Best Round Up Poems
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.
small gifts -
contributing to other's happiness?
# show me a man or woman of simple mind
people who we commonly term as slow #
point out ====>
people
of simple means
The year 1890
December 29th
Wounded Knee, South Dakota
My tribe lost their lives
The USS 7th
On their orders so
To round up the Sioux
Railroad herd them and go
Us Lakota were next
To disarm their request
But my cousin Black Coyote
At best he was deaf
Not hearing the orders
To lay down our guns
A chain reaction
Ensued on my tribal ones
Chaos and mayhem
Distressed our grounds
This proud nation
Beaten down
Men, women and children
300 slain
Another reminder
For the white mans gain
To disrespect the fallen
Slows our souls to our gods
We were left in a blizzard
Hardened like logs
In three days we rose
Civilians did lift
And dumped us unceremoniously
In a hole in the drift
My corpse and my peoples
Stripped and robbed
As flakes of snow
Confirm our spirits have sobbed
As i am reborn again
In another country
It gives me the freedom
To look back and see
That December day in 1890
Gunning down innocent ones
Not so mighty
The Medal of Honor
In their distinguished past
The record still stands
On their chests they flash
But attitudes change
As two centuries pass
The Medal Of Honor
Has won back its class
No longer the weak
Gunned down by the strong
Its man against man
Sometimes they do wrong
So as i sit back in my adopted nation
Will i live again past this lives station
Writing the wrongs of modern man
This Lakota warrior who never ran
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php
Dedicated to a fine poet on soup, Lin Lane
-------------------------------------------------
I shook hands with my brother and bade him farewell
Then set off on my journey away from this hell
Mexico I’d head for and buy a small farm
Meanwhile back in town the guards raised the alarm.
A posse they assembled to help track me down
But saw some Apaches and hightailed it back to town
It was far from over, the Pinkertons were brought in
Determined they were, to carry out the hanging.
After three days riding my horse became lame
It slowed down my escape that made me fair game
Sold my horse at Santa Fe and boarded a train
Vowed I’d never come back to America again.
Two whole years went by and I was living free
Thought they’ve given up now, they’ll never find me
Bought a farm, met a girl, a beautiful senorita
Had two children both girls, Anna and Conchita.
One day I went to town to buy some supplies
The Pinkertons were there, I couldn’t believe my eyes
They arrested me at gunpoint and they took me to jail
I strongly protested my innocence but to no avail.
Spent a week in the jail while they sorted deportation
Paperwork completed, headed for the railroad station
After a long journey we arrived back in Colorado
They had the noose ready, they were raring to go.
All over the state the news was all about me
The Pinkertons just loved their new found glory
The night before the hanging I heard guns blazing
What happened after that was truly amazing.
About a hundred desperado's invaded the town
Burst into the jail and told me to lie down
The sound was deafening as they shot at the lock
The Pinkertons stood speechless, they were in shock.
I went out into the street and a voice said to me
“We only found out because of the publicity”
Then out of the shadows came a face I knew well
My twin brother once more had rescued me from hell.
He said “join our gang and we’ll ride far away”
I said “crimes not for me and one day you’ll pay”
Rode back to Mexico to round up my family
Then headed to Brazil where I now live and I’m free.
Lin suggested a part deux so I was inspired to write a sequel, thanks Lin.
"There was an old cemetery
in that fence row.
Thirty some graves I've heard;
no record of it at the court house."
The neighbor pointed past
the corn rows,
Round Up sterile,
to posts askew
like aged teeth;
broken wire pulled down by sod,
prickly with random barbs
and wild roses.
No sign of it, or them,
who might be there yet,
no concrete vault
or weather weary headstone
to chip the disk blades.
Gone with
the builder of the fence
ever fertile dust,
scattered by the plow.
If I ruled the world,
I'd round up all the men.
Send them to Afghanistan,
...And nuke the place again,
and again.
I'd collect and burn,
All the world's monies
And make sex slaves,
Of all the honeys
I would kill all the ugly ones
Well save one or two
So when I'm drunk I'll say
'**** you look good to scr3w'
I suppose you wanted everyone,
To live in peace on the earth?
But believe me, if I ruled
That would be all a myth
But I'm sure after fifty years
Of all that sex slaving
Everyone will be related
And there would be no misbehaving
Because I will make sure
Brother does not kill brother
And to women, the children
Will call all of them mother
To me, you guessed it
They will call me father
So I don't need riches or power
Or greed, just lust
I don't need gold or diamonds
Only women with a 42DD bust.......
**Requested by my Cousin Michelle**
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.
[ credits to LAURENT YVAN from France who read my poem ]
Launched over ages of primaeval forces
my nomadic ancestry calls out to me
winds howl driven over rolling hills
atop a ridge of rugged mountains
beyond vestiges of the long silk road
the Mongolian empire looks back at me
the spirit of the great Genghis Khan
runs feral forever through my veins
Mongolia and its harsh wilderness
its barren lands its haunted past
drumming echoes of summoned spirits
unleash the wrath of heaving heavens
I’m more than hoodlum with a vision
I’m a rebel at the helm of my said destiny
My brothers and I are born of a lineage
that’s jagged ruthless rich and proud
fierceness and freedom integral to our dna
we’ll defend our land and way of life
with brute strength and sheer intimidation
in spilled blood we write our history
come hell highwater feast or famine
the spirit of the great Genghis Khan
runs feral forever through our veins
We’ll round up the horses
and harness voracious winds
go out protect and safeguard at all cost
wave our swords and in hearts instill fear
cast our thunder over hills and valleys
earn respect for our ancestors’ inherited land
a kingdom conquered piecemeal by our warlord
father to our people and to our nation vast
A deep longing larger than life compels me
to preserve my legacy against betrayal and conspiracy
dark alliances with sights on pillaging and plundering
no more brutal bloodbaths and massacres
neo-medieval Mongol tribes and clans united
The spirit of the great Genghis Khan
feral through my veins forever runs
and that’s the Mongolia that calls on back to me
Read on air by invitation ~ May 30, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 2nd place 2025, 2nd plance 2022, 3rd place 2020, Front Page Pick 2022
Submitted on May 26, 2020 for contest BRIAN'S CHOICE V sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 3RD
My God is a cowboy and even likes to fish
To ride for Him daily is truly my wish
He was born in a barn, rode hard every day
fightin' ole Satan and chasin' down strays
He can calm a stampede, rope a whirlwind, save the herd
and do it all gladly, with only His Word
He can mend fences and heal busted hearts
and can round up even the smallest broken parts
His brand's on the cattle on a thousand hills
He hung on a cross to pay all our bills
He's gone home to build new bunkhouses and stalls
with new feather quilts and gold on the walls
He'll be back for a final roundup riding a white horse
I'm saddled and ready; spurs a jinglin' of course
My God is a cowboy it's certainly true
For Him I rope and ride, now how 'bout you?
I now declare war on your regime
Round up your Chicago schoolboys
Who believed in free markets
At the hand of the gun
I'll bring billions
Of people whose
Values died
For your
Game
Droplets of sea awaken from inside a dream
pouring painted thoughts onto this crumbled canvass
yellows wrap the base pulling me into you
whites and the blues float off into the distance
with the red sinking ever deeper and true
Brush away the indiscretion dripping from the west
round up the ashen tones of blush
dabbed in lunar specks of dust
cover the past as it attempts to bleed out
and in holly bough eyes spring affection
traced and trapped in a place looking back
peel off the glue holding me here for you
P Propelled into the war after tora, tora, tora.
E Escalation arrives in Oahu, paradise explodes.
A Amorous and hula skirts set aflame at once.
R Reveal of a takeover plan, pot shots extreme.
L Lucid nightmare lit with oil and screams.
H Hear it! Smell the scent that still reminds us
A About the cost of freedom; the belch of deep
R Roustabouts who have settled into their sleep.
B Bust out! Ring the knell until it comes alive.
O Odor lingers! We must bring it to the surface.
R Round up the freedom fighters of the deep!
These boots have seen a lot of action through the years.
They’ve been through droughts and floods.
Have helped round up and brand cattle.
Have trekked through mud in the middle of the night to help a cow give birth.
Never a day went by that the rancher didn’t pull his boots on first thing in the morning.
The boots are now old and worn, with rips along the sides.
They are a good ol’ pair of boots that the rancher hates to part with.
To him, those boots are like a good friend and they’re also a part of his soul.
He has worn his faithful boots through good times, bad times, fun times and sad times.
Sadly, now the time has come to say goodbye to those dear ol’ worn out boots.
THIS MAN CALLED JESUS - 2
Hey, Caiaphas! What do you think of this Man called Jesus
Well, now that you mention it, I think it's time that He died
Perhaps we can devise a plot to have Him crucified
Let's talk to Pontius Pilate and see what he has to say
I'll bet he will help us get rid of this aggravating Man
But we must devise a real solid foolproof plan
How about some false witnesses to tell a few lies
Yes, that just might do it, so round up a few
We can bribe them easily – they'll know what to do
That sounds good enough to rid us of Him
And one of His friends, Judas is his name
Will betray Him for silver and take all the blame
Why didn't we think to do this sooner
I had thought of it, but I feared it wouldn't go well
But I can't see any reason why this plan should fail
So the plot was formed and soon carried out
He was crucified, dead and buried, but arose after three days
Ascended into Heaven, to come again and judge mankind’s ways
Have you given any thought concerning eternal life
You've been given a choice – what will your choice be
It's either Heaven or hell for eternity
What do you think of this Man called Jesus
Will you accept Him as Lord and serve Him alone
Or die in your sins before all hope is gone
Curtis Moorman
19 January 2013
This is a journey, a trip call it what you will
It follows the footsteps of my ancestors, and allows my thoughts too spill
Firstly let me take you back, to tell you so little of my past
Indigenous I am, from the "Stolen Generations" I did not last
This is why I must make this journey, to allow me to find the real me
To retrace the few steps I made, to rediscover what my young eyes seen
How ironic that the person I'll ride with, is the son of the then official
Whose deliberation to round up us children, the scene, locale
It's now the morn of our travel, where I look I find hard to see
The peripheral of the distant horizon, is all that really captures me
The town where I grew up so young, barely to the age of five
Perth, now bustles like a termites nest, zig zagging in busily strive
Into the bush we go, to a place where us youngsters so enjoyed
Moore River Native Settlement, which soon became children void
As I walk my arid lands, patterned in the heat of this day
I recall with every step, where us Indigenous children played
We could survive on the smallest of fruit, water we could easily find
Even the son of the then official, said that we are a superior kind
He marvelled when I spotted tracks, traces of where animals crossed
Remembering back to when I was five years old, our lands always talked
We opened up as we led our horses, introduced all those centuries ago
They opened up my lands, rivers we walked, now the white man flows
This is a journey I had to make, it's called, it's in my will
No more "Stolen Generations" no more will my culture spill