Best Six Gun 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:
six gun, america, appreciation, celebration, fun,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Turquoise stones and sun-bleached bones
Were strewn across the sand.
Through mid-day heat on blistered feet
The cowboy tried to stand.
They stole his horse without remorse
And then they took his boots.
They left him dry to bake and die
Without the six gun that he shoots.
He caught a glimmer of a shimmer
Of water in the distance.
He tried all day to make his way
But pain became resistance.
Without shade he began to fade
And the water was no nearer.
The fate he faced without a taste
Of water was much clearer.
Then a Navajo maid saw him splayed
On a rock outcrop ahead.
Filled with worry she began to hurry
For fear that he was dead.
The water she gave helped to save
The cowboy’s life that day.
From the start he gave his heart
And wished that she would stay.
Then morning came and wagon train
Appeared within his sight.
But the Navajo maid could not be repaid
For she had vanished in the night.
Should he stay or be on his way
He had to come to a decision.
Was she there to give him care
Or was she just a vision?
Categories:
six gun, cowboy-western, water, water,
Form:
Light Verse
Take my heart to Tombstone,
Away from hill and tree,
Sell my horse to injuns
But give the saddle free
Outside haunts a spectre,
He has his eye on me, so
Take my heart to Tombstone,
And hang it from a tree
Blood and friendship’s now
Long gone, only rivers run
True free, so take my heart
To Tombstone, OK Coral
For me
Put my gun behind the bar
The bullets and the belt,
If a bad man passes by
Hot lead he should be dealt
And if one evening’s scented
Breeze a whippoorwill calls new,
remember me, proud Wyatt Earp,
with six-gun justice true
Categories:
six gun, history, obituary,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
Tex’s shadow defines him—cut-out
from the heat haze of Karnak’s quartz,
a scintillating contrast to Egypt’s questing sun.
He slouches among the other black castings of
denser composition mottled with grays,
and Prussian blues, incongruent in a cowboy
hat. This six-gun scenario’s frame
disrupts the crafted precision of
a chiseled arch.
****-kicker, lizard-skinned, boots point
toward the desert’s dunes—death hides.
Needing no words to enjoy a taste of antiquity,
Tex shuffles sighs and takes a draw on
an American cigarette. With a flick of his fingers,
he deposits the butt alongside the others
in the white sand. His contribution
to posterity.
First Published in Spank the Carp Issue 21 2016
Categories:
six gun, history,
Form:
Free verse
There were six in the cylinder,
Strapped to his side,
He stood tall,
And walked with pride.
His feathered friend, Hawk,
Upon his shoulder,
No, he didn't talk,
But was so much bolder.
Out west they would ride,
Toward the setting Sun,
Upon his horse,
Named Son-of-a-gun.
When the day had ended,
They would rest their bones,
Sit by the campfire,
And sing their songs.
The life they led,
Was a simple one,
Not much to dread,
But a lot of fun.
Fishing in the river,
They would catch their meals,
While son-of-a-gun,
Would graze the fields.
Every so often,
On the trail, they led,
A stranger would appear,
Sometimes shooting lead.
But this one fateful day,
A stranger did appear,
A six gun at her side,
But nothing to fear.
Her name was Ringo Kady,
With Sally on her lap,
Strumming a little song,
While the cows took a nap.
So not fearing each other,
They decided to talk,
Got off their horses,
And took a little walk.
Small talk was common,
In those days of the west,
They would tell of the news,
That they knew best.
Now on this day,
As they walked and talked,
The sun started setting,
You could hear his screeching hawk.
Time to make camp,
And rest for the night,
So in came hawk,
And gave Kady a fright.
But the stranger assured her,
That there's nothing to fear,
Hawk is a friend,
One to have near.
So resting again,
They decided to sing,
She got out Sally,
And strummed like a queen.
The song was simple,
But said so much,
Enjoying their company,
Now to keep in touch.
Addresses were given,
At the break of day,
And off again,
Going their way.
Kenneth Fordham
2008
Categories:
six gun, fantasy, funny, humorous, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
THE COYOTEE SONG
I'm just a poor lonesome cowboy.
Ridin' my pinto, out on the prairie.
I'm Roundin' up these longhorn, all day long,
Me and my pinto, and my rusty six-gun.
I love a floosie from Philly.
She got some eyes, that really turn me on.
She plays with all the cowboys all night long,
Guess I'll shoot myself with my rusty six-gun.
Sing me a sad song Coyote!
Sing a sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! Coyote!
Sing your sad song for me.
I'm just a poor lonesome cowboy.
Livin life in my Levys til its done.
I know that redhead won't remember my name,
But I'll always have my old rusty six-gun.
Sing me a sad song Coyote!
Sing a sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! Coyote!
Sing your sad song for me.
I love your howlin, but your sound is as sad as can be.
If I had my druthers, I'druther have that floosie sing to me.
Sing me a sad song Coyote!
Sing a sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! Coyote!
Sing your sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! coyote!
Yippy-KiYo! For me!
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Categories:
six gun,
Form:
Lyric
i wandered through the plains
with my pony by my side
and we both would die of thirst
we wouldnt make it through the night
cuz the posse lay upon our heels
they strike with bayonets
hurting blisters theyve bestowed
upon my heels i cant forget
with the sun upon my head
and a six gun on my side
i wish that i could tell you
that my horse could bear the ride
she collapsed right in the field
i had to leave her body there
trusted friend though she was
i couldnt carry her i swear
so i found a shallow river
and i drank to fill my blood
how i wish that tender horse
could taste the sweetness from above
still i wander with my blisters
and my six gun by my side
still a wounded bounty hunter
with no gentle horse to ride
Categories:
six gun, animal, cowboy-western, friendship, water,
Form:
Rhyme
THE COYOTEE SONG
I'm just a poor lonesome cowboy.
Ridin' my pinto, out on the prairie.
I'm Roundin' up these longhorn, all day long,
Me and my pinto, and my rusty six-gun.
I love a floosie from Philly.
She got some eyes, that really turn me on.
She plays with all the cowboys all night long,
Guess I'll shoot myself with my rusty six-gun.
Sing me a sad song Coyote!
Sing a sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! Coyote!
Sing your sad song for me.
I'm just a poor lonesome cowboy.
Livin life in my Levys til its done.
I know that floosie won't remember my name,
But I'll always have my old rusty six-gun.
Sing me a sad song Coyote!
Sing a sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! Coyote!
Sing your sad song for me.
I love your howlin, but your sound is as sad as can be.
If I had my druthers, I'druther have that floosie sing to me.
Sing me a sad song Coyote!
Sing a sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! Coyote!
Sing your sad song for me.
Yippy-Ki-Yo! coyote!
Yippy-KiYo! For me!
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
aka Ron Wilson
Categories:
six gun,
Form:
Lyric
attract attention
attract and repel
repel the invader
repel mosquitoes
mosquitoes carry malaria
mosquitoes bite
bite the bullet
bite the hand that feeds
feeds on animosity
feeds on carrion
carry on your luggage
carrion eater
eater of flesh
eater of words
words to live by
words of wisdom
wisdom teeth
wisdom comes with age
age of aquarius
age before beauty
beauty is in the eye of the beholder
beauty is only skin deep
deep sea diving
deep six
six hundred threescore and six
six gun
gun collector
gun control
control yourself
control freak
freak out
freak show
show no emotion
show and tell
tell no tales
tell the truth
truth or consequences
truth or dare
dare to be dumb
dare to keep kids off drugs
drugs and drinking
drugs, sex and rock 'n roll
roll out the barrel
roll over beethoven
beethoven ludwig van
beethoven's fifth
fifth amendment
fifth of whiskey
whiskey
amendment
Categories:
six gun, word play,
Form:
Blitz
Doc Holliday truly amazing
Sick to death and two six guns blazing
Though his blasting appeared not to be phasing
The calmness of his gelding equine’s grazing
This be the glory, how the west was won
By house of ill repute, and the six gun
Plenty of action, was never boring
Funeral parlors, were businesses soaring
Stank of many bodies in pine boxes
All human life was generalized poxy
In the west, principle way of the law
Generally how fast every man could draw
These early days were quite chaotic
Wyatt Earp’s moves were a bit methodic
The saloons were filled with poker tables
And many big bosoms of dance hall mabels
Indians drank of white man’s fire waters
Sheep herders were known as only free squatters
The winning of the west, was quite a quest
Reservations put Indians to the test
America has it’s many stories
How our west was won by many glories
So greatly was the west romanticized
We wonder how much was only lies
Well documentation of westward truths
Or documentation of many human spoofs
Maybe fraudulent claims, as was the hog leg’s aim
We accept no blame, but we’ll take the fame
Placed # 15
Categories:
six gun, fantasy
Form:
Rhyme
Into the street he sauntered one day
Might be his last, no one could say.
Wore a sassy Stetson, chaps and spurs
ring-jingly things, with raucous burrs.
A silvered six gun pressed his hip
a tiny tremble dressed his lip.
Tough as nails with firm resolve
he hoped this battle would absolve,
a hidden weed of secret fear
(kept to himself, so very near).
With nerves of steel he ambled along
his sober thoughts a mournful song.
It was not very far across the town
to the scene of the big showdown.
When he reached the square he gave a shout
to a lurking foe he yelled, “COME OUT!”
But no man breached the lair’s cold door,
so he lifted the latch, chilled to the core.
His enemy glanced up, with face in mask,
our hero blanched, crushed by his task.
His quick draw hand was not advanced
but a warm foul liquid filled his pants
For in the hand of his fated foe
was a killing tool, he’d soon come to know.
“Mommy!” “Mommy! “Mommy!” the gunslinger cried.
Thrice he pleaded, but was denied.
For the quest he faced was not for thrill.
It was the dreaded, droning, Dentist’s drill.
Categories:
six gun, childhood, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
He rode a Silverado
That was a dusty gold,
His clothes were worn and ragged—
Their style was odd and old.
They watched him as he walked in
To Wally’s Waffle Place—
With silver spurs that jingled,
A hat that hid his face.
He strolled up to the counter
And placed two gold coins there—
“I’ll take a big heap,” he said,
“Of yer fine dinin’ fare.”
Well, he sat down on a stool—
Pulled makin’s from his vest—
“No smokin’!” growled the waitress,
“This here ain’t the Old West!”
Well, the stranger tipped back what
Looked like a cowboy hat
And then slowly rolled his smoke
And grinned just like a cat.
“I don’t mean no disrespect,
But this here’s open range—
Though I must of wandered off,
‘Cause you folks sure is strange.
“See, I had to leave my hawse
When he done pulled up lame—
Then found that hawseless carriage—
Got me here all the same.”
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
“Seems some things has changed ‘round here—
They caught the James Gang, yet?
And how ‘bout Wild Bill Hickok?
He’s still real fast, I bet!
“And what ya hear of Custer
And all of his good friends?
Heard he’s clearin’ our country
Of all the Indians!
“Reckon I’m out of touch some—
Been ridin’ ‘round so long—
It feels like forever
And that now I don’t belong.”
The waitress stared – told the cook
To dial up 911—
She knew something was not right
With this old cowboy son.
“Now, we don’t want no trouble,”
She stated in soft words—
“But all I want is my grub,
‘Fore I rides to the herd.”
“Say, mister – you all right?” that
Waitress asked all concerned,
But then she saw his six gun—
“Well, now I’ll be goll-derned!”
Then that cowboy disappeared—
The Silverado gone—
With tire tracks toward the desert,
Lost in the purple dawn.
And so all the legends go—
But these are just the facts:
They say they found that old truck,
Then just a horse’s tracks.
So when you go to Wally’s—
If that’s what you must do—
You’ll find a deserted shack
Closed in 1992.
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
Categories:
six gun, confusion, cowboy-western, history, imagination,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
The Phantom called a meeting for he wished to unionize
the trucks had been delivering unloading their supplies.
Bat man and his robin boy came bursting threw the night
The shadow showed up early to find the perfect light.
The ranger with his six gun didn't come alone
Tanto rode up with him mounted on his roan.
Cisco came in swaying to his mariachi band
Pancho had his plate of beans and burrito in his hand.
When Zero used the bathroom it's there he left his mark
while the sergeant rode in circles all about the park.
When spider man showed up his shirt was all a mess
a pigeon on a window sill do-doed on his vest.
I tell you it was crazy when they argued over dues
all they did was sit and eat and drink the Phantoms booze.
When the meeting was adjourned the Phantom left the room
The heros followed close behind and left the place in ruins.
They should never organize, that should come as no surprise
one has but to realize, that's why they're all disguised.
"THE PHANTOM"
Categories:
six gun, funny, imagination, people,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
On that ranch in the west.
We got us a cowboy dude.
On that ranch in the west.
We do what cowboys do.
Six gun by his hand.
He's carrying a shotgun too.
On that ranch in the west.
We got us a cowboy dude.
Gotta rope at his side.
Gonna ride and rope today.
Gotta rope at his side.
Gonna bring them cattle this way.
On that ranch in the west.
We got us a cowboy dude.
On that ranch in the west.
We do what cowboys do.
When them cows come home.
We'll get ourselves some rest.
When them cows come home.
We'll put ourselves to the test.
I think I'll go out.
And pitch myself a tent.
I think I'll go out.
And avoid from paying the rent.
On that ranch in the west.
We got us a cowboy dude.
On that ranch in the west.
We do what cowboys do.
On that ranch in the west.
We got us a cowboy dude.
On that ranch in the west.
We do what cowboys do.
We just do what cowboys do.
We just do what cowboys do.
We just do what cowboys do...
Country Western Song Lyric By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2004,2014..
ALL rights reseved..
Categories:
six gun,
Form:
Ballad
I hope to heaven that when I die
I meet Woody Guthrie in the sky
and then upon a dust-bowl cloud
we'll find the grace to sing aloud,
and that the Heavens won't debar
the using of a stringed guitar,
though usually the angel choir
prefers to play the harp or lyre.
When Woody asks how things have bin
in the world of strife and sin,
I'll say spud soup's 'bout just as thin
as when on earth he still could sing.
(Them politicians can see through it
Like a lump of mama's suet)
Robbers at home less often use
the six gun than back then
for they prefer the gentle ruse
and still the fountain pen,
and still the fountain pen.
Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan,
may join us by and by,
And though they sure are getting on,
may they live long ere they die,
may they live long ere they die.
And then we'll do an earthbound tour,
in stadium, field or sewer,
for like Joe Hill we'll return
from grave or tomb or dusty urn
as long as workers claim their right
and songsters yet acclaim their fight.
till everything is globalized
and unions have been pulverized.
Till then, till then, we'll sing along,
till then we'll sing our song.
Categories:
six gun, appreciation, art, gothic,
Form:
Lyric