Best Ranches Poems
Some modern folks, when they hear his name,
will roll their eyes and look ashamed,
thinking the cowboy is uncivilized,
with his hats, and guns, and round-up rides.
That somehow they are beyond the stuff,
to good for the wild, and the rough,
following some unwritten ‘elite’ law,
suppressing the urge to shout ‘yee-haw!’
But I think when it all is said and done,
cowboys are truly made of awesome…
Riding swift across the wide-open plains,
coat flapping behind like your horse’s mane,
maneuvering a large and panicked herd,
turning a stampede with iron nerves,
rough-hewn men cooking by the firelight,
coyote chorus yips through the night,
knowing that for all the wind and grit,
it sure beats sitting in an office.
A battered hat worth more than any pearl,
grabs the attention of the cowgirls,
boots that announce you in any room,
be you a mere hand, or fancy bride-groom.
Leather vests that dress up any shirt,
and somehow can even make fringe"work,
a bandana or a wild rag,
with a thousand uses, not a mere fad.
The tell-tale jangle comes from your spurs,
vast coat made out of buffalo fur.
Square-dance, line-dance, twirl a girl around,
to fiddle and steel guitar’s sound,
campfire songs to entertain the kids,
harmonicas to sing the blues with,
teaching the folks to throw a lasso,
then breaking out tricks with swirling rope.
Living life by a strong honor code,
one that good people would do well to know.
Wyatt Earp and his famous revenge ride,
Masterson cut Dodge City down to size,
Doc Holliday gambling with a death wish,
Billy the Kid, criminal, yet tragic,
Wild Bill holding those aces & eights,
and old Kit Carson, out blazing the way,
Buffalo Bill brought the people a dream,
and who can forget, the legend Bass Reeves?
A six-gun at ready, holster right side,
the lines of a Winchester, ever sublime.
Ranches that sprawl on mountain and prairie,
riding the trails where man can breath free,
rampaging rodeo, those guns are fun,
and damn can those barrel-racers run!
Living out of doors, by both skill and luck,
be it on a horse or a pick-up truck,
It’s clear that when all is said and done,
that cowboys are truly made of awesome.
Categories:
ranches, america, appreciation, celebration, fun,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Those walls of my captured annals falling
By steel leviathans devouring my solitude
Capped blasts dropping the once proud structure
No longer is a mans home his palace
Histories cowboys are the future’s vagabonds
Their ranges of ranches a dying lot
Borders now shrinking as the rooms collapse
Giving into the fear of the outside world
No one is really who they appear to be
Stowing and stealing all for a free ride
The trust in humanity a long extinct idealism
Falling in flames from the final battles bullet
Yesterday’s judgment is the hope of tomorrow
If the sun may ascend to the songbirds cry
No promises of integrity to hold onto justice
While the carrions crawl the balances edge
Holding within that which disaster has taught
Building upon the hangman’s piety
To breathe for a moment the sweet water of utopia
With every falling grain of the hourglass
…Time slows in the winds of obscurity
Categories:
ranches, history, introspection, life, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
In a little West Texas cow town years ago
There was an old doctor by the name of Hill
Little man, mild mannered, cheerful until made mad
He doctored old cowboys and drunks when things got slow
His usual cure was a kick in the butt and a pill
He had some regular people that weren't to bad
Doctor Hill had some that lived far out of town
On ranches and God awful places Doc was carried
There was one family that lived on a ranch way far out
There name was Brown
An old mother and two daughters not married
The old mother complained to hurt everywhere about
She claimed to be bed ridden, could walk as good as you and me
She fell out of bed one night, the sister did not know what to do
So the called Dr. Hill at ten
So late at night the got in his car to go see
He had been there five times before, he knew what to do
Laying there on the floor, she had done it again
Doc told them to get a blanket and a pillow and put them on the floor
He made a pallet for her and ten he said
"Let's roll her over on to the mat
Put the pillow under her head , then headed for the door
His little round face was turning blood red
Then he said, "Now damn it fall off of that"
Categories:
ranches, cowboy-westernold, mother, old,
Form:
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
Categories:
ranches, growing up, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
Year five of the Great Depression.
April 14, 1935 another Sunday of church services praying for
The rain that wasn’t coming.
And the sky turned mean and angry, as daylight was obliterated into The blackness of night. The wind scoured the land, sweeping
Everything in front of it like a plague of ancient locusts.
A great migration of dust lifted up, blowing away a swath
Of the American dream, leaving only memories before 1935.
A relentless burning wind emptied out what little hope the
Migrating towns had left.
Every inch of top soil was devoured, while dead cattle were strung out Against the barbed wire fence line; marked boundaries didn’t count for much anymore.
A blizzard of death coated whatever was in its way, across the
Empty fields of the Great Plains, the haciendas of New Mexico, the Empty towns of Oklahoma and everywhere it touched.
Black Sunday’s revenge was absolute, falling black snow, six feet deep.
Dust coating the lungs, blinding the eyes, swallowing the homesteads.
An inky black wall spawned from hell spread its wings, soaring Hundreds of feet high. When it ended, nothing would be the
Same in these places.
The barren Dakotas.
The endless plains of Kansas.
The mountain peaks of Colorado.
The great dust bowl of Oklahoma.
The arid lands of New Mexico.
The vast Texas cattle ranches.
America, Sunday April 14, 1935
Hard times.
Categories:
ranches, america, history, weather,
Form:
Narrative
Imagine hills where
landscapes slide into
heavens
Dews and hues
romancing its ranches
A decor of devil's bow in
soft tone
A cascade of bays
blending
A steaming geothermal
spa amid black lava fields
Thawing snow tumbling
Glitzy huts emerging from
riviera
Echoes of villagers
sparkling the harmony of
the wind
Howdy tourists emerging
from the blues
Obudu cattle ranch a
milieu of fantasy
awoh awoh
Categories:
ranches, fantasy,
Form:
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
where the mountains reach the sky,
and the eagles soar way up high,
folks are friendly and give you a smile,
it's the Montana way of saying stay awhile.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
need a change of scenery,
where the forests are full of greenery,
ranches spread throughout the land,
cowboys on horses roping calves to brand.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
it is where I am bound,
praying a job will be found,
my lonely saddle needs a horse to ride
so I can rope cattle with some pride.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
with shiny boots and a new ten-gallon hat,
making me feel like a big fat cat,
as I act like a polite and handsome dude
so all the ladies will not find me rude.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
staying a night at a KOA Campground
with folks who are from all around,
sharing a campfire with sparkling and glowing heat,
knowing this is the life that cannot be beat.
Categories:
ranches,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Some people have palaces, castles and mansions
too. Some people have big houses, farms and
ranches. They seem to live Happy - at least
others think they do.
For some reason God gave us, what He did. He
didn't give us more or less then what He thought
we should have. He gave me a little house. It is
what I call my home.
My little house is cute and very cozy too. This is
what you will see if I ever entertain you. I love my
little house. I keep it nice and clean. It has a
welcome sign outside to welcome whoever comes in.
In my little house, my friends and guests are welcome.
They are treated very well, with the Southern hospitality
that in TEXAS you can find and when they leave - they
leave very Satisfied...
Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
Categories:
ranches, uplifting, people, people, ,
Form:
Free verse
A Horde of Haiku
A horde of Haiku
Is what will be found when you
Read all of mine through.
What if embittered
And all your patience is lost
It could be costly.
Leaves are on branches
Cattle exist on ranches
Are there some to spare?
(Can questions be part of haiku?)
Books do have pages
And price may be outrageous
So check out instead.
(Library credo.)
How long will you wait?
For me to originate
What I contemplate.
So if it was you
Who was first to contemplate
How long should I wait?
For Frost to appear
His horse thinks that it is *****
No farmhouse is near.
Think it was last year
Catastrophe I did fear
And now it is here.
Forgot to turn in
My book I checked out again
Patience wearing thin.
A book here and there
All over and everywhere
Looks like library.
A Horde of Haiku Hiding in a Library.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Categories:
ranches, adventure, allegory, analogy,
Form:
Haiku
She was a wily cigar chompin' gambler with the moniker of Poker Alice,
Renowned throughout the west for her skill in many a gamblin' palace!
Poker Alice had a good head for countin' and with her very cunnin' guile,
(Plus her beauty), she mesmerized her opponents, amassin' quite a pile!
Poker Alice worked in saloons across the west as a faro and poker dealer.
She worked in Creede, Colorado for Bob Ford, that notorious stealer!
Because of her pious rearin' as a girl, she refused to work on Sundays,
But she was back smokin' a two-dollar stogie and dealin' cards on Mondays!
She drifted to Deadwood, South Dakota, where her notoriety was well known,
And married a house painter named Tubbs who was a deft gambler on his own!
Later she established a brothel near Fort Mead Army Post with her ill-gotten gain.
The place was small and she needed funds to fix the 'house' on Pleasure Lane!
To expand and recruit 'soiled doves' from Kansas City she applied for a loan.
The banker scratched his skull sayin', "I dunno! That's a risk into the unknown!"
She convinced him notin' that The Grand Old Army had an encampment near,
And for the soldiers' bent for visitin' hog ranches, he had nothin' at all to fear!
Things didn't go well since she plumb forgot The Methodist Preachers' Convention,
Convened each and every year and she hadn't figured on that intervention!
Poker Alice's fame and notoriety followed her well beyond her wanin' years.
She died after a gall bladder operation with her 'house' payments in arrears!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 in Don Johnson's " Your Old Ballad Or Rhyme - Best Of All Time" Contest
July 2011
Categories:
ranches, funny, historyold, old,
Form:
Rhyme
SAVE MY MOTHER, AFRICA
Poor Africa, why have you allowed your ancient precious priceless beads taken away frm you while coveting after a common coated carved stones from the foreign land?
Where were you when your artifacts were shipped to the land behind the oceans
And your Children worked by the mill day and night
They took away your treasured garment and sealed you with an ''unsuitable suit'' from a distant land.
They inserted straw in a bottle and dip it in your mouth, but fix hose to your anus and passed it into a tank.
Draining your blood in the name of exchange
They took away your staff of office with which you have peacefully and successfully lead for centuries. They gave you guns in return to scatter your wards around, thereby losing ur respect.
They once respected you, now dread you
No longer the you they knew
Dear great Motherland where is your sense of supremacy of those good days, before u were made to look inferior?
Will you still allow this train to continue with d hopeless journey?
Where all we now live for is nothing but money
Now we treat one another line monkeys
O great Africa hear the call from your womb
The child therein is due for delivery
Tighten not your cervix the passage of life
The future sits uncalm inside of you
The entire world awaits that unique cry
The birth of the future, the new world
Unchain yourself from the shackles of the West
Create your path trough the jungle
This is the forest from where you were raised
Where the paths to the streams and ranches
Paths to the mountains and the valleys
Your children raced and long for everyday
Call out your lost children behind the seas
Scattered across the deserts in their search for greener pastures that never exist
Call out in your slangs they know your voice
Let them come home to rescue the hailing mother
Our mother is sick and losing her breath
Fellow brothers and warriors on sojourn
Rest not in the land of your captivity
Run back home and heed the call of mama
Our mother has taken up a another father
Our step father rapes her day and night
Now about to die with her pregnancy
Come rescue our mother the mother Africa
Save the life of her unborn baby the new world
Time to leave the barn and head home
Home is where we come not their Rome
Romans built their home
Africa must build her own
(FM CONCEPTUAL)
Categories:
ranches, africa, bereavement, betrayal, change,
Form:
ABC
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
Categories:
ranches, childhood, cowboy-western, family, nostalgia,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Small, cut in half by Route Sixty-Six,
with farms and ranches scattered around.
Theaters, cafes, motels, your picks
Saturdays, everyone came to town.
What fun walking down crowded Main Street.
giving a farm boy a furtive glance.
Then movies, popcorn, something sweet
to watch Fred and Ginger glide and dance.
The tranquil aura of peacefulness,
of hometown, friends, and a picture show.
We didn't think of days that would pass
and our small town we would soon outgrow.
One day, we all left to find our dreams,
farms dried up with recurring drought.
Town forgotten in I-Forty's schemes,
the town withers within and without.
Our last reunion, old times we share,
sunshine, laughter, tears we can still find
in boarded stores, steets beyond repair
in our small hometown we left behind.
Categories:
ranches, change, growing up, home,
Form:
Rhyme
I just realized our humble abode
Is smack-dab in the middle of dinky-house road.
We muddle along in our simple ranches
And their add-ons that shoot off like stubby branches.
We fuss with our lawns but appear as mice
From outer space through a telescopic device.
We barely make waves in the grand scheme of things
Being no larger than droplets in a stone throw’s rings.
But maybe someday it won’t be that way
Perhaps we’ll be something or have something to say.
That will be larger than tiny, louder than ka-boom
Until then we’ll exist in our dinky-house room.
Categories:
ranches, home, hope,
Form:
Couplet
We want to enrich
its atmosphere by planting trees
and anything that has
roots. We also want to pump
some of our oxygen into its
thin sheet of air.
We want to bring zoos
and cattle ranches on the red planet.
We want to build homes
and real estates for rich folks
who can afford space
odysseys.
We want another life
on Mars, before we destroy
our Earth with pollution
and wars....
Categories:
ranches, humanity, imagery, life, nature,
Form:
Free verse