open to all refugees, hard men building a new world for the next 
generation to travel, trading their souls for possessions to conquer these foreign 

      Hidden agenda was not known yet, our red brothers gave us warnings of 
many coming, our spirits calling to form a tribal union, speaking of the old days. A 
white calf will be born, our corn will burn from the sun rays, smoke rising to the 
stars, echo’s from the great chief, a war painted warrior speaking truth to the last 
tribe, our homes were yesterday paths, our children do not speak our language, 
the old sit on broken stumps not on our women woven rugs. 

      Sorrow comes rushing in as the pendulum swings, dividing lands between 
the waters. Broken arrows burns their hearts, the teeth of the great wolf licks its 
prey, waiting in the dark den, an image of timeless tales. Unknown visitors came 
upon our lands and brought with them this great destruction to our pastures, 
many warriors now lay in scared burial grounds, they took our women and laid 
besides them making them slaves. 

      Our smoke clouds bringing visions, the red fox forewarns about a massacre, 
ones that carry the pocked marked faces, yellow hairs that rode broken mares. 
It’s now there fate to give back these grounds that belonged to us, we stand tall 
knowing the fate of the last freedom fighter, they will go down to the valleys and 
lay besides our own. Our eagle soars and the black bears speaks, its upon our 
lands that we stood by the waters which turned into red rivers, the mountains 
shake bringing down the snow, the animals hide, the dark cloud is coming by the 
hands of great men, they too shall melt with the rising sun. 

Copyright © susie rossnagel | Year Posted 2006

Details | Cowboy |

Dark Days

                               As I walk from the dark days of my life..
                      I leave a pass behind in my life...Days of partying
                      and drinking and doing drugs...And chasing women....
                      are gone..And being angry at the world is gone.....
                       I guess being a rebel comes age+wisdom...
                       and a time to slow down and having a family is more
                        important ..The days of hell raising are gone and
                        lighted days are here..time and memories are that's
                        all that is left....The dark days are gone...Man it is hard
                           getting old.............................

Copyright © kevin cox | Year Posted 2008

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

Details | Cowboy |

Wainwright Smith Rides Away, Part I

He’d been on the trail many a month,
When he reached the town of Gulrith,
A mining village high in the peaks,
His named was Wainwright Smith.

He searched the west, looking for
A sister by the name of Henrietta,
Who’d been taken by men in old New York,
The search, he would never let up.

The men had been seen, to some were known:
Thugs who traded in lost girls,
But Henrietta had not been truly lost,
In her father’s eyes she’d been a pearl.

The daughter of a banker, on hard times,
He had not the cash for a detective,
So Wain went to the cops and there learned
What we could about his objectives.

Hannibal Mays was the man he sought,
Wanted badly in six different states,
Wain moved west from town-to-town,
Fueled by both love and by hate.

In Gulrith he’d heard Mays had set up.
Going under the name of Guthrie,
After eight brutal months he was now close,
So he went to where men got lucky.

But the cathouse hadn’t seen hide nor hair,
Though a young girl told him for gold,
That ever so often Mays found one,
That he didn’t see fit to be sold.

The whore made him pay for every word,
And told him where to find Mays’s house.
He paced up at night, Winchester ready
To rid the world of this damn lout.

He approached the house, and saw a light
Blazing away in a back room,
He approached slowly, readied his gun,
Kicked the door open with a boom...


Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017

Details | Cowboy |

The Memory of Glenore, Part I

When the Anders Gang came to Pitkin’s place,
Bent on murder, theft, and rape,
Amongst them rode a wanted man,
Known to the world as Chicago Sam.

He rode behind, guarding the rear
While the other dozen visited fear
Upon a family, old and young,
Doing everything to them under the sun.

For two hours until the neighbors came,
A horror on those folks was rained.
Until finally Anders heard the hooves
Of angry men racing to where they stood.

Anders gave a call, and they mounted all
And road away away towards mountains tall.
Though Sam hesitated and looked down
To a teenage girl laying on the ground.

Still alive somehow, though barely so
Her tattered clothes heaped in nearby shadow.
Her face was swollen, but Sam, he swore
That he looked into the face of sweet Glenore.

He shook his head and galloped away,
What he imagined there could never be.
Glenore was dead, and twice the age
Of the girl that he left there in pain.

But in the days to come, it nagged at him,
His last true memory free of sin.
The sight of his lost love lingered long,
And the memory of her voice, lifted in song.

It wasn’t his fault, what she did choose.
By her own had did her life she loose!
She should’ve seen then what he was,
A gambling life who lived life rough!

The mistakes had been hers to make,
To think his sins could be loved away.
If she’d only gotten that through her head,
She’d still be here, she’d be not dead.

He told himself this, over and over,
But kept seeing her image more.
He saw the sadness mar her sweet face
When with another he had laid.

He saw her body, so small and cold,
And reheard the words the marshal told,
The psalms of reverends at the end,
With all this weight did Sam content.

One night while he stood on watch,
He looked back on the sleeping flock
Of murderers, thieves, and rustler scum,
And though back upon all he’d done...


Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017

Details | Cowboy |

Wainwright Smith Rides Away, Part II

...What he saw there made blood run cold,
His sister naked in the light,
Chained to a bed, soiled and stained
Her stomach swollen and tight.

She was covered in refuse and blood,
Her eyes saw him but didn’t see,
She said no words, just babbled on,
And endless, painful mumbling.

A twig cracked, and he swirled around,
Seeing the scarred face of his foe,
Mays went for his pistol, Wainwright fired
And the thug stumbled back from the blows.

Wain kept firing, long after he was dead
Emptying his entire magazine,
He turned Mays’s face into a red ruin,
And let out an anguished scream.

The whole town was shocked by the affair,
By the sheer depths of Mays’s cruelty,
They left his body for vultures and crows,
A sent poor Henrietta back to the east.

It was said that her mind was too far gone,
She knew not even when she gave birth,
Spent her days locked-up, stark raving mad,
Until a fever took he from the earth.

The child was raised by an uncle and aunt,
Never the truth of his father to know,
But Wain never came back, after all he’d seen
He moved north to trap in ice and snow.

After what he had seen he couldn’t return,
Couldn’t buy into mankind’s illusions,
He married a squaw and lived in the woods,
Free from civilization’s delusions…

Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017

Details | Cowboy |

The Memory of Glenore, Part II

...The next day’s sun a posse brought.
By noon all the Anders Gang was shot,
Except for one, no longer there,
The path to their place, Sam had lain bare.

In exchange for this they let him go,
And give him on thousand in gold.
But he did not rush to spend the haul,
In fact he didn’t spend it, not at all.

Instead he rode to the home of Bud Fielding,
Where the poor Pitkin’s girl was recovering.
Fielding walked out, with his rifle drawn
“Ride on filth!”the good man warned.

But Sam he just held up his hands,
Saying,”I come here to kill no man.
I came here to, in some small way,
Make up for what happened that day.”

The girl limped out, her eyes afire
Chicago Sam then felt old, and tired.
He took his gold-pouch off his belt,
And at the feet of the girl it fell.

He said,”You remind me of a girl, back when
I was something of a better man.
That money won’t fix a shattered heart,
But at least you can make a new start.

“I do not expect you to forgive,
The things me and my comrades did.
But I’m here today to even the score,
For you and the memory of Glenore.”

The girl looked on through swollen eyes,
His purpose still, she did not realize.
He sighed and said to her,”I’m sorry.
That I ever caused you pain or worry.”

Those were the last words that he said,
Then he placed his pistol by his head.
Twas the only way to make good, he figured,
So he took a breath, then squeezed the trigger.

Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017

Details | Cowboy |

A Bum Life

                                                   A BUM LIFE
my life has always been
filled with misfortune twists and turns
always walking down the wrong road
with trouble at my side seeking the easy way out
not willing to work very hard
every choice I made turned out to be bad luck
my jeans are dirty dusty and torn
with the holes that I have worn
my boots are scuffed looking rough
The soles are thin with a hole that lets the water in 
thumbed a ride to Alabam
haven’t slept for a day or two
ran out of drugs the other day
they stopped my pain  now I’m going insane
stumbled into this bar on the edge of town
to get out of the rain
to get a drink or two to ease my pain
as I take a seat on this tattered old bar stool
I look into the mirror and wonder who is this old fool
sitting on this bar stool 
with the long gray hair and a shaggy beard looking back at me
a shot of Jack is placed on the bar
the only friend who understands
damn what a life I’ve had
very little love or joy that makes me sad
as I sit here thinking an wondering 
what’s up a head in my life for me
I first have to except the choices I’ve made
before I can change
maybe tomorrow I’ll do that my life to rearrange 

Dennis Davis
November 3, 2017

Copyright © Dennis Davis | Year Posted 2017