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Cowboy Water Poems | Cowboy Poems About Water

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

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Details | Free verse |

Groundswell Girl - Named by JB

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

Details | Haiku |

Haiku - L - Water

Keep a lookin' Dan
there is water in this land
and you need a bath.

Copyright © Jeff Hildebrandt | Year Posted 2005

Details | Rhyme |

the bounty hunter at large

i wandered through the plains 
with my pony by my side
and we both would die of thirst
we wouldnt make it through the night

cuz the posse lay upon our heels
they strike with bayonets
hurting blisters theyve bestowed
upon my heels i cant forget

with the sun upon my head
and a six gun on my side
i wish that i could tell you
that my horse could bear the ride

she collapsed right in the field
i had to leave her body there
trusted friend though she was
i couldnt carry her i swear

so i found a shallow river
and i drank to fill my blood
how i wish that tender horse
could taste the sweetness from above

still i wander with my blisters
and my six gun by my side
still a wounded bounty hunter
with no gentle horse to ride

Copyright © Charlie Murder | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |


Turquoise stones and sun-bleached bones Were strewn across the sand. Through mid-day heat on blistered feet The cowboy tried to stand. They stole his horse without remorse And then they took his boots. They left him dry to bake and die Without the six gun that he shoots. He caught a glimmer of a shimmer Of water in the distance. He tried all day to make his way But pain became resistance. Without shade he began to fade And the water was no nearer. The fate he faced without a taste Of water was much clearer. Then a Navajo maid saw him splayed On a rock outcrop ahead. Filled with worry she began to hurry For fear that he was dead. The water she gave helped to save The cowboy’s life that day. From the start he gave his heart And wished that she would stay. Then morning came and wagon train Appeared within his sight. But the Navajo maid could not be repaid For she had vanished in the night. Should he stay or be on his way He had to come to a decision. Was she there to give him care Or was she just a vision?

Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |

The art Of Spring

Bright blue skies on a spring day
Fulfills my horizon
Blue birds and robins pass me by

Mountain, trees, and animals
Priase God Abroad
The frsh air bring forth calmness
A quiet serene a waits my soul

Red orange and violets
Represents God's glory
Flowers slowly rise with the sun
And water crickets sings songs of glory

Fresh water arises with the scent 
Of of sweet savory of God's spices
Beach rolls in the lazy tide
I sit back and enjoy it all

The art of spring is glorification
Of all tings God created
He's the world famous artist


Copyright © Angela Wilson | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cowboy |

The Concert

The Concert

In a crowded concert hall musicians stir.
Coming to life, the wind slowly swings a loose screen door.
Half a mile away, the wide open door is but a dot
Diminishing the darkness from the heavens above.
Through, shines a spotlight
a single stalactite of the sun;

A note sweeps across the hall, amidst the chattering of insects.
Hearts pound, fists clench and tremble, 
In the desert, heat shimmering carries a whimpering,
awaiting the breaking of drought.
Cumulous swirls.  Dust. Blackened bunches of grass swept free from war hardened roots.
The orchestra tunes. A rolling clap echoing off cliff and canyon walls.
Demanding attention. The Chaotic warm-up decrescendos, 
falling away and the now darkened hall waits in silence.

The conductor, lifts one hand gingerly,
mirroring the gods, lightly commanding the elements.
First violinist appears and bows dutifully.
Taking her seat in the company.
Then, slowly, painfully, music begins.
Soft as down, distant, slow.
All ears crane to catch the first drops lightly falling on sweltering desert stone.
A simple melody, yet boldly wrote
to saturate. Composed solely to touch the lives of those who know.
Picking up speed, loose and free, diving harmonies lifting morale, settling dreams.
Running down trunks and off limbs
dancing down canyons, pattering on tin
Lathering every pattern, every page and music stand
Note and instrument
There, for all in the dim to see
The resounding proof 
of a hope that literally floats on the breeze.  

Then, brass unwrap mutes and salute,
with percussive cracks, pounding the steaming ground.
Strings float in and out in torrents, near, far, wave after wave.
A thousand voices breaching and expanding beyond the horizon.
Surpassing the sun's intensity.
Then, lightning flashes coda and the final cadence booms.

Uproarious applause.

Copyright © Trey Pearson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cowboy |


Deer linger in the bitterbrush
Below the gambel oak—
The brittle fern shows no concern
For killdeer or cowpoke.

The miner’s candle lights our way
Now lost in limber pine—
The water birch does not besmirch
Beargrass at timberline.

Sky pilots bend on mountain side
Dark as the black hawthorn—
A horned lark rests on the ninebark—
Between the two we’re torn.

We journey south through water oak,
Coral bean, supple jack—
We ride beneath magnolia leaf
And miss not what we lack.

A canebrake rattler comes too close,
Like death in the sweet bay—
Chinaberry makes us tarry
This oleander day.

Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative |

The Wagon Train


The fire burned warm and brightly,
    As the little band of wagons were gathered close and their animals were 
tethered tightly.
The ladies sat about preparing meals for the coming day,
     While the men folk took on chores there wasn’t nary time for play.
Scouts were still out and their water was getting low,
     Restricting their selves was the only way to go.
The wagon boss was talking on changing their course,
      Said things ain’t looking good, best we prepare for the worse.
He said I know another way but it’ll be harder at first.
     But about a weeks ride south there’ll be plenty of water to fill our thirst.
Bright and early next morn the little train pulled out,
    Changing its direction added miles there was no doubt.
As they slowly plodded on the desert took on a new look,
    But the sun still shone brightly in the day they all cooked.
The third day in the scout came riding up,
     Said it’s a good thing ya’ll changed directions as he reached for the cup.
He said the last three water holes were only sporting dust,
     Real early next morning the old scout lit out said he’d find water for it was a 
He strapped a couple of small kegs on an ole pack mule,
      Took along a shovel in cased he’d need a tool.
Less than a day out he was taken by surprise,
       Found an old dry creek bed that had just been on a rise.
There stood a solid rock basin as full as it could be,
       He plopped down and drank his fill then rested for a moment by an old 
mesquite tree.
He filled up the little kegs then he headed on back,
       When he caught up with the train he told of the water and said there were all 
kinds of animal tracks.
Next day they made it there to this little glory hole,
      And rested up for a few days and then took off to their destined goal.
 You just hope for the best, 
       And make sure your guide knows the way west.
There is no guarantees whether you make it or not,
       The trip out west you’re either wet and freezing or you’re dirty and hot.

Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007

Details | Cowboy |

Grass and Water

His name was John Paul Slavens, an old time buckaroo 
when he was young, he’d made a hand, knew just what to do. 
He had a soft hand with horses, he knew the ways of cow 
He treated women like a lady, not like men do now. 

He was good with "youngins" and when the work was done 
he’d tell a story , spin a yarn, have a little fun. 
He was never mean or surly, because he’d come to know 
The good book’s always right, we’ll reap just what we sow. 

JP worked with us kids, he’d smile the times we’d fail 
He’d keep us working and learning, riding the cowboy trail. 
And sometimes during the lessons, one of us kids would slip 
into a place a cow had been and left her little... "chip". 

JP’d laugh when we made a "face" slap his knee a time or two 
He’d say, "It’s only grass and water!" as we tried to wipe off that "goo". 
Well time moved on, his winter came, I watched Old J.P. die 
I know he’s gone to Heaven, riding for the "Boss" in the sky. 

Up there the water’s always good, the grass is stirrup high 
He’s a happy cowhand, riding in the sweet by and by. 
As I’ve traveled down life’s trail, I’ve "slipped" a time or two 
And more than once I’ve found myself, "stepping’ in brown goo". 

I think back to my childhood with Old J.P. showing me the way 
of thinking and working like a cowboy, I can still hear him say; 
"It’s only grass and water!" I realize all ain’t lost, 
I pick up the pieces, try again, disregard the cost. 

The worst probably won’t kill you, tomorrow’s another day, 
just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, try different way. 
I’ve begun to realize what I wish would go to another 
Is just my little trail to ride... It’s all just Grass and Water!

Copyright © Casey Allen | Year Posted 2005

Details | Cowboy |

Robbery at Dry Gulch

the cactus stood in surprise
with his arms to the sky
while the sun took his water not his life
sun told the prairie dogs
this is a hold up!
get in yo holes!
nosy rodents get shot  with heatstrokes
little ms vegetation
close yo eyes and you won't die
dry desert!, run them
permanent bodies of water out of town!
create a dust storm!
sheriff ain't around!
he and his posse clouds are stormin
on the other side of them mountains
cactus!, you tell sheriff rainfall
he is yella!, and to erratic!
we don't see , violent stormy weather , in these parts
ya'll remember
that tomorrow
is another dry gulch day

Copyright © L.C. Smith Jr. | Year Posted 2006

Details | Epic |

About The Year '72 Part 1

About the year '72
I mean nineteen hundred and '72
It's a year we'll not forget
The snow began October 1st
Day after day there was more and to make it worse
The winds were fierce, The snow did move 
Covering up any and everything in it way
Billy would plow us out 
As I'd take the kids to school,
Wait for me and plow me back in was the rule.
He'd then be free to begin his feeding chores
He had a cleat tractor, (I called it a cat)
Which he used to dig out the hay stacks and feed with
He’d cable the stack onto the hay sled
And head for the pastures where the cattle were fed
He’d put it in low gear and climb aboard the stack of hay
And pitch it to the eager critters along the way
Pasture after pasture, herd after herd
Until a stack and a half had been fed.
He’d park the rig.  
In his pickup were the tools to break the ice in the tanks
Usually an axe and the pitch fork it’d take
He’d chop up the ice and pitch it out of the tank
Giving the cattle fresh water to drink
Twice and sometime three a day
To make sure the water would help wash down the hay
This accomplished he’s scatter mineral cubes
To ensure the health of his herd.
Then and only then would he come into dinner
And a chance to get warm before he went out again
The remainder of the day was spent 
Digging out hay for the next days feed.
Which usually had to be dug out again the next morn.
Chopping more ice to clear the water supply.
When time came to get the kids he’d drop all 
And plow me out and plow us back in
When we were home safe he’d be off to the shop
To work on equipment that was in need of repair 
To be ready to go to work the next day

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007