The only child
but favorite
of two ‘outlaws’
mare and stud
He bucked each
gelded moment
on their wild ride
of love
Until that day
he up and left
their branding iron
of pain
To wander high
and lonesome
mongst the free
and tumbling sage
In search of one
last bronc to mount
that one last
horn to make
And spur the wreckage
of his youth
as Angels
— pull the Gate
(Pendleton Round-Up: June, 1993
Elko Nevada: Cowboy Poetry Reading: January, 1994)
You need to be a really good shooter if you catch your hat before it kisses the ground -- lest it be you.
Cowboys like to do things nice -- and -- fast because just doing it nice will come out a mess.
It's worth the run to do a Dallas spun around. (Fort Worth & Dallas Commerce Exchange)
Before the Bronc bell sounds off, tie-down real tight, lest you buck off headlong out of sight
If you shoot low, aim for the sun, and if you shoot high, at least you know where you going.
Cowboys never laugh, they're busy holstering their guns.
Luck Rides A Stick Horse
Miracle Man
1/2023
My old Bronc Buster friend named Bucky.
From a California city that’s named Truckee.
He paid me no heed,
concerning his steed,
So old Bucky, from Truckee, wasn’t lucky.
Rodeo Poet,
bronc riding Sage
Arena unbridled
—dallies unfrayed
(Las Vegas: December, 2021)
Santa Claus
Rode a bronc
Gave us pause
Christmas Eve
Rodeo
Can't believe
Did he go
To my house
Even so?
12-16-19
Contest: Have a Merry 3-Cubed Christmas
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
I Have Drank Deep Woes Of Tiresome Heartbreak
I have drank deep woes of tiresome heartbreak
supped dark wormwood of Fate's poison trees
attempted to love just for loving's sake
drown myself in sorrow's of empty seas.
Blessed golden day poetry found me.
For its sweet gifts have truly set me free.
I climbed mountains that rose forever
walked deserts and laughed at dying thirst
but in my Life I have sworn to never
beg for winter's harsh cold nor be the first!
Blessed golden day poetry found me.
For its sweet gifts have truly set me free.
I have through paradise a time once trod
sat on its rainbow singing out of key
swore to truly love before man and God
angel that broke my chains to set me free
Blessed golden day poetry found me.
For its sweet gifts have truly set me free.
I have lived within shadows that mourn
roped a bronc and stole many a girl
been between life and death wickedly torn
in battles victory's flags unfurled.
Blessed golden day poetry found me.
For its sweet gifts have truly set me free.
Robert J. Lindley, 12-14-2019
Rhyme, ( Giving Thanks For Poetry's Many Fine Blessings)
Strong Bonds
Muddy river,
crystal clear,
and sometimes green as grass.
Grains of sand, hot on the pan,
Gifts of pine?, smell all you can…!
Cowboys, Indians, artists
and rodeo, powwows.
Towns gone,
now ghostly kept…
Mines, claim jumpers,
stagecoaches and poker players,
School teachers,
and the right to vote?
Mountain men…
Too many people,
and broken treaties.
Ever paving the way
toward the future…
of a highway.
Scoundrels and sheriffs,
preachers and train trackers,
carpetbaggers, and mayors…
purveyors of law, yet without order.
History remembers…,
Don’t let them forget.
Pioneers, robbers, and slaves,
built OUR country…
Heroes of a past,
we need more today,
than ever before.
Stand up men that put their life on the line.
Western hearts, that carried through time.
Horse and saddle, bronc and buster,
ride again into the sun!
“In God We Trust”
Lecherous Luther was wont to grope
He ceased to function at the end of a rope!
Here lies Cletus as stiff as a board
He slipped on the ice and busted his gourd!
Here rests our dear Ruby who failed to duck
She was beaned on her noggin by a hockey puck!
Egbert the boxer took a fatal jab to the jaw
He died on the spot for failing to yaw!
Interred below is Purvis rigid and prone
Alas, he choked on a chicken's bone!
How we lament the loss of Naomi our sister
She was whisked up and away by a Kansas twister!
Dudley kept in shape by regularly joggin'
Alas, he tripped and fell crackin' his noggin!
Phineas was laid to rest for his eternal snooze
He died too young because of his fondness for booze!
Wilfried didn't heed the warning regarding the curve
He met his doom in a Lamborghini for failing to swerve!
While breaking a bronc Tex was abruptly unhorsed
Perhaps the task would've gone better outsourced!
Just one step and you whipped me,
You flung me in the air,
You flung me like I was nothing,
You didn’t feel, you didn’t care,
And you threw me at the fence,
Then you grabbed me by my hand,
And refused to let me run,
You refused to let me land,
And then you kicked my body,
You tried to kick my head,
You tried to kick my entire me,
To make sure that I was dead,
But then some clown stood between us,
He must have been insane,
And I stood, with one bruised hand raised,
To ride bareback bronc again.
Slow Dancin'
He couldn't square dance worth a hoot
Or do Cotton Eyed Joe
He'd never boogie to the beat
But he could dance real slow
Couldn't stay on a buckin' bronc'
Wouldn't bulldog a steer
But he could break a Mustang filly
By whisperin' in her ear
He never showed his manly side
By sayin' "hell" or "damn"
But when a gal's holdin' his arm
He always says "Yes ma'am"
He had his pick of all the gals
Just why I didn't know
I asked a lady and she said,
" 'Cause he can dance real slow".
Now there's a meanin' somewhere there
Maybe someday I'll know
Meanwhile I'll be an ol' cowboy -
Doin' Cotton Eyed Joe
JUST OUTSIDE OF PECOS
Down on my luck again--it's nuthin' new.
Just outside of Pecos, with a dream that's overdue.
But I got my entry fee, here in my boots,
and I don't intend to lose.
All broken up again, it's nuthin' new.
Just outside of Pecos, with a busted rib, or two.
But I got my entry fee, here in my boots,
and I don't intend to lose.
There's a bronc, I know, waitin' here in Pecos,
wantin' to throw, every cowboy in Pecos,
I been throwed a time, or two.
It's the rodeo, takin' me to Pecos,
but you never know, this might be my last Pecos,
since I met you.
Wonder if that bronc ever could be rode?
Just outside of Pecos, and my feet are gettin' cold.
But I got my entry fee, here in my boots, and I don't intend to lose.
I'll ride that bronc, I know,
I'll ride that bronc, I know.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Hate, a saddle Bronc
That bucks not the spectator
It bucks you alone
A sweet reality, The cowboy image
A laborer wore what he could get
ready- to - wear,
would make city men quit
hand me downs
and second hand clothes
discarded garments
by men who stuck up their nose,
in a ranch or range
they'd stay the same
so Still, so proud,
this typical cowboy
could easily fit in with a crowd
but their sense of self dignity
kept them off the ground
where as city men
always fell down,
filled to the brim
in honesty
a cowboy
suits were for the rich
and poor hearted
the origins of the cowboy
was never truly started,
for in my mind
this wonderful man
so moral and true
has to be a dream
This cavalry issued
every silent night
where he fights to stay awake
while city men turn out the lights
The cowboy needed to know how to ride,
rope, saddle, and bronc'
then they had to use their bare hands
like a real man to build shelter
for the animals in which they keep
then as the sun rises
the cowboy catches sleep
Sunlight blinding him,
Swirling dust choking him.
The bronc gyrating
Nearly throwing him.
Feet braced and pounding,
Pounding the ground.
Jolting his spin,
Up, and again down.
His head jerking,
Neck snapping,
Daylight beneath him,
Then SMACK!
Down on the back,
Of the writhing cayuse.
No eight second buzzer.
To call the end of the ride.
Ignore the pain.
Remember the Pride.
Sunfish, slam and jerk,
Hanging on any way he can.
Fighting to win this battle,
Between beast and man.
The brute gathers his muscles,
Leaps over the rail.
Running, running, running,
Like he’s on freedom’s trail.
Sides heaving, legs shaking,
The horse slows to a stop.
The cowboy turns him homeward,
And says, “Now you learn to walk.”
Those Poems, That Fire
I stood in the alley, still
in pajamas, somebody’s shoes,
another man’s coat, my eyes
on the bronc of the hoses.
Squawed in the blankets of neighbors,
my wife and three children sipped
chocolate, stood orange and still.
Of the hundred or more I had stored
in a drawer, I could remember,
comma for comma, no more than four,
none of them final,
all of them fetal.
Donal Mahoney
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