Best Bronc Poems
Lecherous Luther was wont to grope
He ceased to function at the end of a rope!
Here lies Cletus as stiff as a board
He slipped on the ice and busted his gourd!
Here rests our dear Ruby who failed to duck
She was beaned on her noggin by a hockey puck!
Egbert the boxer took a fatal jab to the jaw
He died on the spot for failing to yaw!
Interred below is Purvis rigid and prone
Alas, he choked on a chicken's bone!
How we lament the loss of Naomi our sister
She was whisked up and away by a Kansas twister!
Dudley kept in shape by regularly joggin'
Alas, he tripped and fell crackin' his noggin!
Phineas was laid to rest for his eternal snooze
He died too young because of his fondness for booze!
Wilfried didn't heed the warning regarding the curve
He met his doom in a Lamborghini for failing to swerve!
While breaking a bronc Tex was abruptly unhorsed
Perhaps the task would've gone better outsourced!
Categories:
bronc, death, fate, humorous,
Form:
Epitaph
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-KFwPNkS6U
Eddie was a braggart,
At least we thought as much.
His lower lip was loaded,
A three finger dip of snuff…
My mind said, “I think not.”
And he claimed to be a rider,
Bragging of his chaps.
Black leather with blue fringes,
Sportin’ bunnies on the sides.
Said he’d show us all someday…
My mind said, “I think not.”
He was bow-legged as he stood,
Like he’d been upon a bronc.
But when the braggart claimed
He could chug a quart o’ beer…
My mind said, “I think not.”
The day came that we saw his prize,
The heralded leather chaps.
He treated them like china
In that tissue paper wrap.
Did that mean he could ride?
My mind said, “I think not.”
Eddie had no money,
So we anteed up his mount.
And when they called his number,
He strapped on spurs and chaps.
Then, loaded up another
Three finger dip of snuff.
Is this how cowboys do it?
My mind said, “I think not.”
He climbed the fence and lowered himself
Aboard a mad black mare,
Screwed his left hand in the riggin’
Threw his right hand in the air,
And said but one word softly,
“Outside!"
I’m glad that I was there.
That mare pitched to and fro.
He spurred her when she grounded,
Then with all four in the air.
And when the buzzer sounded,
He threw his right boot over
Landing both boots on the ground.
Is this how cowboys do it?
The other boys had not!
He folded up his chaps
Before he took a step,
And walking to the announcer’s stand
“Where’s my cash?” He quipped.
That night in celebration,
Eddie chugged a quart o’ beer
With three finger dip in place!
I'm proud that I was there.
If that’s how cowboys do it,
Then I’ve met one,
Face to face!
Categories:
bronc, cowboy-western,
Form:
Free verse
Hank had cowboyed and rodeoed fer nigh on forty years,
Ridin' in sleet, rain and snow a-herdin' cantankerous steers.
His hide was tough as leather and his legs was slightly bowed,
But brandin' dogies and fixin' fences was all he ever knowed!
His gut was made of iron from a diet of taters, beans and bacon.
Many times he was throwed from his hoss but his will remained unshaken.
He'd been bit by rattlesnakes and scarred from many barroom brawls,
And kicked by many a skittish bronc while muckin' out their stalls!
When tryin' to halt stampedes, Hank was often gravely gored,
And was hoarse from yellin' and cussin' at that riotous horde.
When shoein' hosses they often left an imprint on his chest,
Where flyin' hoofs landed leavin' him angry and depressed!
He didn't git rich and couldn't hoard money fer a rainy day;
Not much chance of accumulatin' such on a cowpokes meager pay.
His bed was usually 'neath the stars with his saddle fer a pillow,
Sharin' space with his old dog Spike and an occasional armadillo!
One day he up and told the boss, "I've had my fill of a cowboy's life.
I'm a-quittin' as of now. My old bones is weary from all this strife.
I'm saddle sore and tired of bunkhouse livin' and all yer stingin' slurs.
You kin take this job and shove it 'cause I'm a-hangin' up my spurs!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Categories:
bronc, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Hank had rode the range a-punchin' cattle fer nigh on fifty years,
Ridin' through Texas northers and brandin' cantankerous steers.
He'd herded ornery longhorns along the Chisolm Trail to Abilene.
He'd signed on with the Triple D Ranch when he was about seventeen.
Hank had broke many a wild bronc and a heap of times was throwed,
And ridin' the saddle all them years, his legs was grievously bowed!
He put his loyal hoss Old Dan out to pasture and decided to retire,
To take quill in hand, reminisce and toss off verse by a glowin' fire.
He wrote about pullin' cattle-guard on dark and stormy nights;
The grandeur of the starry skies and the spectacular Northern Lights;
Splendid risin's of the sun and its magnificent settin's at end of day,
And sleepin' 'neath the mellow moon when it was time to hit the hay.
Hank wrote of the meager pay and many suppers of beans and bacon,
And the same for breakfast with acrid-tastin' java when he'd awaken!
The evenin' campfires with his pards a-singin' 'long with the harmonica,
And, yes, he wrote of a long-lost love, his dance hall queen, Suemonica.
He wrote about long, hot and dusty days in the saddle a-mendin' fences,
Of buffalo, antelope, tumbleweed and the beauty of God's great expanses.
His last poem spoke of the epitaph he wanted etched upon his stone:
"I ain't one to moan, But, Lord I was hopin' this ride You'd postpone!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Categories:
bronc,
Form:
Rhyme
Hate, a saddle Bronc
That bucks not the spectator
It bucks you alone
Categories:
bronc, hate,
Form:
Haiku
Some people are of the belief, that teacher come from one place
From a school or university, with degrees all over the wall
Know great big fancy words, recites Shakespeare
With IQ's a mile high, that would put most to a disgrace
When in reality, have no common sense at all
Have read all the books and can pass any test that might appear
Which is all fine and good, but there is a limit to everything
Like a preacher needs to practice what he preaches after a sermon
Like a teacher, should be able to use what he teaches in the field
If they cannot, all that knowledge doesn't mean a thing
Or he did not learn from his lesson
Therefore not much in his overall yield
I have been to a university and have a degree
It is just a piece of paper, not sure where the diploma is at
Vietnam War was going on and seemed like a good thing at the time
It was BS and so was the degree
Their version of ranching did not fit under my cowboy hat
But were ever so happy to take every nickel and dime
My best teacher have been old hobos and old cowboys
The ones that rode the rails and have been on a bronc or two
Knowing quitting time is when the job is done, not punching time clocks
Not saying a word for days at a time of making Saturday night noise
Working with what they had and doing what they had to do
THE REAL PROFFESSORS OF THE SCHOOL OR HARD KNOCKS
Categories:
bronc, educationschool, teacher, old, time,
Form:
Best Ever Saw
I’m gonna tell you a story,
Of the saltiest preacher I know.
The kinda man to charge hell,
With a hand full of snow.
Now I was stompin out broncs.
For the ranch W M,
Tunin’ up for the rodeo
That I planed to win.
When this tall talkin’ preacher,
Tells me about all my sin,
And tellin’ me about salvation,
That only with the lord could I win.
So I tells him God never been,
On no killer broncs as these.
Only his counter part,
Can tame the likes of these.
But that ol’ preacher was a believer,
And said God can move mountains,
And only through his word,
Can you find out his plans.
I say’s true nuff,
I believe it’s a fact.
But I get you wouldn’t be so sanctomonios
If you got on catamouts back.
Well now that ol’ preacher
Up and calls my bluff
And toe’s into the sturrip
And settled down with a huff
Now Catamount likes what he does,
And does it right well.
And I knew this here preacher
Was going to get a real taste of hell
Ol’ Cat knew every trick
Writ in the book
And I’d lay wages to say he’s
The auther if you cared to look
Cat he start out easy to the left
And finishes out to the right
But that preacher sat that saddle
Jest holdin’ on tight
Then that mean ol’ bronc
Starts curly-wolfin’ it though the field
And I think that preacher
Knew ol’ Cat would never yield.
Next cat starts a sunfishin’
‘cuz he had new shoes he wanted to show
Oh. By the way they’re Nike’s
‘case you wanted to know.
But then that preacher was about
To give up and fall
The Wallmart attendant came out
And unplugged the pony from the wall
That goes to show you
The Lord works in strange ways
For I see that preacher ever’ week
‘Cuz I goes to church on Sundays.
Categories:
bronc, cowboy-western, funny, parody, god,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Spoons. . .
Bright and shiny artful spoons,
How much she loved them.
They covered her mauve walls
In rich wooden frames
Encased behind glass.
Each unique silver spoon
With its own special story to tell.
There was Montana. . .
A silver cowboy riding a
Bucking bronc, enamel inlaid,
On a twilight blue sky
In a shield shaped form. . .
Each spoon from a different
Place--each contained bits
And pieces of her past.
She recalled the spring day
At a rodeo filled with surprises
And how cold her ears were.
How he dropped his truck keys
In her lap to keep safe for him--
How they later danced the two step
And how warm her ears became.
Oh yes, her Montana spoon was
Indeed a very special spoon!
Then there was New York with
Niagara Falls depicted on the handle.
A flood of romantic emotions returned
With this little beauty, maid of the mist
Engraved meticulously in its bowl.
The thunder of the falls-- how they
Kissed her cheeks, how He kissed
Her cheeks, and how they both laughed.
Oh, New York would never be forgotten!
Then there was Arizona. . .
A tiny replica of the Grand Canyon
Encircled with desert flowers
Adorned its rust colored handle.
She recalled how she arrived at dusk.
How she marveled at the friendliness
Of the deer walking in the parking lot.
How her camera slipped from her hands
Into his. She remembered that was
The moment they met. He too was a
Photographer there to capture the sunset.
How the coffee they shared warmed
Their hands—how he warmed her heart.
Row after row, spoon after spoon,
Wall after wall. . . . could tell it all!
For the contest: "Simply, Absolutely, Utterly Just Art"
Sponsored by: Sami Al-khalili
Categories:
bronc, romancenew york, silver,
Form:
Narrative
Hey there Buckaroo
what’s your hurry?
Momma hollered after
her pride ‘n joy
she smiled swiftly
as little boots clomped
with spurs jingle janglin’
across the kitchen floor
“Aw Momma, don’t worry!
I’ll be home before dinner
but I drew the rank bronc
It’s a sure winner!”
Then whistling Lil Joe
and roping the cat
her boy mounted up
on his trusty hobby horse
“Don’t slam the door”
She said with a laugh
has the hinges rattled
& the old screen door crashed
He was already gone
riding silver screen dreams
that old grey black hat
setting low on his ears
Hey there Lil Buckaroo
Don’t be in such a hurry
Time passes quick enough
You still have stick ponies to curry
Too soon you’ll grow tall
& become a young man
chasing girls & fast cars
enjoy your childhood while you can
In a blink of an eye
or faster than that
you’ll no longer wear boots
toss a rope or wear that old hat
You’ll follow your own path
but where ever it leads
I hope you remember
Your Lil Buckaroo deeds
Hey Lil Buckaroo
slow down, what’s your hurry?
Don’t gallop too quickly
through these Buckaroo Days
© February 2003
Categories:
bronc, childhood, cowboy-western, family, happiness,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
Categories:
bronc, age,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Cowpoke Hank hired on fer a dollar a day and found.
He wuz knowed as the best bronc-buster around!
They wuz allus a roll-yer-own a-danglin' frum his lips,
And he wore a pair of 44 shootin' arns on his hips.
He wuz lean and lank and had spent nigh thirty years in the saddle.
He wuz bow-legged as a pliers havin' spent all that time astraddle!
Wearin' an old slouch hat, bandana and scruffy pointy-toed boots,
He'd throwed a ton uv steers ridin' outta county rodeo chutes!
"Thar stands the orn'riest critter alive!", the boss implied.
"They ain't no mustang 'round I cain't tame!", Hank replied.
Other cowpunchers ambled to the corral to enjoy the show,
And with knowin' grins watched as Hank earned his dough!
The bronc jes stood thar snortin' with fire in his eyes!
Hank could see trouble brewin'! Boys, wuz he in fer a su'prise!
Sech hossflesh he'd never rode! He'd never seen sech gyrations!
His old bones had never experienced sech joltin' sensations!
He wuz throwed, stomped and wedged agin' the fence.
With his pals cheerin' him on, things wuz a-gittin' tense!
He finally allowed, "Boys, I give up! He's done beat me good!
I reckon I'd better find myself another livelihood!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Categories:
bronc, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
Weeds and grass grow in the cracks
of sun-faded, crumbling pavement,
a parking lot that once was full
of stressed parents and cowboys nascent.
A grand sign over the entry
now is rotted two-thirds away,
this old piece of my childhood
truly has seen better days.
It was an old-west town once,
where we learned of the frontier,
now the totem pole is fallen down,
brings to my eye a sad tear.
The old Indian village, long gone,
is now just some concrete pads,
not the grand teepees I explored
back when I was just a lad.
The cavalry fort once rose proud,
a solid wall of rough-hewn logs,
now one rampart remains, broken,
sinking into a nearby bog.
It’s old flagpole still stands tall,
but Old Glory no longer flutters,
trash and graffiti lie about,
the whole place looks like a gutter.
And up at the bank where long ago
the ‘bandits’ always struck ad two,
I can recall how kids with cap guns
always ‘made’ them drop their loot.
Nearby is the big stable
where families could take trial rides,
the roof is gone, it’s been ten years
since any horse was inside.
Finally I see the arena
where rodeo riders ran wild,
wrestling steers, breaking a bronc,
clinging to a bull with style.
The old stands are half-collapsed,
the corral is full of small trees,
hard to believe it ever enrapt
young children in such revelry.
Some say it was P.C. parents
afraid of imaginary strife,
some say the Hollywood now
can’t make a western to save their life.
Others say that the owners died,
and their kids didn’t want to load,
whatever the reason, it was sad
the day the old-west town closed.
I hear that there are now big plans
to turn it all into a park,
a taxpayer-funded state debacle,
as such projects usually are.
They have their designs but we all
know what should really be done,
it should be rebuilt so that our kids
have a place to run ’round with cap guns.
Categories:
bronc, appreciation, childhood, eulogy, history,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Now, ol’ Twister Tom he was quite a cowboy find—
A real rock hard cowpoke, though the question begged—
Some say that he was a legend in his own mind,
He’d a been six foot six if he weren’t so bow-legged!
But standin’ five foot two he was a dryin’ breed,
So he took up wordin’ and became a poet!
At eighty-two years all the big world he had seed,
So he was a master bard before he knowed it!
So Tom the bronc twister he done went on a tour
And he read his poems at cowboy gatherin’s—
They liked his gravel voice and his odd looks for sure
And they loved all his colorful palatherin’s!
But there got to be so many versifiers,
That it started to seem lots of folks didn’t care—
So they all turned into cowboy verse deniers—
It was so dern crowded that nobody went there!
Tom joined the ranks of Barker, Kiskaddon and Clark,
Chapman, Morant, Fletcher and his great Knibbs—
“It shore beats singin’ ta all them cows in the dark,
And I don’t like wearin’ those overalls with bibs!”
And rarely in recitin’ did Tom make a flub,
But there was a lot he lacked in propriety—
They said he was so dern good he should join a club,
Like the famed Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
But with Twister Tom that just didn’t set too right—
Said, “I don’t want ta be in no society,
What takes in any ol’ buzzard just on his sight
And would accept as a member that likes of me!”
But they swore that he’d be a perfect candidate,
Yet he then said, “It seems there’s somethin’ you ferget—
Before I is one of you cowboy poet’s, mate—
They’s just one thang you overlooked – I ain’t dead yet!”
So ol’ Twister Tom he kept makin’ him a name,
He read his verse smooth and with no anxiety—
And when he was dead wound up in the hall of fame
And in the Dead Cowboy Poet’s Society!
Categories:
bronc, cowboy-western, death, funny, life,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Just one step and you whipped me,
You flung me in the air,
You flung me like I was nothing,
You didn’t feel, you didn’t care,
And you threw me at the fence,
Then you grabbed me by my hand,
And refused to let me run,
You refused to let me land,
And then you kicked my body,
You tried to kick my head,
You tried to kick my entire me,
To make sure that I was dead,
But then some clown stood between us,
He must have been insane,
And I stood, with one bruised hand raised,
To ride bareback bronc again.
Categories:
bronc, courage, emotions, endurance, feelings,
Form:
Personification
I heard tell some folks think cowboys built the West.
The only thing I know for sure is I always did my best
to give a man a good days work for an honest wage
ridin' among tumbleweeds and dried brush of sage.
I wear a Colt 45 to scare off rustlers and killin' snakes
and I don't play cutthroat poker with tinhorns or rakes.
It ain't never been an easy job, the life of a ranch hand,
herdin' cattle near the flowin waters of the Rio Grande,
but it's the only way I always wanted to spend my days,
beddin' down under the stars, watching the herd graze.
I'm keepin' one eye open for those wanderin' lil dogies,
chewin' on the end of what's left of smokin' my stogies.
I lassoed a proud stallion, and gentled that big paint.
He's been a good trail horse, so I got no complaint.
I was in love with a rodeo gal, a pretty lil' barrel rider
but she told me a cowboy wouldn't be a good provider.
So I strum my guitar, singing a lonesome cowboy song
about findin' a good woman who won't do me wrong.
One day I'll be an old cowpoke, lying up on that hill,
but not 'til my last roundup, and my body's had its fill
of ridin' the range, mendin' fences, ropin' mustangs,
and eatin' chuck wagon beans when the bell clangs.
I've been thrown off a bad bronc, name of Buckin' Jet,
but don't put my name on that tombstone; not just yet.
January 26, 2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Categories:
bronc, horse, perspective,
Form:
Rhyme