Best Laredo Poems
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Gift from God they called him, tall, lean and proud, the big iron
hanging on his belt, had opened many a shroud. He rode an Apaloosa,
a stallion maned and tailed, and had followed a gang of four outlaws for a month,
from Abilene, all the way down to Laredo. One evening as the sun hit sand and
rabbits stowed away, Jed Seddon, scouting for the gang, saw Mateo on his bay.
He shot him once and hit his hand but Mateo jumped down quickly from
his mount and circled around Jed below.
two slugs
to his back he pumped
three to go
For Haibun contest 30/7/15
Limerick: Once a lolling lassie from Laredo
Once a lolling lassie from Laredo
Jumped on a bronco to enter a rodeo
But the steed fell in love
With the curve of her alcove
And sped away on a honeymoon to Mejico.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
At sea there's squalls
as pressure falls
It's not surprising
as warm air's rising
From the cloud
there's thunder, loud
Lightning flashes
More thunder crashes
Hail stone falls
Large icy balls
Precipitating
Winds rotating
Air spins quicker
More lightning flicker
A funnel forms
'neath thunder storms
Touches down
Destroys the town
of Laredo
Class 5 tornado
Ireland,
ancient song of my soul,
a haunting melody
that strains against the wind
and leaves me searching
for my distant pasts.
Monasterevin, Armagh, Inish Mor…
I hear your voices.
The breeze on your emerald grass
like a pennywhistle plays,
while the waves on your rocky shores
like boudrans pound out
“Come Home”
In the green fields,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Wandering trails, Armagh to Arizona,
Endless searching for the songs of the past,
Riding ancient roads, St. Mullins to Oklahoma,
Within the Circle that always will last.
Tsa-la-gi,
song of my ancient soul,
a lyric chant
that floats across time
and whispers to me
to seek out
Kindred Spirits of the Circle.
Tennessee, Trail of Tears, Tahlequah…
I hear your voices.
The breeze on your bluestem
like a cedar flute drifts upward,
while the rain, heavy on sandstone
like ceremonial drums beats out
“Come Home”
In the red dirt,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Familiar trails, Galway to Oklahoma,
No fears of what the future will bring,
Roscommon to the desert Saguaros of Arizona,
Hear spirit chorus of the Old Ones sing.
Destiny,
song of all ancient souls,
timeless hymn
that wafts through shadow-lives
and murmurs to me
to grasp and keep close
those with like hearts.
Arizona, Kansas, Montana, Oklahoma…
I hear your voices.
Your breath on the air
like pipes sings the song of forever,
while your hearts full of memory
burst with recognition and throb out
“Come Home”
From one side of the Earth,
through the center to the other,
Armagh to Arizona,
Doolin to Oklahoma,
Green fields,
Red dirt,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Boudran beats slowly,
Cedar flute rings lowly,
Singing the songs of the places I’ve been,
From sweet Ireland’s green valleys,
To the red dirt beneath me,
My soul keeps dancing around the Circle again.
Note: Tsa-la-gi = Cherokee language for the name Cherokee.
Italics sung to the tune of “The Bard of Armagh”, AKA “The Streets of Laredo”
As I walked down the streets of Laredo
I spied a Mexican hot potato
But better by far
A Cuban cigar
With a spicy Comanche tomato
So you think you know just how us cowboys should behave
But listening to your jawing, I hear Chisholm spinning in his grave
A Cowboy who don’t drink or cuss, I’ll tell you that’s not right
Ain’t you heard of Old Whiskey Row, Where two cowboys got tight?
To go to tying knot’s in the Devil’s tail took more than lemonade
There’s been liquor on the bar in every movie John Wayne made
Back when Chisholm blazed the trail & cattle claimed the West
It was music round a campfire, as the hands settled for a rest
They’d often talk of home or sing a tune to pass the time
You’ve seen that in the movies, when it only cost a dime
They sang of Laredo, Lil Joe or maybe Annie Laurie
Right then & there you decided what a Cowboy ought to be
There are some things we might share with Hoppy, Roy & Gene
But real cowboys won’t ever be like those on the Disney scene
Any buckaroo can sure clean up sharp for a Saturday night dance
Even be persuaded to use pretty words when sparking a romance
We pick a little guitar and some can make that harmonica wail
But you’re just as apt to hear La Bamba as you are a song of the trail
Those cowboys that you talk of, all slick & squeaky clean
All pressed and starched, with proper speech, they ride a silver screen
You see that feller in the corner, all tattered & dusty, that’s the real McCoy
Battered old Stetson, mud & manure spackled jeans, a bonafide Cowboy
He might be rough around the edges and his language a bit coarse
But when he sets to working cattle, You swear he was born on a horse
We are only human after all; sometimes we just need to cut loose
Shoot out the lights, kiss all the ladies; drink our fair share of the booze
We still love our mommas and say grace with most meals
We just don’t handle being boxed, can’t stand the way it feels
Those who don’t tolerate a lot of rules choose the cowboy way
Much like this cowboy you see here before you today
I can see you are trying to sort this out in your head
For all you know of cowboys is what you’ve seen and read
I surely hope this little talk about cowboys made it all a bit clearer
The only one we answer to is the maker and the face in the mirror
I hate to burst your bubble, still you best here it from me
Cowboys can’t be pigeon holed; they must be wild & free
Catherine Lilbit Devine © September 19, 2005
Ireland,
ancient song of my soul,
a haunting melody
that strains against the wind
and leaves me searching
for my distant pasts.
Monasterevin, Armagh, Inish Mor…
I hear your voices.
The breeze on your emerald grass
like a pennywhistle plays,
while the waves on your rocky shores
like boudrans pound out
“Come Home”
In the green fields,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Wandering trails, Armagh to Oklahoma,
Endless searching for the songs of the past,
Riding ancient roads, St. Mullins to Claremore ,
Within the Circle that always will last.
Tsa-la-gi,
song of my ancient soul,
a lyric chant
that floats across time
and whispers to me
to seek out
Kindred Spirits of the Circle.
Tennessee, Trail of Tears, Tahlequah…
I hear your voices.
The breeze on your bluestem
like a cedar flute drifts upward,
while the rain, heavy on sandstone
like ceremonial drums beats out
“Come Home”
In the red dirt,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Familiar trails, Galway to Oklahoma,
No fear of what the future will bring,
River Shannon to the muddy banks of the Red,
Hear the spirit chorus of the Old Ones sing.
Destiny,
song of all ancient souls,
timeless hymn
that wafts through shadow-lives
and murmurs to me
to grasp and keep close
those with like hearts.
Green Country, Panhandle, My Oklahoma…
I hear your voices.
Your breath on the air
like pipes sings the song of forever,
while your hearts full of memory
burst with recognition and throb out
“Come Home”
From one side of the Earth,
through the center to the other,
Armagh to Oklahoma,
Doolin to Chelsea,
Green fields,
Red dirt,
Roots run deep,
Intertwined.
Boudran beats slowly,
Cedar flute rings lowly,
Singing the songs of the places I’ve been,
From sweet Ireland’s green valleys,
To Oklahoma red dirt beneath me,
My soul keeps dancing around the Circle again.
Note: Tsa-la-gi = Cherokee language for the name Cherokee.
Italics sung to the tune of “The Bard of Armagh”, AKA “The Streets of Laredo”
Adapted from the original for Oklahoma Cowboy Poetry Week, third week in April
2006
My Pa warn't much for music,
Not like ya hear today.
Them tune he learnt and taught me,
Were from a bygone day.
But Saturday nights were special;
At least they were to me.
Cause that was when we'd play them songs
I learnt at Daddy's knee.
Bald headed as a cue ball,
A grin from ear to ear.
He'd hum and play, and out would come
That music I'd revere.
He'd plunk his old five-stringer,
I'd make my old blues harp sing.
Ole Blue would start a-howling,
Till you couldn?t hear a thing.
Then Ma sung "Rock of Ages"
Her voice was pure delight.
The cats and dogs got terrorized,
And ran off into the night.
We'd continue our commotion,
Then really harmonize.
You knew the blend was perfect,
'Cause there'd be tears in Papa's eye.
Them old songs, sad and poignant,
Would soak you to the bone.
You could hear an old train whistle,
Or feel the chain gang moan.
Stooped right there with the slave man,
As he toiled out in the sun.
Or I'd sense the wild Missouri,
Watch it ripple, see it run.
We'd walk streets of Laredo,
A poor cowboy in the dirt,
His last request while dying,
With blood caked on his shirt.
Special words and music,
At least they were to me.
Sad old songs, just known to us,
Learnt there at Daddy's knee.
Well, Pa's been gone for ages,
Though it seems like yesterday,
When we would play together,
The world would flow away.
There's night your mind just wanders back,
On how it used to be.
So long ago, in simple times,
And the music at his knee.
I'll grasp my old harmonica,
Now cracked and full of rust.
Then squeak and squawk a couple notes,
And soon there's only us.
Out'a nowhere comes the fragrance
Of heady mountain dew.
Smoke rolling in an old wood stove,
As it dances up the flue.
As I fall back to Laredo,
The chain gang hammers ring,
I Taste dust from Georgia cotton fields,
As my harp begins to sing.
And then I hear his banjo,
I sense his presence near,
Oh God, I loved this music,
That only I can hear.
While in my head we're playing
And truly harmonize.
It must be close to perfect,
Tears mist my weathered eyes.
Again, we play together,
Just like it used to be.
For only I now know the songs
I learned at Daddy's knee....
My Laredo boots are red
My Clairol lipstick is hot
My Wrangler jeans are blue
My Leather Jacket is not
My tastes are expensive
My Dell lap top is too
My Samsung Phone is silver
My Jeep Liberty is new
Love all brand names
Can’t live without a few
So I end up spending
More than I need to
Sterling Silver or White Gold
Prada or Gucci Purse
Only Grey Goose Vodka
Having good taste is a curse
My certified pedigree Maltese
Is the love of my soul
And drinking Kenwood red wine
Is just how I roll
The rig rolled through Laredo
On the road to San Antone,
Its eighteen wheels of commerce
Headed north from parts unknown.
The shipping costs all paid to
Their coyote chaperones.
The plan was clear in concept,
But the method imprecise.
If not the dehydration,
Suffocation would suffice;
The Black Hole of Calcutta
Brought to Texas for a price.
This third verse offers balance,
But provides no peace of mind,
To see these modern slavers
Treating people worse than swine.
And how cheaply they regard them
Once they've crossed the borderline.
A strong wind blows across the Texas sand,
As the sun is sinking low in the sky.
Three men ride into the town of Laredo,
In the distance you hear a coyote's cry.
Ponies hitched outside a Cantina,
Inside is laughter as a guitar plays.
Covered in trail dust, the three men enter,
Shots ring out and then a deadman lays.
Seven weeks earlier in El Paso,
A man walked into a hotel room.
A couple in bed, after being wed,
He pulled his pistol and shot the groom.
With a look of hatred on his face,
Fired his second shot and killed the bride.
Then out of town on his horse he rode,
While the two young lovers bled inside.
Story was, this cold-blooded killer,
Had once been in love with this young lady.
He swore that no other man would have her,
But she knew his intentions were shady.
Now in the Cantina, lying face down,
His corpse was looked on by all the others.
No judge or jury would seal his fate,
Justice was served by her three brothers.
Listening to folk records in my room all day,
as a kid, to another world I'd withdraw
to the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay.
Later, in music I heard, in pictures I saw,
the Irish roots that our happy and sad songs betray,
like the bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
So I raise a toast, to the wonder they bring -
the melodies of Ireland that make us all sing.
Like Johnny, I'd come marching proudly home again.
Then, once I heard Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye play,
it seemed then, that in bloodshed no one can win,
and from that gentle, green country, so far away,
I acquired a notion, that all war is a sin,
a message in the wind, still blowing today.
So, here's to peace, and the end of war's sting,
and the sad songs of Ireland, that make us sing.
It's a joy to laugh and it's fun to dance and drink.
I say, "welt the floor your trotters shake".
One for all and all for one, our glasses clink -
another noggin of whiskey for heaven's sake.
So raise your voices and give us a wink,
belting funny ditties like Finnegin's Wake,
and here's to fun, and that sort of thing,
and glad songs of Ireland that make us sing.
A voice sings softly in the still afternoon,
and, under the trees, my mind starts to dream,
"who is it singing this beautiful love tune?",
I wonder as through the leaves sunlight streams.
It's Liam Clancy singing Eileen Aroon,
sending me somewhere like heaven it seems.
So, here's to love, and songbirds on the wing,
and the tender songs of Ireland we sing.
It was dusty, dry and endless
Stretched beneath an empty sky
From horizon to horizon
Where the turkey buzzards fly,
Like a landscape meant to warn you
Just how far a man can fall.
Except for Ruby in El Paso,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
Took a powder in Fort Stockton.
Crossed the Pecos makin’ time.
San Antone gave way to Austin
On the Travis County line.
Shot a rattlesnake in Waco
With my back against the wall.
Except for Bobbi-Jo in Beaumont,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
I’ve seen Lubbock and Laredo,
Seen Odessa/Midland, too.
Met a sweet young thing in Brownsville,
Just another déjà vu.
Didn’t tell her I was leaving,
But I promised her I’d call.
Except for Emmylou in Houston,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
Learned to do the Stockdale two-step
In the local Lone Star style.
Danced a Galveston fandango
With a Corpus Christi smile.
Set a sucker up in Dallas,
But my partner dropped the ball.
Except for Jill in Amarillo,
Hell, it weren’t worth Texas at all.
Pink and My Buster Browns
My egg hatched north of the border, Pink is my name
I come from a proud line of egg- layers, poaching is my game
I’ve walked a mile of desert, crossing the Texas sand
I’m here to dip my spurs into the waters of the Rio Grande
I’ve come to quench a rumor that started on the Mexico side
A dandy there’s been crowing and winking his beady eyes
He’s got his reputation alright, he earned it long ago
But he hadn’t met this Road Island Red, squatting here in Mexico
They say he’s a genuine fighting Cock and fast with spur or wing
He’s been strutting with the egg-layers and pecking their chicken feed
He’s scratching around in Laredo, I hear it’s the common belief
Even crowing for the pullets, a double dealing chicken thief
I strut into the fouling yard, my eyes shifting around
I’ve come to pluck a chicken “A new rooster’s in town
The yard is quite and still, not a cackle can be heard
There’s no room in this chicken yard for another crowing bird
I see him fly from the roost and land heavy on the ground
He struts in small circles, as he side-eyes me up and down
The time is high noon and we're standing beak to beak
I look at that blood red comb and my legs start getting weak
His feathers ruffles on his neck, his spurs are gleaming white
His wings hang loose and ready, my heart’s not beating right
My beak starts to pucker in the shape of a pout
I’m flogging it back to Texas, I done chickened out
When I was ten years old I was given a little pink chicken for buying a pair
of Buster Brown Shoes for Easter. Even though everything was against him he lived and grew up to be a mean Road Island Red Rooster. He took
great pleasure in flogging all he could reach even to the point of devising a little trick by tossing a pebble into the air and running to fetch it in order to close the distance to make a strike. My Grandpa was always threatening to blow his head off. He finally jumped a dog over a watermelon rime and was dispatched.
Here’s to Pink, the Road Island Red Rooster