Best Cowboy Western Poems
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Like kin folk come to stay
A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids
That always get ‘n your way.
It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought,
There ain't much in-between.
You work like hell to make ’em good,
But still they’re sorta lean.
The ranch went under late last year,
The drought got mighty tough.
The boss held-out a long, long time,
But finally said, "enough!"
So here I am dispatchin’ cops
An’ watchin’ felons sleep,
In Junction, at the county jail,
A job I’ll prob’ly keep.
The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge,
Where older people stay,
A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors
To earn some ‘extra’ pay.
Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used,
It goes to payin’ rent,
An’ after all the bills are paid,
We wonder where it went.
We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps,
An' then our weddin' rings;
Then when we couldn't pay the loan,
They sold the 'dad-blamed' things.
We felt real bad a day or two
But then we let it go,
Cause it got Christmas for the kids
When money got real slow.
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Don't matter who you are;
They'll cost ya things you've set aside,
An' clean your cookie jar.
You'll loose some sleep an' worry some,
Won't pay to moan an' groan;
But hang on to your happiness,
They'll finally leave ya 'lone.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
His barn burned to the soil;
The flames licked at the Autumn sky,
The smoke as black as oil.
I dropped the torch onto the earth,
And felt the whole world turn,
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s barn,
I stood and watched it burn.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I set his horses free,
They galloped over grass and sand,
They galloped to the sea;
I dropped my whip onto the floor
And thoughts turned to my gun
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s herd,
I stood and watched them run.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I put him in the ground,
My bullets found his heart and brain,
He fell without a sound;
And as his lifeblood ebbed away
And light fled from his eyes,
I stood and watched Will Shepard leave,
I stood and watched him die.
And now I sit here in my cell
And through the bars I spy
The carpenter with wood and nails,
Who builds my gallows high;
My vengeance has been satisfied
As far as I can see,
For that old dog Will Shepard shot
Meant all the world to me.
A well-appointed cowpoke, of whom there are still a few,
Wanted to be properly clad for his first job interview.
So, to impress his potential and somewhat cynical boss,
He has a silver-studded saddle throwed across his hoss!
He's wearin' a ten-gallon hat, a Stetson if you please,
And a bandana 'round his neck to catch the dusty breeze.
The dude has a roll-yer-own a-danglin' from his lips,
And a shiny pair of forty-fours a-hangin' from his hips!
He's wearin' a hand-tooled leather belt of the finest grade,
And a "cowboy" shirt and a vest cut from top-grade suede!
A woolly pair of chaps covers his bow-legged knees,
And protects his Calvin Kleins that fit so tight they squeeze!
His gleamin' pair of Tony Lama boots with pointy toes,
Completes what he considers proper cowboyin' clothes.
The silver spurs on his boots glint in the noonday sun;
Ah, he's the ideal picture of a range-ridin' son-of-a-gun!
The boss, arms folded, feet spread, sportin' a knowin' grin,
Didn't seem to be impressed, much to the greenhorn's chagrin.
Sizin' him up from head to toe, he said, "You look fit and able",
Handed him a fork and shovel and sent him to the stable!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved
We’ve shared the trail, kicked up some dust,
An’ stood a storm or two.
We’ve rode the plains, the wide frontier,
The easy trails were few.
You’ve listened like some wise old sage
To ever thing I’ve said,
An’ as a friend, supported me,
No matter where it led.
I wished I coulda carried you,
The times you were in pain;
Or rustled up some kinda shed
To turn the blowin’ rain.
I’ve come up shy with some your needs,
You gave me more’n you got,
But in your silence, seemed to know,
I needed you a lot.
Compadre, friend, amigo, pard;
I called you all them things,
But there’s been times, I swear to God,
You musta had some wings,
An’ He sent you to care for me
Like no one had before.
If you’as a man an’ not a horse,
I couldn’t a-loved you more.
We gave this ranch our sweat an’ blood,
It’s yours as much as mine,
An’ raised our young’uns through the years,
An’ Lord they’re doin’ fine.
They’re blazin’ trails an’ raisin’ dust,
They’re off an’ runnin’ free.
We’ve taught ‘em well an’ made ‘em strong;
Compadre, you an’ me.
I always knew the day would come
When we would fine’ly ride,
To join the Maker’s round-up time,
Up on the Great Divide.
I sorta hoped we’d share the trail
But this was not to be,
So, you go on, we’ll ride again;
Compadre, you an’ me.
Come and sit here by the fire
Watch the flickering firelight
Let me touch your lips with mine
Will you keep me warm tonight
I've been here reminiscing
Just feeling kind of sad
Wondering why angels love outlaws
And all the times we had
We've been through Hell together
Feeling the pleasure and the pain
Stood side by side against the world
In the sunshine and the rain
Outlaws live their lives on the edge
Their castles built with sand
Why angels fall in love with them
It's hard to understand
So while we're sitting by this fire
And thinking of all the times you cried
This outlaw loves his angel
I want you forever by my side.
You think you’re alone out on the range
Sittin’ silent under starry sky,
Just a marvelin’ at the universe
And wonderin’ ‘bout that ol’ question: why?
You shake your head at worlds of worry,
Knowin’ it ain’t often that you’ll find,
All the answers to your queries
Beneath the clear black sky and pine.
You wonder if we rose up from mud
And walked straight and tall upon this earth—
Or was it all created in a moment—
A conception that gave us true birth.
Are we all no more than those monkeys
Evolvin’ slowly down life’s long line?
Or is there more to earth and heaven
Touched by something truly sublime?
We keep on punchin’ clocks and cattle
And tryin’ to get through each new morn—
But is there more to life than dyin’
And will we somehow be reborn?
All the cattle know my hard proddin’
As I lead them along time’s sad way—
We live for but a flashin’ moment,
As we watch life go by in one short day.
So make the best of trails you ride, cowboy—
Each tomorrow is both yours and mine—
And gaze long at stars in that vast sky
Placed there by intelligent design.
When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone,
They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday,
In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray.
I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years.
I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers,
Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end,
Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men.
Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame,
But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name.
Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone,
Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone.
The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed
And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade.
From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men
To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again.
A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair,
For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there.
And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade,
The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid.
I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe.
I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue.
Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way,
Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday.
Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will,
That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still;
When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone
And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.
Whether poets, showmen or philosophers,
Or mere cowboys who follow herds—
They all want to leave behind a lasting mark—
More than frail paper etched with words.
But the cold, hard truth still lies in the doing
And all but a blessed few will fail—
But on we go like bison over the cliff—
Hoping our wings sprout and we sail.
And like restless sleepwalkers we do wander
From one thing and then to the next—
Till we find what it is that will then save us
To put life in proper context.
So on we scribble and strive for the right phrase—
Catch meaning and life in birds—
Put emotions and feelings we briefly hold
On this frail paper etched with words.
I squint my eyes from the glaring sun
As I drive cattle across the open range.
I am the youngest hand, so I ride drag
Covered by the dust stirred into the wind.
This is the life I have chosen
To hear the steady creaking of my saddle
The songs of the cowboys as they lead the herd
The lowing cattle as they smell water.
This is the life I live
To see the endless stretches of prairie
The hens and rabbits scuttling away
The ponderous beasts flowing in a living stream.
This is the life I love
Watching the horses graze peacefully at night
The cattle milling about during my night ride
My horse's gentle breathing as I circle them.
May this be my lot while here I remain
May I drink from the freely flowing streams
And breathe the pairie air until I die.
Whether life be short or long
May I ever onward toil, and be content
With the satisfaction of honest work
With the steady pounding of hooves
Biscuits and chili by a wavering fire
And sleeping under the sky on the open range.
I left my
heart in
a magical
place. A
place that
holds years
of wonder and
awe. A place that
knows me better
than any other place
I’ve been. This place
has changed me and
molded me into the
person I am now.
The forests, trees, creeks,
and open skies instilled in
me a love for God’s works.
The harshness of the winters has
taught me to be patient and to endure. My small
town is where I learned the small-town work ethic;
you don’t get what you don’t earn and earning what
you want takes a little bit of sweat and tears. Here
I learned that you don’t have to be blood to be
family. Brothers and sisters are made throughout
years of school together. We relied on each other to
be happy. This place will forever hold my heart and
soul. I am a small town girl through and through.
It’s who I will always be. Forever. Thanks IDAHO
for shaping me into something more than I was.
Wind drinkers flow with strength and grace.
Thunder pounds from their hooves.
Run wild Mustang, Run.
As one they "run" across parched earth,
born free and "wild" from the time of birth.
Their manes flow "as" water, in the wind.
Hooves dig in, "the" desert floor, they rend.
Full moon at "midnight" leads their way,
while in the night "sky" their ancestors play.
Paula Swanson
For the contest: Middle Of The Road
Sponsored by H Garvey Daniel Esquire
Placement: 1st
Here’s a short story of a cowboy I knew
Whose name was Beg Your Pardon.
He wasn’t a gun slinger in the usual way,
Though his hands were fast
And his foots were faster.
But when Beg started shootin’
There was nuthin’ but disaster.
No worries for Beg, he had none you see,
Since he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
But his pappy got ugly
And yelled in his son’s face,
“Until you can shoot
As the son of mine should,
I want you the h*** out of my place.”
Beg had some tricks up his very long sleeves,
Coz he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
He’d show his pappy his skill
There’s no doubt about that.
Yet time was a-wasten
So Beg he did hasten,
But first he took off his hat.
He then wound up his body like a Kansas twister
And slung a cow pie in his usual way.
And broke every record
Did our cow pie ringer.
Since there was no one better,
Pappy exclaimed to his son,
“Beg Your Pardon, I beg your pardon
Heck, you’re some kinda’ slinger!”
For Wild Wild West Contest
“Back in my day” his stories all would start
I’d lean in close to listen though I knew ‘em all by heart
He was a living legend, one of Texas’ best
Not just another lawman with a tin star on his chest
He fought along “RIP” Ford & John Coffee Hayes
When Texas was wooly & wild, back in the good old days
“One Riot, One Ranger” I’ve heard it said many times before
from fighting off Commanches to turning the tide of a range war
A Ranger never faltered, never imagined he could lose a fight
He’d go hell bent for leather just to turn a wrong to right.
From Nueces to Salado Creek he patrolled the border land
Dealing out swift justice with a smoking Colt sitting easy in hand
Hardin, Iron Jacket & Sam Bass thought they could get away
The Rangers ran them down to ground, the stories still are told today
Great Granddad was a hero, one of Texas’s best
Not just another lawman with a tin star on his chest
He passed on the legacy & the stories I’ll now tell
as I hear his voice echo when I start off, “ I remember well”
So tip your hat & raise your glass to the Rangers out there on patrol
and to all the Shadow Rangers, Rest in Peace, God rest your soul
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
There were the usual horse collars, clocks and various sundries on display.
Havin' no need fer horse collars and sech, I quickly passed them by,
But a paintin' of an abandoned stagecoach really caught my eye!
The artist depicted it in a field overgrown with tumbleweeds and brambles.
It looked so very forlorn, its former glory now in a total shambles!
I contemplated this poignant scene and mused upon its past,
And how it may have helped conquer the western frontier so very vast!
I could picture the cranky driver a-cussin' and crackin' his leather whip,
Stingin' the ears of his cantankerous mules urgin' them on to a faster clip!
As they raced across arid deserts and rounded treacherous mountain curves,
How the passengers must've been jostled, gittin' on each others nerves!
I visualized the characters that old stage must've transported to the west!
There were gamblers seekin' suckers, concealin' ample aces in their vest!
Platoons of preachers clutchin' their Bibles were numbered 'mongst the hosts,
And young and innocent teachers were headin' west to teach at army posts!
Soiled doves, plyin' their trade, were headed fer sawdust saloons.
I wondered if the old stage had ever been sacked by outlaws and their goons.
I reckon the old derelict had earned its repose - its axles no longer squeal.
If only that old stage could speak! My oh my! The secrets it might reveal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
God knows I'm a country girl,
and wouldn't trade it for nothin' in this world.
Long brown hair and big brown eyes,
I'll take you on an exciting ride,
to the big beautiful countryside.
Get ready to hang on tight.
Gonna give you the ride of your life.
Hair whippin' wild in the wind,
hangin' out with my country friends.
This is where the fun begins.
Raised up on fried chicken and red beans,
sporting my tight fittin' jeans.
God knows I'm a country girl,
and wouldn't trade it for nothin' in this world.
We can sit on the front porch swing,
maybe sing or even daydream.
Gonna have a mighty fine time,
sippin' on that strawberry wine.
Gonna live a mighty long time,
on this beautiful countryside.
Boy, I hope you enjoy the ride with me,
maybe we'll go fishing or even swimming,
watch the crane spread it's wings.
Ducks gathering on the big wide open pond,
lovebirds making a bond.
Yes, God knows I'm a country girl.
There is one last thing I have to say.
Barefoot and fancy free,
plain as the big outdoors I will be.
Why don't you take a ride with me?
Let me show you the big fine country.