Cowboy Sorrow Poems | Cowboy Poems About Sorrow

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

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Victims

Victims

I Pity you
For what you had to do
for what desperation, poverty and despair drove you to.
What lack of education, dangerous situations 
and complex cross-cultural relations 
awoke in you.
You, are the victims far more that we.
No matter what to us you do.
We, suspected all along it was you.
But you didn't think not to make it so obviously true?
Muddy footprints, dirty dishes in the sink as we had taught you to do, 
you even swept up the glass and took things hidden in places that only you knew!
Calling cards left as clear as if with stroke of a pen, would have taken more effort
for us, to figure out who it had been..
And to think of this when,
we were all seated around this same table, with cabrito saying grace
back then was ludicrous.
That three later years you'd be kicking in the doors to steal from the house you were raised.
The notion still feels ridiculous.
Did you do it to set the record strait? 
Exact revenge? Or, as I speculate
To build your resume to get in with the local gang.
Whatever your motives the cold hard truth I fear,
is that for you, there's no turning back from here.
From what you've now created for yourselves,
We are powerless to help.
There's only the road ahead, and the hands of it waiting to be dealt.
And the truth of it stings, as the letter that burnt William Sycamore's hand
saying that his sons were dead.
Our loss is the same.
Only not in the things from us you stole,
but to know that we've lost you
to the turbulence, and violence
of nuestra Mexico.

Copyright © Trey Pearson | Year Posted 2016


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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...

CONCLUDED IN PART II..

Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017

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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