Enter a storybook tale
Where I can be
The heroine you hail
Lucid dreams of soft reflection
A touch heated with lust and desired protection
A breathe a gasp as we succeed
Join the fairytale with me
Valiant night within dark eyes
the right movement and I make them shine
like moonlight on the steamy hot spring
care to follow for a little dip with me
Trailing like the water at my fingertips
Grasp me around my hips
As close as the breeze on my skin
Whisper lies as I let you in
Lips mumbling up my thighs
bare heart exposed to the sky
fire burning in my veins
Am I a mistress of this lust or simply a slave
Trembling with desire
Take me till we've lost count of the hours
enter this storybook tale
Where I can be the heroine you hail
Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2012
Cowboys in the Badlands
Out West, across the great divide
great open spaces oceans wide.
Beauty in these badlands does hide
everything fights us as we ride.
Last stop, was exciting wild Abilene
shot an hombre that was very mean.
Watched him bleed as he slowly died
his gal held him and loudly she cried.
Before, she had sworn love to me
next his dying love she swore to be.
Riding away fast, ahead of the Law
looking back, cloud of dust we saw.
My partner lit out on me last night
cried this was surely not his fight.
He turned back east galloping so fast
we had our time, had a damn blast.
Ahead the badlands beckon me on
this cowboy life sets me all alone.
Hot as hell the water miles ahead
A night's rest to clear my head.
Morning sun woke me to great heat
no bread, bacon and eggs to eat.
Precious water is in very short supply
always fleeing, I ponder just why.
No time to enjoy such pretty views
my path ahead, my life I must choose.
Avoiding Indians and the chasing men
forever alone with never a friend.
This beauty now I can slow to see
posse has surely given up on me.
Coyotes call , rattlesnakes do hiss
comfort of town I do sorely miss.
Found now, a dusty trail to old Mexico
across the Rio Grande I now go.
Far behind, hell's horses race after me
dancing with pretty senoritas I'll soon be!
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014
Rise at first light.
This cowgirl enters up to ride this day.
She dawns her hat, for this is not any day.
Ready to pay her dues.
The sun will beat down,
hot and hard is how she'll ride.
Into the shoot we go.
The blood pumping, muscles quivering.
Ready to go!
The gate slams open.
Off we go!
My mustang and me,
to round that first barrel.
Away we go!
Rounding our second barrel.
Thundering down to that third barrel.
We round that barrel,
the dust will follow.
With a war cry,
We head down the long path home.
Followed by cheers and jeers,
she crosses the line!
Cowgirl is up and paid her dues.
Copyright © Gypsyof Essence | Year Posted 2013
Unlike the newspeak of today the media rodeo plays the bull clowns chasing a scripted delay boxed up and ready to go fast food for the loll the upper end following the lower end Yet political satire's even keel will transcend while the real bull gores the clowns He can be ornery when being contained coming like a federal expess roaring down newsmail bringing the letter restrained the same package to every town the same package of the willing consripts freight in the End a older railing bull holds his own wieght
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2014
Here's to the weirdos; here's to the wild;
Here's to the loners, the whimsical, the mild;
Here's to risking taboo land mines;
Here's to the principled, in troubled times.
Copyright © Elinor Swanson | Year Posted 2016
Young Jesi Naomi channeling Trish Roland
incarnate professedly. Hour: you dead now?
Tuba bongo blues like a freight train serenade
in the American night. You slammed life against
the wall, slammed it. Drank it down
with booze stained splinters and mop handle blues.
Guitar licks and microphone screams,
taste like swill and Lysol. If nausea
Permeates your pours, belt it out
From the reaches of your bosom. You
Never played the possum.
I can’t wait for summer or autumn.
Copyright © Stephen Barry | Year Posted 2015
Freedom Loving Cowboy
At the bar, by the docks, I spoke to a man who wore a cowboy
hat and had a pearl handle revolver in his holster. A thud and
the pretend cowboy hit the floor and the barman ducked behind
his counter. It was an exploding tire; relieved laughter which
the same when we sat in the bomb shelter and a plane overhead
dropped its load in parts of town where local Nazis´ lived.
Terror begets terror and becomes a psychosis, what we don´t
understand becomes terror and we have to arm ourselves and not
ask tedious questions. I was offered a job at this vibrant place, but
declined feared the undelaying panic, that often explodes into
violence, would get me, I would buy a gun hide it at the top of
the wardrobe and when bad people broke in, rush upstairs, find it,
nervously load it spill bullets on the floor – reload- shoot myself in
the foot. The man, in the cowboy hat, had just told me he lived in
the freest county in the world.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2013
Monkey & Human
Jumping,jumping,jumping in a box
monkey would like to dance
would like to scratch
hurry,hurry,hurry monkey would like
eating,eating,eating human wants to
anger,anger,anger monkey would like
sending,sending,sending human wants
to send monkey to the sun
ramayan,ramayan,ramayan in that we can see
monkey and human fight for good
poems,poems,poems monkey wants to read
human wants to sing a poem,wink
with love all
Copyright © jagdish bajantri | Year Posted 2016
By day you work the fence, you’re out stretching the wire.
By night you read of Grace and stare into the fire.
Come morning you fix a breakfast to last you all day.
Come evening your supper is a better reward than pay.
Come morning you eat a breakfast fit for a king.
Come evening you’re so hungry you’ll eat ‘bout anything.
Coffee warns of eggs and biscuits and such.
Supper comes along usually ‘bout dusk.
Tending a herd on the wide open plains.
Gives a body time to think of all sorta thangs.
Thangs like how great a country we live in today.
Here in America, the good ‘ole U. S. of A.
A country so vast, with big cities on each side.
But here in the wide-open middle is where I reside.
A country founded on God, they sat sail for where ever the wind leads.
Strange how we all seek the same God, how some get off in the weeds.
No one knows freedom better than the American Cowboy.
Freedom’s nothing to sneeze at and it certainly ain’t no toy.
Some folks don’t like our freedom and man, with out a clue.
Stole some planes and right into our life they flew.
Last week these guys tried to take our freedom away.
Hurt some folks in the most barbaric way.
On the prairie they’re snakes and all kinds of varmints.
But nothing as mean as these guys that came here to harm us.
If critters are out and pose some kind of threat.
Yank a hog-leg, fire a round, you’re good to go I’ll bet.
Hear me Lord as I stare into the fire and say.
Rid their minds of this evil thinkin’ is what I pray.
We can’t reason why things like that happen.
You’re the only one that knows Lord, I reacon.
Our leaders have shown Your Spirit as their witness.
Our countrymen have followed suit, just as You’ve convicted us.
I’m thankful all I do is stretch fence and rope in an occasional stray.
Than to have to do what Bush has had to do the past few days.
Lord; be with us, guide our leaders with what they “Have” to do.
Thanks for uniting our country, You’re faith we must prove.
By the fire I read where we’re here today and gone tomorrow.
Life’s short, live it to the fullest, ain’t no time for sorrow.
Come morning breakfast has been better here of late.
Come evening supper has been especially great.
Seems we have an awful lot to appreciate.
Since the time of the attack, to date.
Lord; guide the boys, give them wisdom with what they do and say.
This ‘ole cowboy is fightin’ the war on my knees as I pray.
By Jim "Ish" Fellers
Copyright ©: September 18, 2001 ~ Tuesday
Copyright © JW Fellers | Year Posted 2009
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
Im squeezing out the last of it because it will be better this way.
Completely old as to make this adjustment more smooth. I have picked up a thing or two along the short way from where I was going and to the place I am being placed. Its acceptance And it is my mind maturing into a dense fenced in final memory. Nothing poetic about a truthful fate. No sorrow. No pain and no need for comfort or affection or your judgment. I'll be here and they all can know where to find me. Everything is peaceful now without feeling. Clipped and tethered and at peace in understanding.
Copyright © or dallas | Year Posted 2016
Whales live in the ocean
So it's pretty rare to find
A whale beached in Iowa
But it doesn’t mind
It swims in the Cedar
Takes care of the cattle
Eventually, it’ll return home
Back to the plains
Iowa is all he’s ever known
The land of Ames
In Memory Of William Marshall Ferguson
Copyright © Jeb Bush | Year Posted 2016
If this one priceless feather is clipped with a small pair of silver scissors then it will be cleansed thoroughly after use I'm sure and placed near the door.
The shoulders move up and down and a mighty back turns around.
Which is safe and sound.?
The hunter the hunted. If they count it out the simple and confound.
Reduced to a muffled pistol shot.
The mouth will not whistle like it used to, if they use it for a matter that is jamming the system
Copyright © or dallas | Year Posted 2016
Proper calculation after trial and error seven times a week. Brought to the table. A teacher from example if your hands be open.
Feeding the thirsty and they've Learned by an algorithm to stay hungry. We can't move. The wire is welded in strength and laced with electricity
Copyright © or dallas | Year Posted 2016
Growing by design and the structure lies in alignment. There in the open dark sits the set compressor dialed in all seeing at eye level. Moving slow with no threat they sneak past detection. But with no reason or cause. Envious yet the quick are planted in the same resistance.
Its already narrowed down if not now then before you figure out how to go about it
Copyright © or dallas | Year Posted 2016
A scant twenty years,
grieved a century or more
in spirit and lore
A man and his horse,
out riding the range
The cattle his instruments,
and music to play
Civil War veterans and blacks
from the South
Through dust and dark clouds,
—snowy blizzards that mount
Together they battled,
in concert they fought
Each unto himself,
life’s harmony caught
The hardship and death,
to him worth the price
Pushing always ahead,
his past now contrite
The only thing telling,
to be left at the end
Was the legend he gave us,
—and the message it sends
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2017