Best Wagon Train Poems
A quote from "90 North" by Randall Jarrell:
"I see at last that all the knowledge
I wrung from darkness -- that the darkness flung me --
is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness.
And we call it wisdom. It is pain."
The first bike I ever owned --
when I was ten or eleven --
was a Christmas gift
from a friend. He was receiving a new one
and I was gifted with his old bike.
He had cleaned it up and brush painted it
with a nice coat of red paint.
It was the only gift I got that year,
one of my only gifts as a child.
I loved that bike:
it freed me to pedal around so
I could accompany my friend
as we rode anywhere in our tiny,
sandy, two-paved-road fishing town.
Before the bike, I ran alongside him.
I was quite accustomed to running everywhere,
especially in summer, barefoot, usually shirtless.
Most years from first grade
until we were about twelve,
we spent our time together,
at his house or in imaginary jungles
or on wild, indian-infested wagon train trails.
We defended those trails from apaches
intent on taking our scalps.
Sometimes, on pirate ships, we manned canons
or forced reluctant traitors and mutineers
to walk the plank for failures and misdeeds.
We were never bored, usually outdoors.
On jungle safaris we were frequently attacked
by ferocious lions and tigers and
often captured by cannibal head-hunters
who put us into large pots to cook us
while dancing all around and brandishing
their spears. They sang or chanted
amazing, invented language repetitive
verses overloaded with frequent "ughs'
and tongue-twisting nonsense phrases.
His mother served us gallons of Kool Aid,
gave us snacks we ate with relish.
With a child’s trusting nature,
I hoped this could never end –
I felt secure in friendship and
apparent acceptance by
my friend’s parents. Of course,
things did change.
But..........I did not.
Not for a long, long time.
Chorus:
There sits Mama old and gray,
Rocking, rocking night and day,
Her life was always full and gay,
Till that day, Pa went away.
Narration:
Time was when she was so young,
Raven haired and full of fun,
Many a beau would come to call,
But her heart she gave to Pa.
She would flirt and tease them all,
Wear her shoes out at a ball,
Pa just stood there with a grin,
Some how he knew, she'd marry him.
Their life began on a bright sunny day,
In a little church in I-o-way,
They packed their things, joined a wagon train,
And headed west to the open plain.
They didn't have much, like most folks then,
A change of clothes and a couple ol' hens,
Some pots and pans and a hog or two,
And Pa's big stallion called Ol' Blue.
Ma road the wagon and helped Mrs. Green,
Pa helped Fred with the cattle and things,
When evening came and chores were through,
Ma'd help Pa brush down Ol' Blue.
They couldn't travel very fast,
But Pa and Ma made each day last,
Every minute of every day,
Seemed a treasure to store away.
They went through snow, rain and sand,
Until they reached, Dakota Land,
Some how in their hearts they knew,
Here at last, their journey was through.
They took the land the law allowed,
Built a sod house and small corral,
And as their family grew and grew,
More land, was added too.
It was a struggle, you can bet,
To raise a family on just plain sweat,
When evening came and supper et,
From the Bible Papa read.
Through Indian raids and summer drought,
When Prairie fires burned them out,
Buffalo stampedes and winter's freeze,
Pa and Ma'd be on their knees.
They taught us the laws of God and man,
No finer couple, in the land,
They were always there at beckon call,
To take our hand lest we should fall.
No matter what hardships or trails they knew,
Together, they did see them through,
And for 68 years this proved true,
As their home on the prairie, grew and grew.
It breaks my heart to see Mama there,
Sitting in her rocking chair,
She's just waiting till the angels call,
To take her home to be with Pa.
Chorus:
Cile Beer
written l975
Proudly the white tummies purposefully sauntered forth
Orange arrow beaks decidedly pointed
Stubby feet not nearly strong enough to hold them up
Yellow mirrored eyeballs, reflecting the sun
In sheer giddiness, frightening the menfolk.
I stopped the wagon train and gave them a stern talking to.
Yes, I am the wagon master, thank you much.
And this is the Wild Venus, not the Wild West.
It is a new world, of course.
Unfortunately when I stopped them, they fell over
Onto each other’s laps, making the menfolk laugh and laugh
Making me sorry we had given them their lobotomies before we reached destination
It was the only way we knew to control their testosterone,
Of course, it was my idea, one of my worst I later discovered.
We resumed our journey after they all regained a semblance of composure
Our pet menfolk and our pet yellow-bellies.
I smiled, knowing I might have been right all along.
Women would rule the Venus colony
TVs would be banned, and no animals would be harmed
In cages or hunted or trapped or any of that nonsense.
Some other women came to my wagon that night
We formed a sing along bonfire, and we laughed and talked well until morning.
Knowing our menfolk would be more than willing to get up with the
One point two children we had allowed ourselves and our
Yellow penguin brigade.
Congratulating ourselves on our new status
Rulers of Venus, Committee of Sixteen,
Power of the Woman
In Charge Forever
Until we realized sixteen women cannot agree on anything.
Without at least one or two opinions from the yellow penguins.
That is when it all changed. And they slyly took over,
Feeding us the feminine-out-sauce that took away our will and our minds.
Well done white tummies. Well done!
William Harrison Hardy
1823 - 1906
I believe a fair introduction is in order here.
Not that a handshake from me could ever take place anytime soon.
I was Captain Bill Hardy:
Proud Indian fighter!
And celebrated toll road builder!
I was the one who built the big road
From San Bernardino to Prescott Arizona!
And it was I, Captain Bill Hardy,
Who founded old Hardyville in Arizona
On the sandy banks of the cool Colorado.
Back when Lincoln was still warm
And the blood of Gettysburg was still not dry.
Back when the old west was coming alive
With wagon wheels and railroad ties.
Growing as a child would
With intrepid enterprise and such derring-do
The likes of which few eyes have seen since!
I came out west from New York
As Captain of a California-bound wagon train
And found a fortune in gold in Placer County.
But it was in the Arizona Territory where I later
Made my mark, and lost my fortune.
Oh my friends. I found out.
Found out what plain hard work can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant riches.
I found out.
Found out what plain greed and dishonesty can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant poverty.
Alas, I was but a survivor in life,
And that was my final legacy.
My friends, have you ever stared death straight in the face?
Have you ever seen the eyes of a wanton murderer
Only an inch away from your own eyes?
Nothing is more frightening and more sobering than that!
But I, Captain Bill Hardy, at your service please,
Experienced it first-hand that day in the scalding desert sand.
That Indian devil was right there!
His nose next to my nose!
But I got away!
Ran away from that place and lived to tell about it!
My friends, next time you come to Clark Cemetery in Whittier,
Go to the eastern fence by Dorland Street,
At the corner there, you will find my little plot of land.
It is a far cry from having an entire city named after you!
But it is a fine and restful spot.
Come closer and lean down to me.
I wish to extend my firm handshake to you all!
George W. Towne
1847 – 1899
From Iowa I came by restless wagon train.
From the mid-west I arrived
With satchel and silken scalp still intact.
I read Proverbs and Ecclesiastes to pass the time.
I read the Gospels of John and Luke.
I read Harriet Beecher Stowe and
I read John Greenleaf Whittier.
I saw the icy Rocky Mountains beckon me to the west
Waving their invisible fluid fingers
Like blond ballerinas in silent ever-moving tableaux.
I saw the railroad snake through the endless golden valleys.
And I saw the muddy roads converge
Under a hundred bee-infested pepper trees.
And it was here in this new colony I found a home
For my wife Fannie and our three dubious children.
You could always spot me in the distance,
Walking down Pickering Street.
For I was the dapper one in black derby hat
Taking the cash in the Greenleaf Avenue millinery.
I was the suited one in dusty black,
Winking and bowing to the lovely ladies
Showing my respect but imagining something else
Deep within my empty searching soul.
I was the tall, cleanly shaven erudite
Who had memorized the entire Gospel of John
And walked the northern foothills at sunset
Wearing my ever-present derby hat
And meeting, yes,
Secretly meeting Lucy Swain
Under the tall cedar tree on Rideout Ranch.
Confession is indeed good for the soul.
Confession has always allowed a good but dishonest man to sleep soundly.
To sleep long languorous hours on a cold winter’s night.
To sleep for an eternity without guilt or regrets
Under the hardened forgotten dirt of Clark Cemetery.
For I was the handsome one in derby hat
And only Lucy and I knew,
Only she and I knew intimately
About the patch of soft carpet-like grass,
There under the tall silent cedar tree
On Rideout Ranch.
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?
I was watching the TV the other day
When a certain Rerun began to play.
It brought me back to one of my brain's stifled bans
Because it was about Lucas McCain...the Rifleman.
All of a sudden I was drenched by a flood
of Western Shows that have been long since dead.
I'll just begin with a few you may remember
Like Marshall Dillon - later Gun Smoke as it came on one September.
But I remember The Cisco Kid
and how Poncho always did what he did
we can't forget the masked stranger
who of course turned out to be The Lone Ranger
Then there was Wyatt Earp, Cimmaron Strip, and Rawhide too,
The Guns of Will Sonnet and a Wagon Train rumbling through.
Will anyone ever forget Paladin in Have Gun - Will Travel
or Trackdown or Wanted Dead or Alive with Josh Randall?
Can we ever forget The Big Valley,
or the Ponderosa's size when Bonanza came on the tele.
There were Tales of Texas Rangers and even an F Troop,
Let's not forget Rin Tin Tin and how down on the bad guys he'd swoop.
I still can see Lash Larue and Hopalong Cassidy with his black hat
There were Three Mesquiters to watch when I sometimes sat.
Do you remember Yancy Derringer and his friend Pahoo
or Johnny Yuma, The Rebel who never yelled "Yahoo"!
Maverick, Sugarfoot, and Cheyenne were favorites of mine
There are too many more here for me to rhyme.
Many a big star began on that little screen
If it hadn't been for the Westerns...What would they have been?
It can be fun thinking about some of those shows
Because they are a part of TV nostalgia as everyone knows.
They have come and gone like the heroes they'd portray
I remember the Westerns...and their horse's neigh.
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Let’s Go Back in Time
Oh, if only I could turn the hands of time
Back to the way the world was in the ‘50’s, 60’s and 70’s,
We used to have old-fashioned values,
People had family dinners,
Everyone dressed up for school, work, church, the theater,
Everyone always wore their Sunday best for special occasions,
Children played with their dolls and toys,
Little girls played with their tea sets,
Little boys played cops and robbers,
Programs like “Bewitched” and “All in the Family”
“Mr. Ed”, “The Wagon Train, “Hazel, “The Brady Bunch”
were on TV,
people still had manners and said thank you and please,
Americans were Americans,
Proud of their country,
Proud to salute the flag and stand up for the National Anthem,
Music was wonderful and beautiful,
The sounds of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin,
Of Andy Williams and Robert Goulet,
Of Elvis Presley,
Of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons,
Of Fabian, Frankie Avalon and Bobby Rydell,
We had good music then,
We had singers then,
What has happened to our country?
It’s not the America we all knew,
I wish we could go back in time,
To years gone by,
When people weren’t so plastic and had pride in themselves,
When Life was good
And you knew your neighbor,
How I wish we could go back, back in time.
Celine Rose Mariotti
There was a day on TV
Where westerns were all the rage
You could take your pick
From your TV paper page
Together our masked hero the Lone Ranger
With Tonto kept outlaws in a spin
Have Gun Will Travel was the card
For black dressed professional gunfighter Paladin
Wagon Train kept rolling along
Seth Adams the leader
Flint McCullough chief scout
Old Charlie Wooster was the feeder
Rawhide kept the cattle moving
Gil and Randy kept control
In Dodge City it was Gunsmoke
Marshall Matt Dillon was key role
On the ponderosa it was Bonanza
Where Ben Cartwright was the boss
With his family of three boys
Adam, little Joe and Hoss
Wells Fargo was the stagecoach
Where Jim Hardie was the star
Now these are only some
For they were many more by far
They were the Virginian and the Rifleman
Laramie, Maverick and Cheyenne
The High Chaparral not to mention alias Smith and Jones
These made us all a fan
Cowboys where are you?
Memories of you is our lot
On TV we can’t see
Is this our last shot?
poetgord@2013
A cowboy's journey west
Traveling wagon train was the best
No Mercedes Benz or jumbo planes
Carved forests, climbed mountains, & plowed the plains
Beans and cornbread soothes hunger pangs
A bonnet or ten gallon hat protects our brains
Sleeping under stars watching asteroids
Resting our butts and healing hemorrhoids
I smell the Pacific from across the valley
And yell in delight, "We're now in Cali!"
Pocomoto was a cowboy who inspired dreams galore
With adventures and heroics that lit up my days of yore.
He survived the cruel killing of a ravaged wagon train
Was adopted by ‘old-timers’; lived in camps across the plain.
He rode fast across the prairie pushing forward on his steed;
Bronco Buster, Buff’lo Hunter, helped the Rangers when in need.
Pocomoto the Li’l Fella went in search of desert gold
Single-handed fought the bandits, constant evil, heat and cold.
Independence, resolution were the traits that showed his best,
Self-reliant, conquered hardships in the wild and famous West.
There are plenty years behind me but I often tend to find
Pocomoto’s recollection in the corners of my mind.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
6th May 2014
Contest: Howdy Pard
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Placing: 2nd
They left their father's hearths, those stalwart pioneers,
To follow their dreams to the west seeking new frontiers.
They laded Conestoga wagons and without a backward glance,
With faith and fortitude, ventured into that vast expanse!
They gathered at Independence to form a wagon train,
Then, ferried the Mighty Mo to trek the featureless plain.
They followed the rutted Oregon Trail of those who'd gone before,
Never sensing the hazards and trials that were to be in store!
They were met with savages, mud, dust and howling gales,
Trudging westward, ever westward over endless hills and vales.
With visions of virgin homestead land they followed the sun.
They wouldn't be deterred from the migration they had begun!
"Prairie schooners" were crammed with goods and vital tools,
And were drawn by plodding oxen and cantankerous mules.
The caravan was under the command of a crusty wagon master.
Not to obey his ever bidding was sure to court disaster!
Alas, they left many desolate graves along the rutted track,
Victims of exhaustion, disease and fearful Indian attack.
They conquered interminable valleys and towering crests,
To fulfill their aspirations and complete their western quests!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
THE LETTER PARODY
(MISTER MUELLER WROTE ME A LETTER)
(To the tune of THE LETTER by the Boxtops 1968)
Gimme a ticket on an aeroplane.
Ain't got time to take a freight train.
Ima leavin home! Never go back home!
Mister Mueller he wrote me a letter.
Well he wrote me a letter
but I throwed it in the trash
and I shredded trash today.
Tell him maybe that I died
or I been Shanghaid
or I'm lost in Mandalay.
Mister Mueller he wrote me a letter.
Gimme a ticket on an aeroplane.
Find me a boat or a wagon train.
Mister Mueller he wrote me a letter.
(be the first to record this Parody I hope you make a million dollars. LOL)
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Near Dover Arkansas can be viewed on most any night
A puzzle documented as, ‘The Dover city lights‘
Folks from many miles around, some even out of town
Eyes fill with wonderment when the lights begin to clown
I have viewed myself, no proof of science I found
From the mountain above, as interest begins abound
The lights flicker in different colors, energetically
They dance and prance, leap and treatment for all to see
This outstanding thriller performs an impressive show
In a valley below, on Long Pool waterway, well I know
In the night sky are voices, with many thoughts and theory
As the lights pretend ghostly pranks, their trade quite scary
One popular legend has it some old miner lost his gold
Lights are many who died believing, “still searching are lost souls’
To a Native Indian raid on a wagon train, some attention is laid
If so the braves were plenty, for the lights are many charades
My personal suspicion, it is the moon’s seduction
In riffled waters below, anomaly is moon’s concoction
Perhaps the campfires in Long Pool park below, give show
The utter mystery glow, in Big Piney riffles below
For and in Honor of Carolyn Devonshire
And Contest