Best Range Poems
"Rise an' shine you lazy cowpokes! Time to saddle up yer hoss!
Time to move them moo-cows to summer range!" yelled th' trail boss!
"You've lolled around here all winter, now it's time to earn yer pay!
Jump in yer jeans, pull on them boots an' let's git 'er underway!"
All winter long they'd grown fat in th' bunkhouse eatin' Cooky's fare,
But knowin' that on that long, dusty trail, grub could be mighty spare!
How they'd long fer good ol' gut-fillin' grub as they wuz mendin' fences,
An' roundin' up them wily dogies roamin' over God's vast expanses!
Come supper time th' cowpunchers would lounge about a blazin' far,
Smokin' roll-yer-owns, chewin' th' fat an' nursin' cuts frum bobbed war!
Thankin' th' Lord fer their grub, Cooky yelled, "Come an' git 'er fellers!
Ain't much, but me an' my ol' Dutch oven done purty good!" he bellers!
Th' menu never varied but they knew better'n to complain about his cuisine,
Er Cooky could be as grumpy as a rattlesnake er a disgruntled wolverine!
Ever' supper consisted uv th' same ol' thing - a classic case uv deja vu:
Beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!
Frum across th' valley a harmonica's melancholy tune wuz heard,
As th' night guard kept a wary vigil an' soothed th' restless herd.
Th' cowpokes dreamt uv a hearty breakfast but they already knew,
It'd be beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Pink skies top off the dark mountain range
I wonder about wandering all the way there
Just to discover a few things, I’d like to know
Feel the freedom of my footsteps in the snow
As if the distance has the answers and…
Steps to take me closer will help me understand
So much more than I can from sitting on this land
The pink skies turn to lavender, as night approaches
With limited time to see, so I imagine and I will dream
What it will be like at the distant range that knows
As it fades into darkness and the ground of white glows
Heidi Sands
3/15/21
The rivers rise, released, unrestrained
Reborn of unrepentant rain
Recalling remnants of rimrock gained
Wrecked residences, drifting rafts, remain
Though dawn's rays reveal ruin and regret
Resolve ran through the returning vets
Of robust wars, whose rigors met
The rate the sliding roadblocks set
The ramparts raised, unrestricted
Remorse, redirected and evicted
Replacing rusty banks, constricted
Rebuilt runs regulated, predicted
They'll ride the restored, irrigated plains
Until the red ridges reclaim the range.
3/26/18
On life's blaming ranges, of word exchanges
One view I have, let in be known.'
That the guiltiest; throw the heavier stones.'
This is my dedication
I am legend, so just push the start
I will save your family, so just call me Noah's ark
A pause on time as they show gratitude to the craftsmanship
1970 they created me, randomly introduced companionship
I transported the elite, by the way I still do
Range Rover was the name they gave me, so I said I do
It's been 44 years, V-6 or V-8, it maintains the same philosophy
I personify admiration; we read while it's in motion your Autobiography
Oh I forgot, HSE and Supercharged are other alternatives to what you can call me
Each with its legendary design and trim, okay enough about me
I send this invitation to honour me by occupying the rear seats
Yes, the Executive-class individual rear seating, those seats
Offering grand motoring while you show off your wealth
Those who pursue me grasp my worth
My capabilities engraved and stamped off-road
I reign supreme as they make way for me on the road
Take a bet; you can't go wrong with the horse power I possess
6 or 8 speed with pedal shifters, I ask you to regress
Allow me to grace your eardrums with the Meridian sound system
View what lacks around you with a surround camera system
I represent the fourth generation but my history remains intact
I had a conversation with my sister earlier, Evoque, she's compact
We agreed that we are timeless, absolutely classical
Should we pass on, our images are imprinted, just absolutely magical
On The Range
You are an old cowboy now.
Your bronco riding and rodeo days are over.
You now mostly drive a pick up truck or ATV instead of a riding a horse.
You drink you whiskey straight, and your cowboy style coffee black.
You don't smoke any more, but when you did you rolled your own cigarettes and lit them with wooden matches.
You got your tobacco from a white pouch with a yellow pull string that you kept in your shirt pocket.
You wear blue Levi's and a leather belt with a silver buckle, and white straw Stetson hat with
a woven white, black and turquoise hat band.
You wear cowboy boots with riding heels and a shirt with pearl snap buttons.
You keep a blue bandana in your rear pocket to wipe off sweat and act as a face mask in dust storms.
You have worn chaps, fixed a barbed wire fence, and know about droughts. blizzards and prairie fires.
You still ride a horse, can cut a calf out of a herd, and like your father before you own a Colt six shoot revolver and
a 30-30 Winchester lever action rifle.
You have heard stories of massive Texas Longhorn cattle drives up the Texas-Montana trail in the 1800 hundreds,
and when you do, you wish you were born a hundred and fifty years earlier.
Like you ancestors before you, you make your living raising cattle and enjoy watching the sun come up.
Long ago you learned to appreciate the blue sky and openness of the high plains with its
yellow prairie flowers, purple sage brush and tumble weeds.
You have heard the howl of a prowling coyote, and the harsh caw of a magpie.
You have seen wild prong horned antelope, prairie dogs, cotton wood trees and,
beautiful night skies filled with a million stars.
I need to write, to center myself.
To find that guidance that fails to come
when the pressure has built,
- overwhelmed.
Breathe, feel the peace
and steady hum flow
up from the center of my feet
my legs, my womb, and gut.
The knot in my chest unwinds
down my arms and through my hands,
pull, inhale, aim, exhale, hold, fire
-let go...
I'm pulled in so many direction
there is nothing left of me
to find me, cowering under
the responsibilities and pressure
Breathe, Stand strong
find one target and handle it
-move on to the next.
Ridged peaks, rolling foothills
reach over our region,
rest under snow blankets,
recover from roiling,
raging summer wildfires.
Reeling smoke will only
return with a vengeance.
Pleiades R contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
To hunt and fish is considered ruthless,
Deemed by some a blood sport of pure pleasure.
Arguments against are often toothless.
Necessity is not hard to measure.
Gathering has become nearly folklore.
Native plants found only in store bought oils.
Grocery mushrooms limited to four.
Diet of foods only that of tilled soils.
In one hundred years way too much has changed.
Species of world food supply down nine fold,
Ties to the wild and earth have been estranged,
New found chemicals battling nature sold.
Against hunting and fishing? I entreat:
Where do you get free range organic meat?
Oh give me a home where there are no drones,
where the Democrats and Republicans play,
where seldom is heard a debate that isn't too absurd,
while they try to keep Wikileaks and e-mails at bay,
Home, home on the range,
where the Democrats and Republicans are basically clay,
where seldom is heard a speech written by a nerd,
while the oligarchy are having a field day,
With too many jobs shipped oversea"s,
the middle class once again have an urgent plea,
not for another speech or a clone,
but to create more manufacturing jobs here at home,
While America goes through yet another phase,
we used to be a Republic back in our heyday,
we definitely need more capitalism it is clear,
so please Mr. President stick to your words and don't switch gears.
11-9-16
A farmer who was looking for change
Produced limericks that were free-range
He achieved great success
His limericks were best
And gluten-free -isn't that strange?
Freed a dozen hens today
For a week or so
$2 (additional) the price of freedom
On the supermarket shelves
Even though I may pontentially
Have stolen all their children
Death Of The Old Cowboy On The Lonesome Range
Ravenous wolf pack, ripping and tearing
red-stain bloody meat from his dead horse flank
much better the dead horse than me he thought
as he looked up at hot sun glaring.
Dreaming now, his beautiful gal holding tight
aching head laid in her luxurious lap
mused what sorry cowboy sight this is
an old cowboy sho gonna die tonight.
Then waking again, he was fine alright
that June morn was sure so fine to behold
again that pretty gal rushed to him
saying, dear cowboy ain't you such good sight.
Sleep, a gentler sleep all he would need.
Asleep he fell and then to death he bleeds.
Robert J. Lindley, sonnet
April 2nd, 1971
Note- This has been written after my watching
the cowboy save the pretty girl, but then he died
from fighting of Apache braves for two days.
His guns empty, his heart and dreams took over
to ease him beyond the deep purple veil.
As close as autumn is to mountain-side,
as close as cold is to snow,
as cold as sun is to summer,
as close as storm is to clouds,
as close as thunder is to lightening,
as close as rivers are to sea,
as close as roses are to thorns,
as close as stars are to skies,
as close as moon is to gazes,
as close as evening wind is to whispers,
as close as nightingale is to shadows,
as close as bangles are to wrists,
as close as veils are to maidens,
as close as **** are to silken drapes,
as close as pinings are to naked eyes,
as close as trembling is to touches,
as close as moanings are to thrashing limbs;
........be that close to me.
Oh, I wish that this old world
Was like the Roy Rogers’ range—
Where every boy and girl
Didn’t have to view folks strange.
It used to be safe outside—
All the children could go play—
But now they worry and hide
In their homes both night and day.
Seems there’s just too many ways
That our kids can now be harmed—
They’ve missed their innocent days—
Their lives are no longer charmed.
We played all day with no care—
Didn’t know ‘bout an upper—
Ball games left no time to spare,
Till mom’s called us to supper.
Yes, those were different times,
When sex was not all we thought—
And news was not just more crimes—
What kind of world have we got?
I wish we could relive days
When Roy Rogers kept us straight—
Before things became a maze
Of drugs, thugs and war and hate.
I wish we did not grow up
To a world that’s now so strange—
And death drank not of our cup,
Like on a Roy Rogers’ range.