Best Saddle Poems
Rather I, Sharpen Blade, Saddle My Battle Horse,
(Dawn, First Battle, Part One)
Dare I, reduce poet's pen to a plastic sword
flee from shadows that invades as destructive hordes?
Nay, such would incinerate reborn poetic soul,
bring heartache and destroy path to truth's gallant goal.
Rather I, sharpen blade, saddle my battle horse
walk through searing flames alone yet on steady course.
Expect more vicious attacks around each bend,
live out my final moment with defiant grin.
Should I, with courageous pen far more truth post
ink midnight hours, not fear darkest of evil ghost?
Beg more paper, its white pages let my ink soak,
in my defiance, strike those wearing evil's cloak?
Can I, with good conscience, this hard journey trek.
Knowing Raven's curse, both my eyes- out IT shall peck.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-18-2019
Sonnet, ( If Valiant, Let Ink Splash To This Dark Beast Slay )
(Dawn, First Battle, Part One)
Note:
Fuscus, qui mortalium haec faciam tibi mali iura
Et invenies in me plus perdomandosque feroces et fortes periculum pertinet.
The sunrise paints the prairie gold,
The breeze still hums that tune of old,
Where once I’d ride with reins held tight,
Now I rock through the hush of night.
My boots sit still by the old back door,
Dusty dreams from days before.
The saddle waits on its wooden stand—
But now I hold life in my hands.
No roundup calls, no cattle cry,
Just lullabies and baby sighs.
I traded spurs for whispered songs,
And sleepless nights that stretch so long.
But oh, my heart—it rides each day,
Through love too fierce to drift away.
Though trails are quiet, and horses rest,
This little one is my newest west.
I miss the wind, the leather’s creak,
The freedom dancing on my cheek.
But I would choose this soft-eyed view
A thousand times, and all anew.
Someday soon, I’ll saddle high,
With baby watching, bright and spry.
We’ll ride again—me and the sky—
But for now, it’s lullabies.
Saddle old Brownie
A saddle on me old brown horse,
To ride away into the sunset,
Light swag on me old pack of course,
Nother horse called my Regret.
Carry flour for damper or tasty fried scones,
Sugar n tea, few spuds n onions,
Carry a stockwhip to flog off the dogs,
Or galahs with the loony some ones.
Camp every night by blazing fire light,
Out where the Coolabahs sway,
Dip water from the river and boil,
Gumleaf smelling tea today.
Seach for mussels at the waters edge,
Put him on the hook today,
Catch em a cod, good tucker by God,
Spit out the bones I may,
Protein n calcium hey….
Don Johnson 20-july-11
It’s been ‘bout thirty years now, to this Christmas day
And I can still hear those wise words that Dad did say:
“Don’t ever sell your saddle, don’t quit balin’ hay—
When ya give your word, keep it—it’s a real man’s way.”
I wish that I could swear I’ve lived up to his words,
But like the truth sometimes, they’ve flown off with the birds.
It’s not to say I’ve tired, and mostly I’ve been true—
But if I could do things over, there’s some I’d undo.
Well, I’m still balin’ hay and my word I always keep,
I’ve got a good woman and I sing the kids to sleep.
We keep the ranch a goin’ and we’re doin’ just fine,
But I regret sellin’ Dad’s saddle back in ninety-nine.
Times were tough and we scraped every cent that year—
At a Christmas eve auction sold some cows, a steer—
Then it came down to Dad’s saddle and some ol’ tack—
‘Course that saddle brought the most cash and that’s a fact.
Couldn’t figure out who bought it—never seen ‘em before—
When he bought that saddle, he was quick out the door.
One year later, there came a knock on Christmas day—
There stood the stranger with Dad’s saddle and he did say:
“Fixed it up and brought it back—this is where it should be—
Your Dad, me and Zack, used to cowboy and they told me
A man shouldn’t sell his saddle, so here it is again—
Think of it as a gift from someone who was a friend.”
(continued)
They formed a posse and it was loaded
Three experienced at tracking
And their guide
He was a one-legged kangaroo
No one dared to waltz with him
Even Matilda kept clear
The heat was unbearable
Australia
And no one liked bank robbers
Crossing upstream the three rode through rapids
One horse was bitten by a bee
It startled him and reared
Throwing the third rider into the rapids
One scream and carried downstream
The other two rode the banks and the rapid
And their one legged kangaroo hopped
One hop forward but always angles
They came to a suddenly quiet pool
They saw a hat that was clear
The horse whinnied and a single tear
The kangaroo was exhausted and thought of a new line of work
His master lay face down and floated
The three horses gazed at the floater
And the two men followed their lead
And what about the bank robbers
They had a pint
A Lil' Bit of Aus... Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver
Santa Claus has been unemployed all year
On the dole watching TV drinking beer
Ms. Claus was going berserk
Its Christmas time you fat jerk
Get off your duff and saddle up them deer
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Francine Roberts "Christmas" Contest - December 2010
final dismount, final ride
pasture waits for dappled roan
girth mark of the lonely byways
lather from the battles flown
dew eyed weary, spinal backed
stumble step'd and nostril blown...
stirrup brass with bugle hung
faded strap and leather worn
bridle twisted, crackled spur
broken packboard, blanket torn
carbine scabbard, saddle sore
salt and stain wrung round the horn...
cosmoline and splintered stock
powder burned and pointed lead
flashpan crusted, blackened sight
ramrod tamped and barrel fed
faceless names etched in the action
thunder echoed, eardrums bled...
now the rider, less the man
mustered out a thousand suns
restless eye and palsied hand
scattered mind behind the gun
drumbeat sigh and breaking heart
no true glory grasped and won...
in the world
of the world
in joy's cascade as much as grief
season turns
while seasons end
wind blows down the autumn leaf.
The ol' saddle warn't much to look at but it was all Buck could afford.
He paid Billy five bucks fer it when Billy died and loped to his eternal reward!
The saddle fit his hoss Dan like an ol' shoe and sat Buck's buttocks mighty well!
Fer twenty bucks a month and found, Buck cowboy'd fer an outfit called Ruby Bell.
The saddle was scratched and gouged from chasin' steers through salt pine brush,
And stained here 'n' there with terbaccy chaw and splotches of muddy slush!
The other fellers made sport of Bucks well-worn saddle but he cared nary a tittle.
He'd jes' grin his boyish grin and loose a well-aimed stream of terbaccy spittle!
He rode many a mile astraddle fixin' bobbed war fences and corallin' stray cattle,
On night herd duty or on the trail in snow, rain and dust but he allus won the battle!
He rode the ol' saddle herdin' longhorns on the Chisholm Trail up t'ward Abilene,
Abidin' cantankerous trail bosses, rushin' rivers and many a perilous ravine!
He and Dan tried their luck calf ropin' at the annual rodeo down the road a piece,
But a wily calf busted the horn off'n the saddle, bringin' his rodeo career to a cease!
Buck found comfort usin' the saddle as his piller 'round the campfar at night.
He'd cuddle it like a dance hall queen he knowed 'til dawn's blindin' light!
Buck was as bow-legged as a pair of pliers from sittin' saddle fer many a decade.
He and Dan and the saddle had become mighty weary and somewhat frayed!
"Boys" he said, pointin' to a knoll, "When I come to the end of the trail and I'm dead,
Bury me beneath that pine yonder along with my saddle as a piller fer my head!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
An ol’ cowboy long ago said:
In this life are few things you need—
Just a gun, a knife, warm blanket,
A good saddle and trusty steed.
Oh, you might want a few dollars,
Some Arbuckle joe and a pot—
But there’s the vast starry ol’ sky—
You’ll not fret ‘bout what you ain’t got.
Your night music is coyotes
And the rustle of things that creep—
Hard leather will be your pillow
As the wind and night bless your sleep.
An ol’ cowboy long ago said:
In this life are few things you need—
Just a gun, a knife, warm blanket,
A good saddle and trusty steed.
He started working leather when he was a lad
Stop by the saddle shop on his way home from school
He knew that was his first love
Old wood burning stove for heat, It was all the old shop had
The old saddle maker on his stool
Seemed like they fit like a glove
There was something about the smell of that place
The rolls of new leather, their special scent
Old saddles brought in for repair, hours of tears and horse sweat
The old saddle maker worked at a slow pace
Owned the shop, paid no rent
Around the old stove, is where the cowboys met
For pocket change, the boy would sweep the floor every night
As he would watch the old saddle maker work the leather
The young boy would saddle soap the old saddle clean
Some nights the old saddle maker would work until after midnight
Always seemed to be angry in hot weather
Saying," Hell no, won't have one of the fancy wind blowing machines"
Knives, razors sharp, leather stamping tools galore
On the floor, scrapes of leather were everywhere
Each were a beauty, the saddle made by the old saddle maker
That was once the kid who once swept the floor
And learned from the old master who used to be there
The making of a old saddle maker
Brick had seen his share of hospitals
and had been to Saint Cecelia's more than once,
on occasion, a perp would get banged up
you know, during an arrest... on occasion!
He was just waiting for the X-Ray results
before he made his way home, but he had
to make a couple of calls after he got kicked loose.
First he had to make a call to Bill Lipton,
one of the suits from the 31st had seen him at the hospital
Now it seems that Bill's Lieutenant was leanin on Bill,
guess his Captain was runnin for some office and was
afraid to have one of his boy's involved in the
Shadow vigilante case, in case it didn't get solved
and tarnish his record, Like I would ever let a case go cold!
The second call, was gunna be to a pretty Blond
by the name of Erika La Plant, an EMT who gave him
her number in the bus on the way to Saint Cecelia's
But first.....Brick! the Doctor said as he entered the ER room
look's like you have a couple of bruised ribs there.
Just keep them wrapped up for a couple of weeks
or so, and you'll be fine, if you take it easy that is,
But I spoke with a Sgt. Lipton when they brought you in
and he said you were kind of stubborn and rough on yourself
so it might take a little longer, try not to get into any more fights!
Ok Doc! You got it! Can I go now? Yes Brick you can go!
here are your discharge orders, and a prescription for something
for the pain, I suggest you get it filled, you'll need it!
within a wink of an eye Brick found a phone and called
the Cowboy, the phone only rang once, Hello Bill Lipton here!
Hey Cowboy, I hoped I'd catch you, think you could come
get me, and give me a lift home, so I can get my car?
I may have a date later! Who would that be with Brick?
oh let me guess! the blondie from the bus , right?
Her name is Erika Billy Boy, and yep, that's the one!
Oh hey! what's this I hear your Boss is up your
keester about our Black clad ole buddy?
You ain't thinkin about pullin a runner on me are ya?
Now just hold on to your suspenders pardner! I ain't
a goin no where's we got us a score to settle with our
ole pal. I'm on my way...Click..the phone went dead.........
We're back in the Samauri Saddle, Watch for Robert Dufresne's reply..
Air charged with alarm,
Sky and dirt share the darkness
Cold empty saddle
Sully* was back in the saddle
up the creek without a paddle
Meenie stole his hat
followed a stout rat
With cookies his hands did meddle
Sully* is Sullivan my pet simian ghost
Meenie is my cat
Both are naughty
Notice when I walk, I swing and sway
To send us a message, life has a way
To let us know
Life's a rodeo
Has left us with a saddle burn as we start to decay
There is a legend of a cowboy down in Texas
To whom they give the sobriquet of Pecos Bill.
It's said he rooted and he tooted
As across the plains he scooted,
Stetsoned, jeaned, bowlegged, and booted,
Pursuing cows and wooing gals
As was his skill.
The story goes one day while Bill was out romancing,
A cyclone came and rudely whisked the gal away.
He hopped atop the thing to ride it,
Quickly lassoed and hogtied it,
Then none the worse for wear and tear and rough foreplay,
Out stepped the gal,
And Pecos Bill had saved the day.
Now, legends often tend to get a bit inflated,
And this one here is no exception to the rule.
Some say it's too exaggerated,
I say it's well imaginated.
Like alimony oilmen often pay their exes,
Things are always so much bigger down in Texas.
Of course, it's hogwash, rubbish, bunk,
And yet how often have I thunk
That the tale of Pecos Bill is kinda cool.