Best Tenderfoot Poems
words form in a flurry
bleeding saccharine too too much
all the crushed kaleidoscope colours
signature pastels and sparkling vibrants,
a tenderfoot cherry, with little of life yet to go by,
still art, that one is full to the brim with stitched up wisdom,
bleeds like watercolours across canvas melting messy hearts like chocolate,
la Ingénue’s cup overfloweth with abortions of sugary poésies
plumbed ripe and read, dripping black currents
legs wrapped around broomsticks of diamonds
Candide Diderot. ‘24
diamante
novice
nescient, nervous
assuming, awaiting, assisting
tyro, tenderfoot / virtuoso, veteran
anticipating, advising, administering
erudite, exceptional
expert
I cry at Chain Bridge
in my third year as a tenderfoot.
It's the same thing,
when father takes his time
showing up and the earth
gapes all the way to chaos.
It's when the money runs out
and the business fails.
The scouts all laugh
as they stand near their
neat packs with all their
plans piled beside them.
I am 13 in the dangerous
age of sissies.
I wonder what
the crying does.
The Tenderfoot And Nasty
“Well, lookey here !” Bob said with glee
“We’ve got a tenderfoot !
He’s got this brand new gear , you see
He don’t know where to put ”
“He says he comes from way Back East
Teach him a thing or two
Let’s put him on that unbroke beast
And see what he can do”
The hoss they gave him don’t look mean
Though Nasty was his name
He did seem sometimes really keen
On makin’ riders lame
It seemed so like an awful match
New guy on this terror
This plot somehow just didn’t hatch
We all judged in error
The greenhorn climbed upon that hoss
A move as slick as rain
He spurred to show him who was boss
And let him have the rein
Now Nasty gave him all he had
He bucked and whirled and screamed
The rider smiled, said “This ain’t bad !
It’s nothin’ like I dreamed.”
That hoss gave up, plum’ tuckered out
The rider just stepped down.
Bob said “The East you lied about!
You’ve rode before this town !”
The new guy said, “Not in the least.
This here’s New Mexico.
The whole of Texas lies Back East
I do believe it’s so !”
They called him tenderfoot no more
He made a real smart hand
He came from Texas that’s for shor'
And that ol' boy’s got sand
The wild, wild, west he shot his last gun,
the big bad felon that thought he had won.
His boots are now kicking his big toes,
He's left a trail of nowhere to go.
The dusty road has all blown away,
No longer a tenderfoot, that's what they say.
This is what I know, this is what I send,
there is always a means to the end.
There are people who are artist,
nothing to do with talent, it's the farthest.
Taking a life or someones money,
to them it's all still funny.
There are people who are rotting,
deserving what they've gotten.
The bars they used to drink in,
are now bars holding them.
Ones whose punishment escaped them,
they will surely pay.
There's still alot to say,
And she along with God...will someday.
Leaves no longer held-aloft by their deciduous vaults
Clutter gutters and breezily sweep streets and rest
On right and left road sides, bright and red.
Tunnels formed by old trees meeting arc
Across city-streets and campus-sidewalks.
The bright red light shreds right
Through the quasi-dismal damp
Fog and is mirrored in the ditch’s bog.
The yellow is less aggressive,
More slow to say “hello,
Nomad, pause your show of bursts
Of fabricated steel and what is unreal.”
Trees colored green recollect when
They were tenderfoot, preempting
The Fall of unawakened Autumn,
But tend towards following their peers.
Leaves stand in the back of a room,
Stand in the forefront of the meteorological gloom
And trickle their color onto the gray
Sidewalk once bland and wet as the sky,
Now leaf-littered and shimmering with glances of upright reality;
Colors whet on the watery walkway
By flattened leaves and reflections of trees.
Fantasies of a Lovers Corral invaded my mind
Pronounced reality I could no longer find
I didn’t know, one could be turned on so much
It was just my tenderfoot that he did touch
Forbidden thoughts excited even the most conservative side of me
Could this be?
It was electric, I mean electrifying…
With my mind open like the sky there was no denying…
I was hooked… a sensational ****** explodes inside of me, like a clock striking twelve…
Alarms ringing, I muzzled pleasures moan, so no one could tell
I was imagining him as my lover, our bodies hot burning like fire
Passionately holding each other, his touch, I addictively desired
This was a disaster of the most brilliant kind
Although this is not reality, inside myself I did find
Deeply hidden lust covered by a veil
Colored with a hint of wishful thinking while I ponder the Fantasies of a Lover’s Corral
Fairytale
Dreamin' with my eyes on these Montana skies
Blue as the plaid in my plum good shirt
I got the mitten by a beauty queen smitten
By a flannel mouthed tenderfoot from the Wyoming dirt
I’m just a waddie but a big hearted fella'
That rides strong and long – I’m in apple pie order
I’m a good hand at fencin’ and herdin’ and tell ya
I chewed some gravel trying to court her
I’m sorta' like my hoss who’s an owl headed steed
Keep looking ‘round and can’t talk the skinny
Like the clown brute from the Wild West Weekly indeed
I’m tongue tied by words of love sorta' like a horse’s whinny
Stella hooked-up with a sweet talkin' two-bit chiseler
Who got his wiggle on the moment he saw her
He made his shuck and I ran out of luck-Oh Calf Slobbers!
Now my moon is hung low in my heart cuz’ I lost her
My saddle feels like a hoosegow-my gitty-up gone
I’ll hang fire and yarn the hours away
But my heart is as empty as a Montana prairie song
That I yodel everyday like some gypsy castaway
January 21, 2021
Cowboy Poetry Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Glossary of Cowboy Terms:
Plumb Good: the most well liked – the best
Got the Mitten: rejected by a lover
Flannel Mouthed: smooth talker
Tenderfoot: an inexperienced newcomer
Waddie: hired farmhand to tend cattle
In Apple Pie Order: top shape, high quality
Hand: a worker
Fencin’: building and mending fences
Herdin’: herding cattle
Chewing Gravel: to be thrown from a horse
Hoss: horse
Owl headed steed: horse that keeps looking around everywhere
Skinny: to make someone wink, laugh or smile
Chiseler: a conman
Shuck: lies and mistruths
Hoosegow: jail
Gitty up: to get up and go
Hang Fire: To procrastinate, delay
Yarn the hours away: tell long stories
L ynn is how my name’s pronounced
I ntegrity and imagination the ideals
N otably nostalgic on occasion
E clectic maybe even a little eccentric
M otivated by a playful muse
O pen-minded at times obstinate
N o fancy pseudo nom de plume
I ntolerant to painful platitudes
Q uality time ideally by a fireplace
U nbridled passion for photography
E mbrace uplifting peaceful views
G rateful a constant state of mind
A rt aficionado to the core
U nconventional and proud of it
T echnologically challenged tenderfoot
H appy hibernating in cozy hideouts
I nfatuated with the infinite and all that’s zen
E nergetic when it comes to writing poetry
R acing to the finish line to leave a legacy
AP: 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2026, 3rd place 2021, 3rd place 2020, 3rd place 2020, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2023, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on April 30, 2020 for contest I AM: A LIST BIO CHALLENGE sponsored by ANDREA DIETRICH - RANKED 2ND
I came to poetry a novice, a neophyte, a fledgling
oh sure, I had written as a child . . .
but that was just the writing of a tenderfoot
as my life became more grievous and woeful
I found myself mournful and melancholy with a
a dolorous melody replaying over and over in my head
the years of repression and suppressed pain, and denial
had left me with shyness and inhibition . . .
I needed to write my sorrowfulness but felt a barrier
confused and struggling with my thoughts and words
I would flounder, fumble, tumble and stumble
with fear- then, I took the plunge . . .
I had spent a lot of time in the beginning reading poetry
most poems were beautiful or lovely sensual rhapsodies
but many were just big words extravagant to me . . .
some just a pompous bombast of rage and ranting
lecherous and blustering and well not my style
I wanted to write poems with depth in every form possible
but, I read on and inside me a fire burned . . .
it had no flame but was just a glowing smolder simmering
I suppressed my passion until I was totally ready
the timely care and preparation served me well . . .
and with divine providence- I let my pen drip on white
it dripped and dripped until it was bleeding words, syllables, phrases
finally, I was able to let my emotions free . . .
________________________________
May 21, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Letting My Emotions Free
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1214-201-02
All Rights Reserved, Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Strand Select 4
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
Clearing Out Old Growth
Last week I cleared some old growth, ‘parting’ (1) planted in my yard,
An Avocado tree you’d grown from ‘pit’ of eaten fruit.
Tree’s color for your living space! But pots do limit roots
(Which leads to stunted growth) though I felt watered by your smile.
You left, at last, trees in the room, ‘first’ husband slightly scarred,
A good man too, who loved your aspect; (2) letting go, astute!
Best fight (to join) shares’ purpose’ (3) more than fresh or scarred recruits!
But did ‘Love’ lose? The truth, I think, was love evolved more style.
Though love oft plays on ‘tilted field,’ intelligence: Well matched!
I led by twenty-seven points, still sought to be a ‘pal’ (4)
(I twice divorced at forty-five) to flower just in bloom, (5)
My province: tenderfoot on tour, a ‘stranger in strange land’ (6)
With Russia thought our enemy! Yet peaceful plans were hatched
Amidst the pathos of this plight! “Show human face,” our rationale! (7)
Can thought exist that does not ‘rage at night,’ (8) reject love’s doom?
Though time may laugh at my expense, I still would “hold your hand!” (9)
Now in my life, I’ve found a love that’s soared beyond my dreams,
And poetry (that leaves me breathless), ‘hail verse (so) well met!’ (10)
We’re wizened now, blush gone, as well, from youth, prowess,
Might you or I take ‘second look?’ (11) I sigh! Was fault our age
Or more our ‘Age?’ Abundance lives in more than schemes!
Dreams too! (12) The world sees US wealth and hopes to vet,
To equal, and perhaps, exceed America’s success.
Quoth Shakespeare (paraphrased), “We’re all poor actors on life’s stage!” (13)
To work for love with no complaints suggests you value soup! (14)
In time you’ll find someone to love for whom love’s more than face
Or ties to wealth! Is love a boat that mortals commandeer
Or are we passengers at last who find “the play’s the thing,” (15)
That expectations strangle love that doesn’t flee the ‘coop,’ (16)
That no chain binds (or helps control) that rust will not erase.
The heart of Love begs you release all those you would keep near.
No prison built can hold a soul, but what-should-bees can sting! (17)
Brian Johnston
26th of October in 2019
(Please See Poet's Notes!)
As I remember my quondam days,
I contemplate, I ruminate,
The musings of the bygone time,
Cleaves my heart apart,
With a sharp twinge.
I was tenderfoot, budding,
blossoming.
A bit naive, obtuse,
Savored euphoria in everything.
Being born under a lucky star,
In the cornucopia of,
Love, happiness, and blissfulness,
Was incomprehensible of the,
Forthcoming quagmire.
It came all of a sudden.
Like a bolt from the blue.
Snatched everything from me,
Ripped apart all the bonds,
Left me wreaked, shattered, dismay, lonely.
Those memories haunts me,
Like terrible phantasm.
Fancy to be over the moon,
Yearn to be as happy as a clam,
But how could I?
My Seventh Heaven,
Got burried under jinx.
Date of submission: 19/03/2021
Fondly I list of unrecantable dreams,
Casualty to my nature, subdued as a tenderfoot.
As though only few suns had passed by me.
Unrevealed, I gaze apon my beloveds image,
Craving those neptune eyes to consign my soul to sanity.
Citrine silken you're crowned, with spirits keen and roused.
My willow gold finch, cast your attention to this wounded fledgling, unproved by
love.
Contested with waxing emotion and mocking mind.
Gentle leman, catalyst to my fury; prize me.
Unpent your fond caressess and mete out salve to my distress.
Vest years in this clownish but faithful lover.
Halcyon days with be my oath to you.
Prove me to your own desire, as uncanny mystery has possession already
to this weaker vessel.
My dearest one, inflamed and unabounded, I love thee.
She wandered like a gypsy to Wyoming,
Where she settled in and sojourned for a spell.
She found herself a billet at the Hog Ranch,
And son, there weren’t no high-tone clientele.
It was just a soiled dove’s privy crib
Where Martha Jane set up her chicken coop.
She was a cowhand’s heartthrob,
All buckskin and sutler whiskey.
She could drive a team of oxen.
She could drive a man to sin.
Times she frequented Old Bedlam,
Drillin’ with them soldier boys;
Some were galvanized Yankees,
Some were mere tenderfoot lads.
When she wasn’t barkin’ at a knot,
She’d be somewhere raisin’ sand.
She considered each calamity
That buggered her contentment
As just another maverick to brand.
I for one can't help but wonder
how the Kid's life would have turned out,
had he not lost his mother.
The one true individual in his life
whom he loved devotedly like no other
and so too was her love for him,
the devoted unconditional love of a loving mother.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods
to customers she had amassed
and by doing much of the neighborhood's dirty laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate,
purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income
she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
Many a tenderfoot would show up at her door
and Mrs Catherine Antrim (the Kid's mother)
would nurse them, feed them
and provide them a nights board.
It's very obvious that Billy's fine qualities
were passed down to him from his mother.
Had she lived an average lifetime,
In my mind there is no doubt,
Billy, the Kid today may have been
a most different legend
that may have come about.
He most likely would have been
a very outstanding model citizen,
as well as a great humanitarian.
Today he may have been
an even greater prouder legend
had his mother's life not been
so abruptly brought to an end.
*
Dedicated to all The Great Mothers
who have Greatly Influenced Their Children.
Happy Mothers Day.