Best Wild West Poems
Road work had been finished
for the winter on an asphalt strip
north of town near a nature preserve.
I said good-bye to the hotel owner
and he invited me back
although the town was a lifetime away
from my home. We shook hands.
The town wore its history well
with a façade of an old west town
complete with a jail and post office
on its main street, as if it wanted
to live that life again.
Picture postcards were sold in a drug store
to be packed away and taken home.
Gates of fences aligning themselves
on either side of a highway
spoke of the last cattle drive.
I realized this was the west
where cowboys lived and died.
Reflections stirred of how we gave of our lives
for our dreams and for the ones we loved.
Hasn’t it always been this way?
Sandhills loomed to my side as I drove
on a two-lane east to another town
where I could see another historic site
then get onto the interstate and drive
to the next assignment.
The sky above the open land was an ocean
as I drove east toward the sun.
Back in the days, when men bold,
spun golden legends;
of exploits in the wild west;
of punch-in and herd-in cows
and saloon brawls where they’d shoot
and scores of bullets roared.
Stories of the Iron Horse’s roar
and gunfighters and marshals, bold;
Of gamblers, who’d go shooting
for the stars in cards; those were feats of legend.
Days when plains of cows,
fur-painted the landscape of, the old west.
These are the breed that won the west,
as across the plains, the Iron Horse roared.
those are the backs worn, herding cows;
the exploits of the brave and bold.
those brave and haggard legends
made of silver spurs and pearl-handled shooters.
You’re darn toot-in, shoot’in
like that, was what won the west.
While the Iron Horse died, its legend
lives on, belching out its roar,
across the plains, so bold.
Still, cowboys herd and rope their cows.
Modern day cowboys, herding cows
by truck and shootouts
no longer ring so boldly.
Wild no more, is the west,
where now, only cars and planes roar.
Yet, there still live the legends.
They aren’t as great, these new legends,
but it doesn’t phase the cows.
They calmly graze, amid the airplanes roar.
Though one may say, “shoot,
it’s spoiled now”, the legends live on, in the west,
of heroes brave and bold.
The west will always, have its legends, Though trains no longer roar.
Cowboys will always rope their cows, as they did in the old, wild west.
Upon museum walls, stories of the shootouts,
are told; of ancient heroes brave and bold.
10-8-2020
Impress me with an old poem (002)
Poet Destroyer A
Out here in "Colo-rah-dee"
It's dry as dry can be
Dustbowls do get rowdy
As far as you can see
Ranchers cook upon the fire
Some coffee and some beans,
There something to admire
Have been many movie themes
Buffalo Bill did travel here
Many years ago
Drive up to see, have no fear
There's lots they have to show
Travel up to the plains
Where buffalo and antelope roam
You will never be the same
It may become your home
For out here we live simply
Our clothes and boots are worn
Our middles may be dimply
Our shirts they may be torn
Mountains may surround us
And blaze in summers sun
Gold has caused many to fuss
That's how the west was won.
So come on out to see
The country at its best
I chose to live here for me
Because I love the West.
Magazine ads and newspaper obituaries
skitter across the streets
like tumbleweed in the desert.
Rims the size of carriage wheels roll by.
Everyone's holsters are filled,
even the children carry pistols.
The schools are ghost towns
but the saloons stay occupied.
This is the Wild, Wild West.
Hawaii’s coffee is Kona
Mexico’s beer is Corona
But Tucson loves Stock
And now owns a used Glock
For the gun culture of Arizona
Author's note: News flash--Glocks are now flying off the shelves in Arizona.
One night I dreamed I wandered, weary in a desert
until a clear blue water lake emerged ahead
midst the new pine landscape of my dream.
Four specks far away, approaching. . .
soon turned into four strong ranchers wearing big brim cowboy hats.
My memory was stirred in tune with an upbeat melody.
And suddenly I knew just who they were!
One, dressed all in black, sat tall and handsome in his saddle.
Another, plain and burly, gave a toothy grin.
Another, young and charming, smiled and winked at me!
The silver-haired gent, their father,
met my gaze with warm and honest eyes.
Seeing my exhaustion, he offered me a place to stay.
Oh, happy dream that I had drifted into:
that bygone era of my youth
when Adam, Hoss and Little Joe,
along with the grand patriarch Ben Cartwright,
had been invited into living rooms on Sunday nights
as families like mine watched their televisions all those years ago.
A bonanza of romance, friendship, loyalty and courage
had given us the good-hearted milder side of the wild wild west.
Alongside the Cartwright clan,
I rode inside my dream toward the cozy ranch house
built on the land of legend called the Ponderosa,
anticipating Hop Sing’s home-cooked supper.
Inspired by the Wild Wild West Poetry Contest
* hear the lyrics of the Bonanza theme song as sung by Lorne Greene (Ben Cartwright)
at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kA-PdP4k4Xw
Who are you
Dan McGrew?
You sound quite mean
If rumours' true
You lodged yourself
Inside his head
Some seventy years
Still, now you're dead
A tale of love
Of bars and booze
The wheel of fate
Alas, you lose
The west was wild
Back in the day
As danger framed
Each male afray
But what of Lou?
The lady fair
Of unkissed lips
And tousled hair
A broken heart
May never mend
A scar unhealed
Until the end
So as our story
Precious told
Still held in head
Though tired and old
A life not lost
No shooting here
Just words uncovered
Crystal clear
By man with joy
For life, 'tis true
May soon reunite
With his own lady Lou
All dusty and dirty with the sand on the teeth,
All day in the saddle and I'm always in the business,
Colt me - as a father, as a bullet - as a mother,
From birth I was taught to kill.
For the money is ready for any job
Fishing, killing a raccoon
Build a dam, to get dynamite,
Thief to catch, you find pyrite.
I can get it for a penny corn
Sorry did not grow up here big watermelons.
But there is a saloon, where ever you are happy
It poured whiskey and lipstick stain,
Beautiful virgins passionate pleasures,
Are all night kiss.
And in the morning to hit the road again,
Job search, then to rest,
Although it is better to enter the face bullies
And you can beat the Indians in the tavern,
Full of knuckles, caressing my Colt
I loaded all the two hundred and twenty volts.
Bloody flower growing in her eyes,
Now they will meet only in our dreams.
Yes, revenge, but has not become easier,
After all, together with the decline of the soul dies.
This is the Wild West, there is no place for the weak,
Here the people involved from the hard dough
Worker, Indian, laborer and the thief
To finish our conversation.
Annie Oakely: The Poem by Shane Nielsen
Deep in the Ohio woods, to brown eyes aspy,
The wondrous echoes of nature give their humble reply,
to the spirit of sight, and the will to try.
Billows of smoke from fires who do not cease to prier,
ventured the aptly named Little Miss Sharpshooter,
the stakes couldn't be higher.
To feed the sick and hungry, to blow away the competition,
to set all new records and rewrite the given,
No one aimed higher,
no one was more driven.
How could it be difficult?
How could sight not believe?
Skeptics and naysayers? Hard to conceive.
Bolts of lightening cast forth from the soul of the West,
struck down the greatest, struck down the best.
You can relax, even before you go far,
Aim for something in reach-"light up" a cigar.
With enough gold in trophies to fill the banks of a river,
Even Queen Victoria remembers the show you would give her.
After winning every round, with power and esteem,
you're worth more than a thousand words to fit in every magazine.
It isn't that that's important-it's the simple things of course.
Sitting by the gentle waters-feeding a horse.
So aim for your dreams, listen to that fire,
obey your intuition, your heart is not a liar.
Everyone, including Sitting Bull knew-that your aim was impeccable, that your heart was true.
Yes, with a heart so golden, a shell so strong,
It's no wonder you were the biggest lil legend that ever came along.
You are unique,
No need to be a replica,
Yes it is true, my dear Miss America.
I
am
of the
opinion
that most
of the trouble
that happened in
the Wild West could
have been avoided if
the architects had made
the towns just slightly bigger.
A cowboy’s life’s not easy,
as he rides across the range.
His bed roll on the saddle;
his spurs, they bang and clang.
A campfire is his cook stove;
the stars above, his map.
A star of the old roundup,
he has to move his cows along.
He won’t be fired from any job;
he’ll ride the long, long path.
Spurred along with thoughts of pay;
saddled with a heavy task.
With the saddle as his pillow,
‘neath a million stars above;
His spurs are quiet for the night;
the cows, they’ll graze and rest.
Tomorrow he will ride again;
beneath old Sol’s scorching rays.
The desert fire, it parches;
a filled canteen’s on the saddle horn.
He rides across the dry, cracked sands;
and sleeps under flickering stars.
Every cow, he will deliver;
now, spurred by nature’s demands.
His clinking, clanking boot spurs,
kick out to smother the fire.
Rounding up the cows again,
he mounts his saddled steed.
Again he’ll be a roundup star,
herding cattle across the range.
He’ll ride into the market,
with spurs jingling, he’ll dismount.
Roundup star will collect his pay
and fire up a cigarette.
With saddle bags across his shoulder;
a well-earned bath and sleep, he’ll get.
He’ll ride back home, the lanky roundup star.
Spurs quiet in the saddle; he’s bought a new guitar.
Sitting by the campfire, cowboy takes some time to play.
If it’s possible to close my eyes
Then by clicking my heels
I could go back in time anywhere
The Wild West, that’s my deal
Back in time to the gun slinging days
A big iron on my hip
The beer so cheap it’s almost free
A nickel’s a big tip
I want to ride a horse named Sugar
Meet old Buffalo Bill
Walk the streets with Wyatt Earp
Stroll around on Boot Hill
I want to be at OK corral
When the shooting begins
Just be there as part of the crowd
See if the Earp’s will win
I want to belly up to the bar
Put my boot on the rail
Spit into one of brass spittoons
Ask the bar keep for ale
Just experience the Wild West life
Not sure what lies ahead
But when I wake up, I hope to be
Nice and safe in my bed
"Close your eyes and click your heels" Contest
Charles Sides
Smoke signals rise from Sitting Duck cavern
In town the Pitt gang are trashing the tavern
John Wayne strolled in and he ain’t here to dance
They say that he walked like he just sh*t his pants
Don’t be a doubtin, that Marshall ain’t messin
A man ain’t alone when he’s got Smith n Wesson
An outlaw’s revolver, a volley of lead
A slug on the rebound leaves Rick O’Shey dead
Wayne chewed his cheroot and a grin split his lips
Hands above holsters gainst each of his hips
‘Sonny Pritt, I’m here to banish your ilk
So get off your horse and drink your milk’
Pritt said I won’t stand here in fear of my life
For a man with an Indian brave for a wife
You stand there and tell me you’re Marshall John Wayne
You wanna think whose side your on... just sayin
Wayne said don’t you try it, don’t one of you frown
One out of place twitch, and I’ll cut you all down
Pritt said I think we should take this outside
So shoot me or follow, I’ll let you decide
He ducked the swing doors and stepped out of the tavern
And read the smoke signals from Sitting Duck cavern
I think what it says is, ‘Hey you, in the town
Many men try to bring my white man down
He’s braver than one of Geronimo’s sons
But tell him come home... He’s forgotten his guns.’
21 January 2021 (abridged for contest’s line limit)
Contest: Cowboy
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
[This is the poem that made me think ‘Hmmm… Sixgun Sid?’
Which led to a plethora of (at least one) ‘adventures’]
*
Cowboys and Red Indians they ride in any weather
Though one will get a soggy hat and one a soggy feather
And all that soggy headwear has been happening forever
Cos Cowboys and Red Indians are really not that clever
Cowboys and Red Indians they rarely get together
When they chase each other they ride horses hell for leather
And Sitting Fox seeks Sixgun Sid for he’s a scalp to sever
And Cowboys and Red Indians they rarely get called Trevor
Cowboys and Red Indians they simply wont endeavour
To shelter under canvas when its raining… No, not ever
Yet even when they're soaking wet they shrug and say “Whatever.”
For Cowboys and Red Indians will share a teepee never
lost in the
wild west riding
into town
gunslinger
trigger finger
meet the best
and go down
local saloon
I found clarity
with a girl flirt
said her name was
"Charity"
I told her
I would give
until it hurt
and charitable
she was...
with a howdy miss
gave her a kiss
just north of
her garter county
line she said how
about you grab
that garter
pardner
ride this filly
to the triple crown
you tasted
the best now
I expect you
to go down