Best Wrangler Poems
When Darkest Of Blues Will Not Stop Pounding
Standing atop this high cliff, clouds floating on by
Watching last sunset, red-tint paint splashing blue sky
Now finding life, has stooped to beat me up again
Despite my deep courage, embraced through thick and thin
No honor felt in this lost state I am at
Broken wrangler with no horse, no damn cowboy hat
Just a dying soul, trying to live to hold on
Now that the beauty of life's colors have all gone
Weeping into winds once found to be clear and fair
Missing that love, only mother and child can share
Glancing down, life and earth seems so damn far below
So many exits, yet I have nowhere to go
Standing atop this high cliff, clouds floating on by
Watching last sunset, red-tint paint splashing blue sky
Robert J. Lindley, 2-17-2017
Note; One day gleaming sun does so shine. Next day it hides and laughs in wicked glee.
There is now a huge hole in me. I wish to drown, in the next storm in this dark, raging sea.
The trousers he's wearing are Wrangler -
they're great for his job as an angler
(although on a trip
he busted his zip
and showed all those present his dangler).
written 6th December for Sara's Trademark contest
Brett Favre looks hot in his Wrangler blue jeans
You know that cool dude ate his spinach greens
Has the perfect TV face
With the girls he scores first base
If only he could master passing screens
* For the sports limerick contest
In tight and busy parking lots
You can easily get perturbed
Should I back out; take the long way,
Or should I just jump the curb?
Jeeportunity!
The well-worn road around the butte
Will take ten minutes more
But a dusty two-track byway
Will save us some time -- I'm sure!
Jeeportunity!
This time the parking lot is full
‘cept a small space next to a hill
“No worries!” mumbling to no one,
“I’ll just drive it up there in Four-wheel.
Jeeportunity!
It”s time to buy a set of wheels,
Your spouse wants the blue mini-van.
There, on the end, what’s that you see?
A Rubi Wrangler! Yup, I’m a fan!
Jeeportunity!
Some cold day in my future life
I will climb the stairway to heaven,
In a golden Jeep with a mega lift
And the tires will be Thirty Sevens!
Jeeportunities!
I guess when memories of the past,
never seem to fade or pass,
we find ourselves left walking ,
down a long and lonely road.
You know each step, which we take
is another candle on the cake,
as the years become minutes in a day.
The quicker they seem to pass us by,
the more clouds we see in the sky,
reminding us of someone we once loved.
I never dreamed I would be 23,
now I’m 50 and look at me,
happy as a wrangler riding on a horse.
It appears I have survived it all,
every brick in every wall,
regardless of the trials and the test.
In the end what matters most,
we never let our pride become the host,
we must forever see the errors in our ways.
To forgive doesn’t mean we forget,
it simply means we regret,
the course of action we were forced to take.
Me, I’ve made all of my amends,
apologized to enemy’s as well as friends,
not to mention all of ladies I once loved.
Even to those who broke my heart,
those who tore it into little parts,
over things, which I would never do.
I ask them all and I’m forgiven,
now I’m free to continue living,
this life the Lord has planned for me.
Trust me friends these words are true,
to be forgiven for what you didn’t do,
truly is a feeling, which stands all by itself.
In the end, I guess it matters not,
who’s forgiven and who forgot,
that right and wrong is a two way street.
I reckon that’s all I have to say,
for those I love I shall forever pray,
they never find themselves walking,
down a long and lonely road.
I know how to live off the land
I'm a survivalist
I make do with whatever's at hand
I'm a survivalist
It's a mindset,
it's a lifestyle
You must have a soldier's discipline,
be able to endure hardships for a long while
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for guile
I can ascertain your true motives,
sense the truth behind the smile
I was trained to be a scientist,
I was trained to be a fireman
I was trained to be a field doctor,
but right now I'm a lumberjack
swinging an axe in my hand
I worked on a railroad,
I worked in a cooper mine
I worked at a shipyard,
I was a mean cook when I did a little time
I'm a mountain man,
got no time for those corporate city slickers
I can deduce your true identity,
sense the lies behind the smiling boot lickers
I was trained as a scout,
I was trained as an engineer
I was trained as a wrangler,
but right now I'm a mechanic
fixing a truck with busted gears
I worked for a big law firm,
I worked as a small company machinist intern
I worked at a high-tech factory,
I got recruited by a low-level military attache
Those are just a few of my credentials,
but here is what you really need to know
I'm a student of studying people,
I got a quick wit, but I like to appear slow
Being in the big outdoors
is where I really feel most at home
I love to test my skills at surviving,
I love to operate my satellite phone
Check the cloud patterns,
constantly scan the terrain
Calculate the tide shifts,
learn every animal, know every grain
I know how to live off the land,
make the land work for me
I make do with whatever's at hand,
let the land give me what I need
I'm a mountain man,
I live in an untamed world
I'm a different kind of animal
I'm a mountain man,
who's never gonna get trapped
by modern barbarians ever again
She did the washing e’vry Monday morn,
All fabrics sorted in different piles,
The wrung-out whites shone brighter than the dawn,
While flapping in the wind and sunshine smiles.
Dark blues that swish and swirl in the machine,
The Wrangler jeans worn on Saturday night,
And those frilly things that are only seen
Upon the washing line, hidden from sight.
Her tutting sigh - the fabric is too scant,
She looked at me with unbelieving eyes,
I’m folding up her bleached white bloomer pants,
No longer the child full of endless whys.
Yet still we sat drinking our cups of tea,
Some things never changed for my Nan and me.
Form: English Sonnet
Hank was a hard workin' cowpoke who really earned his meager pay.
He rode his ass Old Red from early dawn 'til at night he hit the hay,
Fixin' fences, ropin' steers and brandin' dogies in the old corral,
But he had an odd addiction that gnawed on his pard's morale!
He was a happy yodler which is alright fer a wrangler I suppose,
But his irritatin' warblin' caused him to nearly come to blows!
At night in the bunkhouse he would even yodel in his sleep,
Addin' to the din of his pals who were known fer snorin' deep!
His yodelin' caused cattle to stampede and hosses to buck and neigh.
Caused chickens to cease layin' aigs and cantankerous mules to bray!
Porkers squealed in their sty and the hounds barked and howled,
His comrades raged and cussed and the cats all hissed and yowled!
Even rattlesnakes were flustered and slithered to hide in dens,
And bands of coyotes skulked to seek cover in the nearby fens.
Frenzied birds vacated their cozy nests and fled to distant climes,
And Cookie got upset since the guys couldn't hear his supper chimes!
The grizzled old ranch boss called Hank aside fer a serious session,
Sayin', "Son, you're creatin' havoc 'round hyar with yer damn obsession!
Take yer ass and yodler to swoon the gals at the Dry Gulch Saloon,
'Cause if'n you keep it up 'round hyar, you'll hit the road and soon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Give me a "Home On The Range"
Where my granpa once roamed
Out on the lone prairie
From "Deep In The Heart Of Texas"
He cummed up the trail
Following the "Cowboys Dream"
All the way to "The Chisholm Trail"
There "At The Cowboys Dance"
He met "Sweet Betsy From Pike"
And danced with "The Buffalo Gals"
Early next morn he hit the saddle once more
Headed for "Cripple Creek"
"The Yellow Rose Of Texas"
And "San Antonio Rose"
He met on the "Streets Of Loredo"
In "Red River Valley"
He met that "Red River Gal"
Headed for the "Lone Star Trail"
This "Texas Cowboy"
Hit a new trail "Way Out In Idaho"
But when "Windy Bill" gave him a taste of
"Life In A Prairie Shack"
He jumped on "Old Paint" and did leave.
He headed north to "Dakota Land"
Where his last years he did spend
Proudly he'd boast "I'm An Old Cowhand"
And sits and tells them his tales.
Of the "Grand Roundup" as he rode "Wild Buckaroo"
When "Down In The Valley" he ranched.
But tears filled his gray eyes
As he told of "Little Joe The Wrangler"
On the "Trail Of The Lonesome Pine"
When "The Work's All Done This Fall"
"Git Along Little Doggies" he'll say
It's about time for the "Last Round-Up"
Which is the "Dying Cowboy's" dream.
Cile Beer
All an illusion
It's all an illusion.
No matter where I am, I am alway just,
sitting there. Unaware, with a blank stare messy hair
and probably the same clothes that I always wear.
Wrangler jeans, and a button up, sleeved. (period)
Because, I hate T-shirts.
Hate them!
In fact, I'd be fine if they all just disappeared!
Into thin air. I'm serious.
the plague, wasting, predators, or aliens came to take em!
They'd say.
Or they inbred too much,
and their lineage diminished
intelligence forsook em.
Gene pool plummeted
they became disoriented, wrangled and out-competed
and just sort of drifted away,
They'd say,
it was probably believing everything they see on the news.
That led to their doom.
That, and marrying too young, having litters,
of far more than they could possibly support on their wage!
Stupid T-Shirts
And later, when documentaries are made on why their society caved.
they'd say in five languages: “Stupid T-shirts”
You'll see em today, at the Walmart or on display in friendly glass cases,
With nothing but idiotic slogans, and quotes from bad movies
“That's what she said”
Or some sort of shark-cat reaching with fangs and claws up at
a bikini wearin slice of pizza...
They call it “Paws”
Myself, I'd rather be shirtless in a game of seven card stud.
I'd rather be seen strung up dangling by my hair parasailing through Canadian Territory,
and mistaken for a chipmunk. Covered in varmints blood, Or spend my weekend servin sweet tea to
Donald Judd.
Than even be seen wearing one.
No dignity in em,
Just picture Grant, Lee or even Sam Houston
Wearing a shirt with an arrow
That reads:
“I'm with Stupid”
Drool the duck got mad at a bull and whacked up a bee
She was so bad she took the cat for a cup of tea
Cat was a mangler
Upcountry wrangler
Peeved the duck with the muck and mucked her up with a pee
DROOL THE DUCK: Limerick: copyright© RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY November 2014
The Vaquero
Create for me a vaquero
With slow walk, loving rodeo
Long rides on cool high mountain trails
Where it's wooded__love never fails
Who rides comfortable as can be
Wrangler who understands..create for me
(Wrapped Refrain)
In honor of Tirzah Conway
A Cowboy Is contest
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
There is the sweet sound of birds that sing
And then, there is the annoying cacophony
of horns, HON- keen!
The erratic incessant chirp and beep
of cars remotely locked
Makes for an eclectic electric symphony
Where birds are mocked
Can a Horny Yellow Wrangler
find a lonsome dove?
There is sadness
in the single Bronco
that knows no love
Oh, this is just all too *****
Another horn
Is sounding near...
In the woods, in the lot.
There ain't nothin' a cowboy is prouder of than his faithful horse,
Except that is, maybe his hat and his pointy-toed boots of course!
In sleet, snow and rain he'll pull the old hat down over his ears,
As he stands guard over the restless herd of skittish steers!
He'll wear his old sweat-stained hat to Saturday night dances,
And to protect him from the sun and rain while fixin' fences.
At the end of day he'll guzzle a coupl'a beers, his thirst to slake,
Plantin' his boots on the brass rail with his pards to take a break!
He'll wear his old slouch hat from dawn 'til at night he hits the hay,
Never doffin' it for nothin' 'cept if'n a pretty lady passes his way,
Or use it to water his hoss and feed him oats is the other exception!
For the niceties of society and the social graces he has little affection!
Maybe he can't afford a fancy pair of them Levi or Wrangler jeans,
And he must tolerate Cooky's tiresome chuck of bacon and beans,
But when it comes to his hat and boots he won't compromise.
The hat must be a Stetson and Tony Lama boots are what he buys!
He throwed his leg over his saddle horn one day and had this to say:
"Boys, when I come to the end of the trail and cash in my chips someday,
I don't want you fellers a-carryin' on and a-bellerin when I'm gone.
Jes' promise you'll bury me in my dusty hat and scruffy boots and carry on!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved