Best Saddlebags Poems
Age gracefully…that’s what I’ll do
Going to ignore the lines, how about you?
Inner beauty is what really counts
I happen to love my drooping mounts
Absolutely no Botox or fillers for me
Another varicose vein, Yipee
I’ll learn to love myself, no matter what
I will forever have my untucked gut
Graceful and elegant, that’s what I am
I will tell those cosmetic companies to scram
Lip plumping or lipo…no darn way!
And as for my hair…I will let it go gray
Facelifts are for the weak, you know
I happen to adore the feet of the crow
I’ll snub my reflection, chuckling a little at me…
For shunning pricey moisturizers provides me with glee
I don’t need any convertible or flashy car
My beauty shines really brightly, from afar
Who cares about the rolls, seeming to multiply each day?
No staples for me, I don’t care what I weigh
Dark circles make my eyes look cute
And those saddlebags are really a hoot
Juvederm and Radiance ….what a waste
On this mug, parentheses DO have a place
Lasik-I sincerely think not
That bifocal look is certainly hot
A new boytoy-There will be none of that
Though I’m sure he’d dig my charming back fat
The bell, oh no, I don’t mean to be crass
I guess I dozed off in Algebra Class
I must have been close to 40 in that frightful dream
And I was just about to let off a really loud scream
Nevertheless, my dear friends, I do so solemnly vow
To go off and age gracefully…at least for now
That's right...no need for the third degree
I promise to not get my first brow lift…until I’m at least 23
Categories:
saddlebags, passion, visionary, beauty, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
painted desert lay before them
hills with rings of gold and amber clay
few plants, scarce water
just a coyote or roadrunner
on horseback they rode
dreaming of hidden gold
saddlebags filled with mining tools
but not one nugget of treasure
badlands had not been kind to them
but determination still burned
another excavation, another disappointment
“fool’s gold” took on new meaning
blistering day came to a close
time to set up camp
but the striated hills had eyes
Dakota Tribe waited for dusk
arrows flew fiercely
bullets pierced the warm night air
war chants accompanied thundering hooves
intruders not welcome in their land
two weary cowboys
lay dead by morning
adventurous spirits slain
now just statistics in the quest for gold
*October 8, 2014
Categories:
saddlebags, native american,
Form:
Free verse
Walk outside
open your eyes
leave yourself behind
and take in what your mother is giving you freely -
have a look at that flower
notice the symmetry of it all
a perfect mandala
a reflection of your mother's divine nature and love for u
notice the bee that lands gently upon the flower
collecting pollen in it's saddlebags on it's furry black legs
as it flits in natures dance from flower to flower
collecting gathering being a part of the cycle of life -
this is an amazing planet
full of beauty
overflowing with love
our home
mine
and
yours.
Categories:
saddlebags, nature
Form:
Free verse
I'm as free as the wind as I sway in the saddle!
I love life! There's no clutter, nothing to addle!
I give my faithful horse Wild Lightning free rein,
As we meander across God's magnificent terrain!
My pal Spooks trots ahead surveying sagebrush and crags.
I sense that he enjoys life too by the tail he wags!
I crave no roof - the wide-open range is my home.
Territorial bounds don't confine me - freely I roam!
Well-worn saddlebags contain my earthly possessions.
I don't aspire riches nor am I burdened by obsessions.
My soul abounds with wealth as I view His Creation!
Ah! The grandeur of it all! 'Tis ample compensation!
I pause on a knoll viewing the vast panorama and ponder,
The river, a lake, those snow-capped mountains o'er yonder!
In the valley a herd of pronghorn antelope gambol and play.
At dusk The Master Artist paints a majestic sunset display!
Campfire embers slowly die - Wild Lightning grazes nearby.
Spooks lies at my feet - snug in my blanket I gaze at the sky.
I anticipate being awakened by a glorious sunrise next morn,
When Wild Lightning, Spooks and I continue our vagabond bourne!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
saddlebags, cowboy-western, happiness,
Form:
Rhyme
Eel River Tragedy
I’ve gold dollars for my darlin and a Stetson for my son,
and in my old broke saddlebags, I keep my Schofield gun,
when home I’ll make some coffee and tell a tale I’ve seen,
about the Eel river tragedy, the like since never seen
In sunset’s dust, ten thousand steers, drank from muddy banks,
while one hundred thirsty cowboys rode into their ranks,
the water soon was muddy, a bubbling rattlesnake red,
and fifty cowhands underfoot, man and boy lay dead
A cyclone made of hooves and horns, took them to their grave,
two thousand of the hasty breed, died from drinking mud, laid
poisoned in the mornin sun, did cheat the slaughterer’s thud
Now that’s a lot of good men, who didn’t need to die,
they’re lookin down in anger from the roundup in the sky,
so if your steers need water, then split the herd in turns,
and send your hands upriver, to drink by settled ferns
Categories:
saddlebags, loss, remember, river,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
We paused in the shade
Of the cool, green, cedar tree
Ties flapping in wind
Satchels hung like saddlebags
We raced home like wild horses
Categories:
saddlebags, brother, child, school,
Form:
Tanka
Grew up a country bumpkin,
known the freedom that entails,
worked hard to make a livin',
walked down some dusty trails.
Ma an' Pa was hard on me,
said it was for my good,
but I lit out real early
just to prove to them I could.
Did some drinkin' in my early days,
an' had a wife or two,
but now I just got my ol' horse
an' a ornery dog named Blue.
I've lived the life I wanted
an' done most ever'thing,
have few regrets or heartaches
so I really can't complain.
The sky's my roof above me,
a campfire keeps me warm,
my bed is straw an' saddlebags,
an' bath, a country storm.
Drink water from the rivers clear
that fill from creek an' stream,
eat jerky, hard-tac biscuits,
an' drink coffee without cream.
Ain't no call for cussin'
'cause no one's 'round to hear,
my temper done got simmered
an' replaced with dad-blame fear.
My hair is gettin' thin now,
bones creak more ever'day,
but I can still punch cattle,
brand them doogies, an' buck hay.
If I should die tomorrow,
I'll be glad to meet that train
for God's seen fit in all His grace
to let me have the reins.
I'll ride them clouds in Heaven,
an' sleep in if I please,
I'll praise the Lord before me
as I get down on my knees.
All my troubles will be over,
won't even mind the rain,
'cause God'll keep me sheltered
from all this earthly pain.
So, let me never be forgettin'
how grand a life I've had
'cause I've loved ever' minute,
an' it sure ain't been that bad.
Categories:
saddlebags, cowboy-western, devotion, introspection, me,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Braced for War
The atmosphere is rigidly braced.
The boots of warriors are tightly laced.
Water horns are filled to the brim.
Staples in saddlebags bulge their rims.
Armies flank the four winds in preparation
Lightening in their eyes they fight for creation.
Warrior shields are cleaned and polished bright
Reflecting the sun, thwarting the enemies sight
Swords are drawn waiting for the command.
Wrath in their wings their victory will stand.
Below, the shadows cowardly shutter.
Finding they have lost their Rutter.
Destruction is eminently at hand.
Living in houses built on sand.
When the shout for war arrives.
Earthquakes cause the seas to rise.
The sun will shift from its course.
Chaos arrives on a big white horse.
Floods will quickly clean the earth's face.
As shadows disappear without a trace.
Dwellers of the human race will part.
Light will be lifted and darkness will depart.
What was will be left a wasteland
darkness is removed by His hand
A sanctuary of creation is reborn
poured out from Heavens
water horn
Carole Cookie Arnold
2010
Categories:
saddlebags, inspirational
Form:
Rhyme
Pony Express Christmas Card Ride
You asked about our Christmas here.
Do reindeer pull the sleigh
to carry loads of gifts and cheer?
Hoofed beasts we have, they eat fine hay
and in the rain or snow and cold
deliver Christmas cards, as gay
and warming as the cheer of old.
You’ll hear the hoof-beats – not on roof
but Main Street paved with lamplight gold.
The Pony rides on clopping hoof
with saddlebags packed safe and tight –
good leather and quite weather-proof.
Chaps and Stetsons, what a sight,
they leave the packs of mail right here.
An Old-West sort of Yule delight.
Categories:
saddlebags, christmas, history, holiday,
Form:
Terza Rima
I am not a cowboy, though I wear a cowboy hat
and the boots I wear have pointed toes and heels that ain’t near flat.
I want to be a cowboy, but I’m stopped by one condition
I just can’t get a handle on those cowboy definitions.
When you say Chaps, I think cologne, and that’s not all, there’s more
a Quarter Horse is what kids ride outside the K-Mart store
A Bull is the just first part of an expletive deleted
and Pony’s just a little keg of beer, too soon depleted.
I’m not sure what a Cayuse is, but, it’s my recollection
that the Spurs play basketball and Red Eye’s an infection.
No, I am not a cowboy, and I guess that’s clear to you
but, I read books by Cowboy Poets to find out what to do.
How I should walk, how I should talk, and even how to spit.
When to drink and when to eat and when to take a sit-
down with some pardners, play some cards and chew the fat
about the Dallas Cowboys and topics such as that.
A fella told me “get a horse”, that’s the thing that I should do.
So, I got a little pinto, but the body rusted through.
I used to have Colt 45’s.I’d drink some every day
now, the Saddlebags it gave me just won’t go away.
Round up kills weeds, I know because I use it now and then.
When you say stirrups, all I think is O-B-G-Y-N.
Yeah, I want to be a cowboy, wearin’ jeans and denim shirts
and dance that Texas Two Step till my old doggies hurt.
I’ll eat my Texas Chili hot, washed down with Lone Star Beer.
I’ll vacation at a Dude Ranch and maybe milk myself a steer.
No, I am not a cowboy, but I think that I could be
once I get a handle on the terminology.
Jeff Hildebrandt © 1999
Categories:
saddlebags, cowboy-western, drink, me,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Walking up a sandy draw-
Out in the desert land...
An oddity is what I saw,
Have buried in the sand.
“Saddlebags!” is what I thought,
“Dried up, and nearly gone.”
I wondered how they came to be,
Here in the sage and stone.
I dug them up, but underneath,
I caught a glimpse of bone.
And realized that it was, here,
Some traveler died alone.
Rotted cloth, a rusted gun,
Among the grim remains.
“He almost made it,” mocked the the wind,
“His payback for his pains.”
I peeled apart the rotten bags,
And in my search I found-
A journal wrapped in oilcloth,
And it was leather bound.
I opened it, began to turn,
The pages I did bend-
“Where to start?” I asked myself,
Then started toward the end.
“Phoenix, May, of eighty-one-
Charley Wade, and me-
And when we pick the Pima up,
Our total will be three.”
He wrote about the journey,
Southeast, toward Mexico...
He spoke of virgin silver...
Of which, the three did know.
Apaches did for Charley-
Not far from Kitchen’s Well.
Buried near a watershed,
They left him where he fell...
The Pima died of snakebite,
The man was left alone...
Yet still the silver beckoned,
The fortune lured him on.
“I broke my leg at sundown-
And now my horse has run.
If Apaches do not get me first,
I just might eat my gun!
“Thirsty!” was what he wrote next-
“Ah, God, the sun is hot!
And I keep seeing water-
In places that it’s not!
Buzzards keep a circling-
I guess my race is run...
A shame a Tennessean.
Has to die here ‘neath this sun!”
I left him as I found him,
Half buried by the sand-
And realized that men like him,
Had founded our great land.
The guts to saddle up and go,
Where no one else has gone,
And fortitude, if need be,
To die there all alone.
Categories:
saddlebags, adventure, death, history, nostalgia,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Round up the posse,
get ‘em vetted Oval Office ganksterized
Appoint the piggy snouts,
then send ‘em out
with metal sidearm power
Ancient oppression done got modernized,
old Egypt Memphis is new Phoenix on the rise
OK the corruption,
legalize the blind Corral mice
Roving Jezebel eyes
got sticky trigger fingers unsanitized
Presidential grifter seal approved,
publican tin badges
skimming off the top of the public trough
Bonnies & Clydes wearing white hats,
got the saddlebags holding the stolen dough
And it looks
like they done Bernie Madoff with some mo’
Treating citizens mob gankster rude;
those tax cowpokes
are waving their little flag pistols,
talking like tough leather throat fools
Every national treasure asset
is being pirate privatized
Every sniveling weasel with a lizard tongue
is getting Benedict deputized
And truth is being sold in the stables,
non-disclosure is the filly train to ride
Marshaling a high plains moral drifter
to come bail rescue innocent pleb gunslinger you
Remember, Roman toga outlaws
were duly elected judge, jury and executioner too
Categories:
saddlebags, allusion, corruption, political, truth,
Form:
Rhyme
Crest
Pinnacle
Wings displaying full splendor
Sigh of relief
The weight removed
Lasoe
Net the mare
The veil removed
Relization, comprehension
Harnesed on, like saddlebags
Crack of the whip
The plummet of wingless flight
The rugged thump and tumble
The drizzle of rain
The harsh pity of defeat
Racking sobs, the weight of a burden
The haunting demons
Serated maws come a’callin
The scramble, despair
The rise, the steady plea
Hands spread, the tears of sweat
Upon the horizon
The rise, the fall
Of man
© Samir Georges 2009
Categories:
saddlebags, people, philosophy
Form:
Free verse
(Family heirloom, Persian Gharajeh rug)
Coping Skills
The world is certainly not as it should be.
Maybe it’s always been that way,
But now we know 24/7.
So we each and all cope as best we can.
For some this can be as bad as becoming a serial killer,
For others as innocuous as being addicted to exercise
Or in my case, this winter, detective novels.
Whatever it is, whatever gets you through the night.
They don’t teach you this when you’re a kid,
But eventually you find out;
There’s no telling how long the night lasts.
Of course that’s what dreaming’s for,
But that’s no consolation for the sleepless.
Out in the night life goes on,
And it chips away at those within,
Eroding what defenses we have
When we wishfully think it will end
And that what it is, is no different
Than the day without light.
So, addictions of all stripes fill the void
As we wait for day,
The euphemism I’m using here
For death of course.
Not that anyone else but me cares,
Certainly not my wife,
But as I wait within for the dawning without,
When all the voids a novel can never fill still call,
I find old pile and flat-woven rugs and saddlebags
From the Near to Far East
A tremendous solace;
The look, the feel, the pleasing balance of utility and art,
The grounding sense of time and place.
Something about the indomitable spirit
Of the nomads who wove them
Joined with the city folk who even at a distance
Can still appreciate and consume them
Makes me think there is a hidden harmony
In this circle we call life.
And if there is such a harmony
Then maybe the world
Isn’t as out of whack as it seems.
(1/9/23)
Categories:
saddlebags, addiction, art, death, society,
Form:
Narrative
Their bridled haunt, each day may be their last; yeehaw.*
The narrow way, down mountainside, and clop of shoes.
The saddlebags dip left and right in gait and gnaw.
The spirit wind and pouring rain their hoofs refuse.
Begs me to ask, “Are horses as brave as cowboys?”
Lights’ heads bowed low to the path of perilous sight.
The kick of spurred heel, a “Giddyap,” of steel, “Go boy!”
They’re made to trek down mountainsides as stones ignite.
What’s turned ‘round the head of Roy, his slack rope in lead?
This corral dust, no it is fact, the slip and slide**
of horse-hide, ain’t no dignity of his tan breed.
No grave for him, his service blow is bonafide.
The cowboys “yip” and “holla” spittoon-chew and cussed.
Ornery snorts, flyswatter tails replay course sounds.
The clinch mountain, after hazardous ride, kicked dust
in snout of grieving herd; and buckskins stood their ground.
1/20/2021
Cowboy Poetry
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
*yeehaw - used to express delight. Here I’ve used sarcasm.
**corral dust - lies and tall tales
***clinch mountain - rye whiskey
HMS used for 12 syllable count. Site was off on 2 lines.
Categories:
saddlebags, animal, courage,
Form:
Rhyme