Best Ponderosa Poems
"I've rode the range now fer nigh on sixty years,
Brandin' dogies and ropin' them wily Hereford steers.
When I come to the end of the trail, I don't want no big scenes.
Boys, jes' wrap me in my hoss's blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"I don't want you fellers carryin' on and bellerin' when I'm gone.
Jes' say a few kind words, git back in the saddle and carry on!
Think of me now and then when you're chewin' yer bacon and beans.
'Jes promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"Promise me you'll take good care of my faithful hoss, Old Dan,
And let him tag along on roundups on the range when you can.
I love cowboyin', but boys you know I ain't a man of means.
Jes' wrap this poor old soul in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"Buck, you kin have my scruffy boots and old sweat-stained hat.
Rusty, you take my saddle - Red, you kin have my 44-caliber gat.
Them's my worldly goods 'cept fer these jeans that's worn to smithereens,
But promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in them jeans!"
"I'd like to be planted on that knoll yonder 'neath that ponderosa pine.
If you kin scare up a preacher to send me on my way, that'll do jes' fine.
I've been a cowpoke since I was fourteen - I reckon it's in my genes.
Boys, promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
Entry for Line Gauthier's "Cowboy Poem Contest"
He's strumming the guitar strings as if they weep,
near a warm campfire on a cold December night.
Sad chords of his song hold many secrets to keep.
Through Ponderosa pines, whistling winds sweep
while a silver moon hovers, lustrous and bright.
He's strumming the guitar strings as if they weep.
Visions of her appear. Each cutting cruelly deep,
memories that should never be brought to light.
Sad chords of his song hold many secrets to keep.
The fire sputters, causing golden flames to leap,
crimson embers and dark ashes rise up in flight.
He's strumming the guitar strings as if they weep.
Over rolling plains, echoing cries of coyotes sweep.
His heart fills with regret and he's gravely contrite.
Sad chords of his song hold many secrets to keep.
Serenading Andromeda, too restless for sleep.
Fingers picking the fret as he sings about his plight,
he's strumming the guitar strings as if they weep.
sad chords of his song hold many secrets to keep.
November 8, 2022-Third-Person Villanelle Contest
Sponsored by L Milton Hankins
The morning mists falling from Snapdragon eyes
Standing on high peaks viewing the verve of diversity
Starlit nights viewing the galactic milieu painted above
The promise once made now viewed after the rainstorm…
In these moments I see the Almighty
The bellow of anguish in the tears of the children
A racking widow held up as she faces her spouse’s sepulcher
Victims calling to God in the smoldering ruins of a battle
Helpless and lost ones asleep on heating grates in December...
In these moments suffering is all too real
Arizona’s painted desert at the moment of dusk’s zenith
The Atlantics glass rolling waves on the shores of Cape Ann
My daughters absolute trust as she sleeps upon my chest
The Rocky Mountain winds hushing the Ponderosa Pines…
In these moments I sense true peace
When “I Love You” first looked at me with untainted eyes
The moment I heard my child’s voice for the first time
That first springtime morning awakened by soft Popinjay rhythm
The roar of the crowd during a spring training game…
In these moments I find the Joy of living
Searching my life I put these puzzle pieces together…
Only to find these moments define the man I’ve become
Gray shrouds cover my way
sets the tone for the day.
Our silent sun sends
rays running round corners
slowly beams burn off -
melting morning misty mind.
As I tread these stone slabs
rapt in wonder of this awe,
great stone bones in it all.
Metropolis makes stirring sounds
anxiously awakens around me.
Rails screech like prehistoric birds,
wind whistles through tunnels twirling,
chatter and honks and hums.
Hear humanities' street symphony.
Parkways sever city canyons.
I cross white striped asphalt rivers,
pass primal Ponderosa stone spires.
Wary walls of glassy eyes glare at me.
Watch my droll daily drudge passively
through towering hollow statues.
I arrive to hug my office door,
seeking some soulful signal.
This inner city, my sentimental friend:
now I'm fearful this soon will end.
Put my face flush on its stone skin,
felt a mounting tear in my eye,
trickled out down between,
turned my head to kiss its skin.
Felt raspy, tasted of grit.
Like kissing a corpse.
Then pulled back and looked up
its everstill edifice to the sky.
Poses the query who am I?
And there I stood a while and thought.
How can we be one?
How can it be me?
Color Pencil illustration G. Gaul
Free Verse Philosophical look at inanimate
stone city structures and the
universal concept of oneness.
11/17/2019
Quietly recalling
Those few days long past
Where night rose undisturbed
Allowed to live in solitude
Distant from the hum of the city
And the glare of its radiance
For here silence is silence
And dusk mutes the mountainside
Giving fearful pause even to dawns eye
In the pallid glow of moonlight
Stand the great Ponderosa Pines
Veiled shadows of ominous parsons
Resolutely guarding midnight faith
Sweet tendrils of vanilla incense
Wafting on Rocky Mountain breezes
Like passions vogue allegory
A smooth and round obsidian stone
Washed upon a retracted beach
My modest moment of reality
Smoothed over by times hands
On this mountain lake…
…Settling me to begin anew
Aspen, ponderosa pine, blue spruce
pink glacier-cut rock, scree, ravens
gray jay, peregrine falcon, hawk.
We climb to 11,000 feet in three days,
camp at Lawn Lake for three days. Alpine
tundra. Elk, bighorn sheep, marmot.
Tileston Meadows, ticks in grass,
rock face of Mummy Mountain.
Binoculars show pink cracks in gray rock.
Stoke gas stoves, play cards.
Boil water, set up tarps, lay out
sleeping bags, hang bear bag.
Watch crescent moon slice into
Fairchild Mountain. Moonlight
makes a mosque of the rocks.
Yellow aspen splash in dark green
spruce and pine. Gullies where streams
slash during spring snowmelt.
One rock, feather or flower worth
more than money. Need no wallet,
keys. Just clothes for fur.
All day climb toward saddle to see
what's on other side. One hawk floating
among bare peaks and over valleys.
Wind at 13,000 feet
turns to sleet. Turn back from peak,
take boulders two at a time down.
Winter moves into mountains.
Then we fly from Denver to New York
where it's still summer.
He crawled from his bunk stiflin' a hearty yawn.
His work began each day at the very crack of dawn.
He donned his jeans, chaps and old slouch hat,
Pulled on his cowboy boots and strapped on his gat!
He downed a bowl of Cheerios which was his usual fare,
Then mounted Old Dan, his trusty hoss with habitual flair.
He coiled his lasso as he sat there leisurely astraddle.
'Twould be another hot and dusty day in his well-worn saddle!
His first chore was to patrol the miles of barbed wire fences,
Over the rolling plains of his spread's vast expanses.
There were dogies to herd to the corral, there to do battle,
Ropin' and brandin' dozens of cantankerous and wily cattle!
Pausin' at noon 'neath a ponderosa for much-needed relief,
The cook fed him beans, biscuits and roasted beef.
Then back in the saddle as Old Dan he gently spurred,
To continue roundin' up more of the frenzied herd!
It had been a tirin' day ridin' over rollin' hill and dale.
Now he and Old Dan headed home along the moonlit trail.
The five-year-old cowpoke awoke from his dream-filled nap.
Such a gruelin' trail it had been for that hardy little chap!
(c) All Rights Reserved (17 April 2014)
When I glanced out my window on this bleak December morn,
My eyes were drawn to the Ponderosa Pine standing so forlorn.
Gradually, as if decorated by God's own Artistic Hand,
'Twas soon bedecked with colorful ornaments so very grand!
Its boughs were adorned by garlands of snow in jeweled display.
Crystal icicles glistened as no mere artist could e'er portray.
Clusters of golden cones festooned the tree here and there.
I watched in wonder as it began to assume a festive air!
What was just moments ago a tree, brooding and austere,
Was soon alive with critters that chose to winter here.
Cheerful robins added a spritz of color with their scarlet breasts.
Haughty blue jays flitted about flaunting their bluish crests!
A couple of squirrels sprawled upon a branch lazily a-snooze.
Cardinals and bluebirds roosted there adding their delightful hues.
Flitting finches and chickadees graced the tree without cease.
At the very top perched a dove - that beautiful symbol of peace!
What a wonderful transformation I witnessed in that stalwart tree!
I'd like to think that the Creator decorated it just for me!
As I gazed upon the scene, my soul was filled with jubilation,
Marveling at the miracle of Christmas and God's wondrous Creation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I needn't don a tuxedo nor pay a dime to enjoy a pleasing symphony!
In my own back yard or lying abed at night I hear nature's harmony!
The rolling bass of thunder, the strobe-bright lightning on a stormy night,
Plus the rain pelting my windowpane, anoint me with pure delight!
A chorus of crickets in the holly bush lull me to sleep in Morpheus's arms.
I'm awakened at dawn by choirs of robins, not by strident clock alarms!
The vagabond winds soughing through the ponderosa pine join the recital.
Cicadas add a blend of percussion with castanet-like rhythm so very vital!
A quartet of mourning doves serenade me with their soothing coos,
(Interrupted by a pair of raucous blue jays injecting their atonal views!)
I hear the water's hymn as it trickles o'er ancient stones in a nearby rill,
And the delightful choral melodies of golden finch as they sweetly trill!
From afar I hear the clarion trumpet call of elk echoing in the hills!
The merging of these harmonic voices is one of life's gratifying thrills!
How I relish the exquisite orchestration of His creatures in glorious recital.
Oh, that I had the poetical acuity to give this symphony a deserving title!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
In the spring of 1880 young Clifford Griffin immigrated from England to Colorado.
The death of his fiancee left him bereft and he was searchin' for his El Dorado.
He settled in Silver Plume where he and his brother bought the Seven Thirty Mine.
Clifford and his brother Heneage became very rich from ore that assayed very fine!
With all his riches, Clifford chose to live in his lonely cabin above the town.
His only companion was his treasured violin which he played with some renown!
His melancholy melodies wafted down from his mountain aerie 'most every night,
To be heard by the whiskey-guzzlin' hard-scrabble miners to their delight!
Clifford always dressed in black, enjoyed fine cigars and was quite the dashin' bloke!
He seemed content with his solitary life and in business was as solid as an oak!
Alas, death cast its gloomy pall high above Silver Plume one moonlit night.
Instead of sweet violin music, a single shot was heard that left the town affright!
Next morn his mortal remains were found in a grave he'd dug for himself alone.
His heart-broken brother found the pistol with which his brains he had blown.
A grand monument was erected atop the mountain just above Silver Plume,
At the very spot where Clifford lay midst the ponderosa and Columbine bloom!
Mysterious events now occur on that lonely mountainside accordin' to local lore!
'Tis said on moonlit nights sad violin music is heard below on the valley floor!
Folks have seen a black-clad phantom smokin' a cigar and drawin' a bow,
Playin' melancholy music and a wraith in Clifford's likeness a-swayin' to and fro!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Carol Eastman's "Story Poem" Contest
When Peg laughs like Liz
deep woman-hearted laugh
eating beef jerky on Mesa Verde
the good hearts and smarts of women
come back to me, not guessing
any better than they at the time what love
meant, leaving them behind in sandstone time
going to my own cement, sandstone
or good mountain grave
having seen the sharp-shinned and sparrow
hawk flying and at rest, not at peace,
seeking prey from a ponderosa snag.
I left my woman behind to float
alone down the long canyon for feathers
and signs, she's making camp
the moon half full, the sun half high
sky full of planets birds and stars
I look up from the rocks
elements
housekeeping, thinking
love that's learned to love
from earlier loves
laughs remembered, heard
in the laugh of the woman who is my wife.
There was a day on TV
Where westerns were all the rage
You could take your pick
From your TV paper page
Together our masked hero the Lone Ranger
With Tonto kept outlaws in a spin
Have Gun Will Travel was the card
For black dressed professional gunfighter Paladin
Wagon Train kept rolling along
Seth Adams the leader
Flint McCullough chief scout
Old Charlie Wooster was the feeder
Rawhide kept the cattle moving
Gil and Randy kept control
In Dodge City it was Gunsmoke
Marshall Matt Dillon was key role
On the ponderosa it was Bonanza
Where Ben Cartwright was the boss
With his family of three boys
Adam, little Joe and Hoss
Wells Fargo was the stagecoach
Where Jim Hardie was the star
Now these are only some
For they were many more by far
They were the Virginian and the Rifleman
Laramie, Maverick and Cheyenne
The High Chaparral not to mention alias Smith and Jones
These made us all a fan
Cowboys where are you?
Memories of you is our lot
On TV we can’t see
Is this our last shot?
poetgord@2013
One night I dreamed I wandered, weary in a desert
until a clear blue water lake emerged ahead
midst the new pine landscape of my dream.
Four specks far away, approaching. . .
soon turned into four strong ranchers wearing big brim cowboy hats.
My memory was stirred in tune with an upbeat melody.
And suddenly I knew just who they were!
One, dressed all in black, sat tall and handsome in his saddle.
Another, plain and burly, gave a toothy grin.
Another, young and charming, smiled and winked at me!
The silver-haired gent, their father,
met my gaze with warm and honest eyes.
Seeing my exhaustion, he offered me a place to stay.
Oh, happy dream that I had drifted into:
that bygone era of my youth
when Adam, Hoss and Little Joe,
along with the grand patriarch Ben Cartwright,
had been invited into living rooms on Sunday nights
as families like mine watched their televisions all those years ago.
A bonanza of romance, friendship, loyalty and courage
had given us the good-hearted milder side of the wild wild west.
Alongside the Cartwright clan,
I rode inside my dream toward the cozy ranch house
built on the land of legend called the Ponderosa,
anticipating Hop Sing’s home-cooked supper.
Inspired by the Wild Wild West Poetry Contest
* hear the lyrics of the Bonanza theme song as sung by Lorne Greene (Ben Cartwright)
at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kA-PdP4k4Xw
The Grand Canyon is like the brain
with deep, unexplored fissures and tributaries,
the main route well known by now.
I am walking, walking inside my mind,
a grand canyon, a planet of canyons, a system
of planets. The exploration may become dangerous
I might lose my job, forgetting to go or losing
sight of its importance. But the job is gathering
pinyon nuts and agave fruits, it is the main
river, deepest cavity, how I find the unexplored
canyons and tributaries of my neighbors
and my enemies. But is it a religion,
a reason for living. It is a marriage, for better
or worse, with all the other living. The concept
of life's brevity, temporary compared
with the time taken to carve the canyon, does
not interest me. Each moment has a weather,
is a mirror of all other moments. The naming
of things goes on. Cliff rose and wavyleaf oak,
new mexican locust and sagebrush among ponderosa
and pinyon pine, juniper. Once I know
who they are inhabiting the canyon, the raven's
flight is meaningful. The raven's rock cave,
search for seed and carrion, my home and job.
The shows I watched when young were black and white.
About five channels came on day and night.
The Beaver, Opie, Jeanie, Flying Nun
were characters I liked both good and fun.
Shows of humor sometimes missed their function;
one like that for sure was “Petticoat Junction.”
But “Laugh-In,” “Lucy,” and “Bewitched” were cool;
“Three Stooges” I rushed home for after school.
“Lassie” for the kiddies, “Rifleman” for dad,
“The Man From U.N.C.L.E” for us all, a 60’s fad.
By standards of today, those shows were tame.
The raciest perhaps was “The Dating Game!”
One genius fat guy, Hitchcock, gave a thrill
with horror tales. I like those re-runs still!
But there’s one 60s TV show that I
recall the best; I’ll finish telling why!
“Bonanza,” broadcast Sundays, was the one
for romance, drama, and great family fun,
for on the Ponderosa lived wise Ben
and his three sons, well-off but simple men.
The chubby one named Hoss was kind of sweet.
The oldest, Adam, I found really neat!
Little Joe, whom we girls would like to marry,
later moved to “Little House on the Prairie!”
It may not have been best of old TV,
but it was sure a cherished show for me
because it came each Sunday night at eight,
a special time so great I could not wait!
My mom and dad and we eight kids would sit
together happily enjoying it.
Before the show began my mom would pop
a huge pan full of popcorn, butter on top.
Each time commercials came, we’d dip a bowl
of ours into that pan; I’d get so full
for I’d eat eight or ten small bowls of it.
Once I begin with popcorn, I can’t quit!
This was the family custom I lived for
since television and food I both adore.
It was the night we all together sat
enthralled, and there’s not much that can beat that!
Written by Andrea Dietrich
(I have too many today to name TV favorites but I really
think "Bonanza" has to be my favorite from my childhood!)
For Michael J. Falotico's "Ryhme Me An Old TV SHow.... Poetry Contest"