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Cowboy Poetry
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May you celebrate the spirit
Of all good things on this earth—
May you ride down all the right trails
And pay honor to Christ’s birth.
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Cowboy Poetry
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You can tell
They ring your bell
As you holiday shop
Going from block to block
Itthe smoke
You almost joke
As they bust
It's
CHRISTMAS
CHESTNUT
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Cowboy Poetry
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You been gone to lone
Your still in my bones
Honey I feel you inside
My feeling can not hide
Please come holidays come and go
Please don,t say no
I love you deep too
For Christmas
Greatest oll to hear. You call
ALL I WON,T IS YOU
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Cowboy Poetry
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It come onces a year
You can tell when it's near
Gifts you share
It's love and care
For your follow man
You put money in a can
Its fun watching the kids run
They play as snow
And wind blow
Around tree it's like dust
It's
Happy Christmas
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Cowboy Poetry
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I'm just an old cowboy Christmas toy
One that's not feeling all that fine
That's because all I want for Christmas is to be a kids toy
One that will always be mine
I'm just an old cowboy Christmas toy
To all you grandfolks I do plead
Stright from this old cowboy's heart
Please find a lonesome kid for me
I'm just an old cowboy Christmas toy
One that's always been left behind
'N let me tell ya, at Christmas time, that don't feel very fine
All it does is to make want to cry
I'm just an old cowboy Christmas toy
HAPPY CHRISTMAS
TRULY BillyWild
p o 8 c o w b o y @ a o l . c o m
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Cowboy Poetry
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We dream of it for Christmas Eve,
The swirling pearls of snowy down--
Its blanket grows and does not leave
And covers homes and barns around.
The horses stay within their stalls,
Thinking cowboys this day won't ride--
Far from the busy shopping malls,
Where folks seem so empty inside.
Yet, still the family gathers
On this rare white Thanksgiving day,
To thank the Lord for what matters--
Share their abundant feast and pray.
Though some are here in memory,
We love and laugh with them in death--
Knowing to cherish things that be
And relish our time with each breath.
So at tables we say prayers
Over food this white Thanksgiving--
As we put away all our cares
And thank God and kin still living.
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Cowboy Poetry
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On a cowboy Christmas in the west.
Another cowboy Christmas song and dance.
Driving our herd.Drinking our ale.
As we make our way.Along the trail.
Ranch lights glistening.
Children listening.
To hear; Santa's sleigh bells in the snow.
On a cowboy Christmas in the west.
I think this Christmas.We'll be blessed.
We'll drive our cattle.Pull off that saddle.
Then we'll get ourselves some rest.
Ranch lights glistening.
Children listening.
To hear; Santa's sleigh bells in the snow.
On a cowboy Christmas in the west.
Our cowboy Christmas is the best.
Firewood burning.Charcoal churning..
Santa Claus smiling with the rest.
Ranch lights glistening.
Children listening.
To hear; Santa's sleigh bells in the snow..
Cowboy Christmas Song-Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2005,2014..ALL rights reserved..
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Cowboy Poetry
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Oh, where have all the cowboys gone
That weren’t afraid to speak their mind?
Oh, where have all the cowboys gone—
Have they rode off with us behind?
We used to know the right from wrong
And not all things were for a buck—
Our boys once grew both tall and strong
And all they needed was some luck.
But things have changed in this dark land
And correctness is now the word—
We’re all afraid to take a stand
And America’s now absurd!
So now we take Christ from Christmas
And are afraid to say His name—
The ACLU now makes a fuss—
And we all have to play the game!
So now we all stick up our hands—
Robbed of what all the brave have died—
And let the bad guys make their plans
As our leaders played tricks and lied.
But our time will come once again
And we’ll ride strong and still be free—
If we call the Almighty, friend,
And open hearts and eyes to see.
Yes, where have all the cowboys gone
That aren’t afraid to speak their mind?
Yes, where have all the cowboys gone?
They have not left us all behind.
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Cowboy Poetry
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(continued)
It had been over ten years since Dad passed away—
Stood lookin’ at the stranger, didn’t know what to say.
Dad never told us much ‘bout his life out on the range,
But he did mention his best pard, a man called Bob Strange.
We thanked Bob and asked him to join our Christmas feast,
He said no need for thanks, that this was just the least
He could do to help out the boy of his ol’ pal
And that he had to get back to the North Corral.
I was awful glad to see my Dad’s saddle back,
When a few weeks later I came across ol’ Zack.
Out of the blue I asked if he heard of Bob Strange—
He nodded and said yes, then his smile began to change.
He wondered why I asked ‘bout someone I never met—
I told him ‘bout Dad’s saddle and he began to fret.
“Ya understand,” Zack said, “Bob’s been dead twenty year.”
That’s when I turned grim and my smile did disappear.
“But I just talked to him,” I said, “back on Christmas day!”
“You’re wrong,” Zack said, “but I ‘member what he used to say:
Don’t ever sell your saddle, don’t quit balin’ hay—
When ya give your word, keep it—it’s a real man’s way!”
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Cowboy Poetry
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Damn blizzards don't know nothin' 'bout Christmas
They blow or they don't and this time they did
Nobody told me to be a cowboy
Though some told me that I had lost my lid
'Tween the hoss and me we should see somethin'
Tryin' to push cows behind a drift fence
I have seen two and that is the whole lot
But there's a hundred that I ain't seen since
I ride North when the blow's on my right side
I'll ride to the tree line then switch back South
I will stumble onto the herd or I won't
Blow my hands with the last heat in my mouth
I coulda gone to Denver for Christmas
But Sally went home to Albuquerque
I stayed here to keep watch over the herd
Blizzard killed the chance of cookin' turkey
Fingers are frost bit and my toes are numb
My butt is froze to the saddle it seems
I think of the bunkhouse with log on the fire
And chuckle at thoughts of sugar plum dreams
So I earn my pay as best I know how
An' wonder if Rudolph is on his game
He will need his wits on this Christmas Eve
It don't matter that Ol' Man Winter's to blame
12-14-19
Contest : The Darker Side of Christmas
Sponsor : Richard Lamoureux
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Cowboy Poetry
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As the sun starts to rise,
This cowboy opens his eyes,
Dew trapped in the mornin' frost.
I thank God for my freedom,
All the times I need 'im,
I tend to forget the cost.
I ride o'er this prairie,
Durin' this season to be merry,
Ponderin' the year that has past.
Often times were good,
More than there should,
Occasionally my luck didn't last.
Now it's deep in December,
Ah, the prairie 'n its splendor,
A hawk as it circles the sky.
A cowboy could get soft,
On new hay in a loft,
'N a roof to keep his bedroll dry.
My leg draped o'er the tree,
The horn in the bend of my knee,
I look out across these vast plains.
I heave a big sigh,
Swipe a tear from my eye,
Sat up 'n take hold the reins.
We've been drivin' this herd,
For a week 'n a third,
I figure one week more.
If the weather holds out,
We'll make it no doubt,
But nature could even the score.
Tomorrow they say,
Will be Christmas Day,
I thank God for the Miracle Birth.
Jesus 'as sent here to save us,
That's the gift God gave us,
Certainly more than this cowboy's worth.
By Jim "Ish" Fellers
Copyright ©: December 11, 2003 ~ Thursday
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Cowboy Poetry
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In the cold and rolling hills of a barren South Dakota,
On bleak and uncaring reservations of the Lakota,
Live both the ancient and the young of a once proud native race—
Living with America, whiskey and a fall from His grace.
We now bring contributions of food and clothes on Christmas Eve—
Given by those who know their plight as we smile and slowly leave.
Over a hundred years now and their progress still seems too slow—
A once noble people clinging to a past they’ll never know.
And what is the price of progress when we conquered the Old West
And took the proud Indian down a trail that we thought was best?
And what of free range, a way of life – the country we stood for?
We hid it on reservations so it would haunt us no more.
So we ride past reservations – think that we have done our best,
As time erases memories of a people and the West—
Once a year we sooth our egos and add money to the pot,
Hoping time heals miseries and we can keep what we have got.
In the cold and rolling hills of a barren South Dakota,
On bleak and uncaring reservations of the Lakota,
Live both the ancient and the young of a once proud native race—
Living with America, whiskey and a fall from His grace.
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Cowboy Poetry
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She says she feels the safest standing in the pouring rain
But it could rain for forty years and never wash away the pain
The bitter taste of grief will always be hers to swallow
Since she lost her heart's desire to that blessed curse called Rodeo
"Just one more ride & I'll be on my way, never more to roam"
now she wanders through an empty house that'll never be a home
how she longs to hear him whistling as he comes through the door
instead the silence is deafening & it tears her to the core
She wishes she could turn back time & stop the hand of fate
now he sleeps up on the hill & she will have to wait
to whisper soft "I love you" or one last "good bye"
she wonders if he hears her, as she silently asks "Why?"
That Brahma wasn't lined out for that chute that day
The rigging that he'd used was new, a present on Christmas Day
It wasn't anything down & dirty, just an exhibition ride
one quick show for the kids & he'd be back with his new bride
Now she sleeps in his old work shirt and dreams of his embrace
she fingers his battered Stetson & pictures his smiling face
No matter where she turns "He's gone" is all she hears
and stretching from Tucson to Texas, you'll find a trail of tears
(c)August 2002
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Cowboy Poetry
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He lay there in his cozy bed
And watched the blizzard rage.
He'd never seen Christmas like this—
He was a tender age.
His pa was outside in the storm—
It blew up mighty quick.
It had been just a normal day
Until that snow got thick.
You couldn't see from here to there,
And dark was comin' on.
Ol’ Santa’d never make it here,
This Christmas Eve seemed gone.
Then he recalled that red-nosed deer—
The one they called Rudolph.
But that was meant for fog and such,
This snow would put him off.
Well, he’d forget Christmas this year,
And pray Pa was all right.
Just then he heard the barn door slam—
Pa stepped into the light.
He went to sleep that Christmas Eve
A tear rolled down his cheek.
He was warm and his folks were safe.
He felt quite calm and meek.
Next morn, he stumbled out of bed,
Slowly creeped down the stair,
The tree was lit and pies were baked,
Presents were ev'rywhere!
He learned of miracles just then,
And knew the story's true.
The Christmas Child has saved the world—
He came for me and you.
The thing ‘bout Santa puzzled him.
That storm sure was brewin,
But even in that blindin’ snow—
He knew what he was doin’!
December 2014
Edited 12/8/2019
Contest: Writing Challenge - December 2019
Sponsor: Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
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Cowboy Poetry
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When hard times come they sit a spell,
Like kin folk come to stay
A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids
That always get ‘n your way.
It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought,
There ain't much in-between.
You work like hell to make ’em good,
But still they’re sorta lean.
The ranch went under late last year,
The drought got mighty tough.
The boss held-out a long, long time,
But finally said, "enough!"
So here I am dispatchin’ cops
An’ watchin’ felons sleep,
In Junction, at the county jail,
A job I’ll prob’ly keep.
The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge,
Where older people stay,
A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors
To earn some ‘extra’ pay.
Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used,
It goes to payin’ rent,
An’ after all the bills are paid,
We wonder where it went.
We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps,
An' then our weddin' rings;
Then when we couldn't pay the loan,
They sold the 'dad-blamed' things.
We felt real bad a day or two
But then we let it go,
Cause it got Christmas for the kids
When money got real slow.
When hard times come they sit a spell,
Don't matter who you are;
They'll cost ya things you've set aside,
An' clean your cookie jar.
You'll loose some sleep an' worry some,
Won't pay to moan an' groan;
But hang on to your happiness,
They'll finally leave ya 'lone.
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Cowboy Poetry
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It’s been ‘bout thirty years now, to this Christmas day
And I can still hear those wise words that Dad did say:
“Don’t ever sell your saddle, don’t quit balin’ hay—
When ya give your word, keep it—it’s a real man’s way.”
I wish that I could swear I’ve lived up to his words,
But like the truth sometimes, they’ve flown off with the birds.
It’s not to say I’ve tired, and mostly I’ve been true—
But if I could do things over, there’s some I’d undo.
Well, I’m still balin’ hay and my word I always keep,
I’ve got a good woman and I sing the kids to sleep.
We keep the ranch a goin’ and we’re doin’ just fine,
But I regret sellin’ Dad’s saddle back in ninety-nine.
Times were tough and we scraped every cent that year—
At a Christmas eve auction sold some cows, a steer—
Then it came down to Dad’s saddle and some ol’ tack—
‘Course that saddle brought the most cash and that’s a fact.
Couldn’t figure out who bought it—never seen ‘em before—
When he bought that saddle, he was quick out the door.
One year later, there came a knock on Christmas day—
There stood the stranger with Dad’s saddle and he did say:
“Fixed it up and brought it back—this is where it should be—
Your Dad, me and Zack, used to cowboy and they told me
A man shouldn’t sell his saddle, so here it is again—
Think of it as a gift from someone who was a friend.”
(continued)
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Cowboy Poetry
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But she would not even read it – she knew what lay within—
A red rage toward her country now the fire that was her friend.
Yet just a few days later on a now black Christmas Eve—
Another knock was heard from a cowboy come home on leave.
And Jim Blue Moon stood on the porch with presents in one arm,
A proof against dark forces wishing all of us great harm.
He said like Twain, news of his death was exaggerated—
And with smiles his wife helped him in, and they celebrated.
Yet in the haze of happiness and all her loving care,
Only now did Liz realize Blue’s left arm was not there.
But snatching life from death’s dark rider is a precious thing,
And nothing could dispel the joy their reunion would bring.
Then came the new Christmas day, which now seemed so clear and bright—
Yet Blue held back - flexed his cold metal arm in morning light.
“I wonder if it was worth it?” Blue mumbled at the sight—
But Liz nodded and said: “Yes, you did the thing that was right.”
Then they slowly opened presents - three united again—
Later dad and mom came over, and each rodeo friend.
“PBR’s done,” dad whispered in a voice like from the grave—
“Heck no!” Blue then replied, “I just lost the arm that I wave!”
Sure enough, with prosthetic arm, Blue rode the bulls once more—
Till he volunteered to go back to that faraway shore.
Alone, Jim’s wife held their child and the inner one so new—
As a full, pale Christmas moon rose and slowly turned to blue.
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Cowboy Poetry
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Roy Jerden,Roy Jerden
Join me in the stable
Leave that xmas tree
Leave that xmas light
Rider is no parlourmaid
The saddle is yawning
Join me in the stable
Today we shall ride
To mountains and the hills
To rivers and the streams
Now is our season
We are the xmas
They have come to watch
Like royal bride in chariot
We dazzle on our horses
So they stand by the street-sides
waving their gloved hands
Adoring our hats and bandanas
Cow boy watches nil
He is the hero of xmas
We give the gifts
Gold, sliver and bronze
We gaze the star
We welcome the Christ
We don't return to king
We are the Christmas
Join me in the stable
Leave that xmas tree
Leave that xmas light
Hero is no audience
Cow boy watches nil
He is the scene
He is the hero
I have got the gin
I have got the pipes
Roy Jerden,Roy Jerden
Join me in the stable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bridle
And saddle;
They dazzle
Join me in the stable...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In jean
And gin;
We win
Join me in the stable...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cowboy-
The Roy-
My Joy;
Join me in the stable...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With gun
We run
For fun
Join me in the stable...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wild
The ride
The pride
Join me in the stable...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Xmas
Climax,climax
And climax
Join in me the stable...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leave that xmas tree,
Leave that xmas light;
I have got gin,
I have got the pipes;
Join me in the stableeeeeeeeeee...
Kayode.
23/11/15.
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Cowboy Poetry
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Jimmie’s dad was bent and wise, a man that life had rode by—
But Jim still recalled his words when he would laugh and half cry:
“Life’s a fragile balance between honor and what’s true—
A rare, livin’ miracle like a winter moon that’s blue.”
Jimmie started busting sheep when he was only six—
His dad taught him to ride and shoot, and do those fancy tricks.
He grew long and lean on that ranch and helped with the chores—
And rode the broncs and young bulls then, keeping track of his scores.
His name was Jimmie Moon, but his friends just called “Blue”—
‘Cause kids like him were few and far and his heart was strong and true.
He had wisdom beyond his years – he had seen the light—
He never did the easy thing; he did the thing that’s right.
It came as no surprise; he married a girl named Liz
Folks knew was large with child that was another man’s, not his.
But that was fine with Blue and he still followed his star—
Ranching now part-time and riding bulls in the PBR.
“It’s not like the ol’ days,” smiled his dad, not being funny—
“Then bull ridin’ was for buckles – now you’re talkin’ money!”
But just as Jimmie Blue Moon was on the edge of fame—
September 11th happened and stirred within a flame.
Though his family begged him not to sign and go away—
He enlisted in the Army just the very next day.
Sure enough, his service to a cause became a fact
And he was sent far off to war in a place called Iraq.
Then months and years rolled by as Blue only rode iron tanks—
Never forgetting his wife and child, for which he gave thanks.
Then came a Christmas season when Blue’s ranch was deep with snow—
A knock on the door brought news Blue’s wife did not want to know.
(continued)
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Cowboy Poetry
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I walked up to the bunkhouse, beneath a cloudless sky,
searching to find the Christmas star, still shining there on high.
The bunkhouse was warm but lonesome with no other cowboys there.
They had all gone home for Christmas. I pretended not to care.
Christmas carols on the radio brought back thoughts of the star
that had shown down on those pastures in that Eastern land so far.
Taking off my vest and Sunday shirt, I threw them on the trunk.
I stripped down to my underwear and crawled into my bunk.
My day had started early. I had worked hard with the crew,
so they could start their Christmas fun, when all the chores were through.
With no wife nor kids to need me, I had told the rest I'd stay
and watch out for the cattle. They could have their Christmas Day.
The warm room made me sleepy and I started into doze.
Right there before my astounded eyes, the Christmas Star arose.
I was a lonely shepherd in that land so far away,
who had been left to guard the sheep until the break of day.
I heard the angels singing and saw the moving star.
I marveled at the beauty and glory from afar.
The bright star beckoned to me and angels led the way
to where the future king of all lay in a mound of hay.
I wanted so to follow them but I had pledged my word.
I had to turn a deaf ear to the messages I heard.
I knew my solemn duty lay in guarding helpless sheep.
I prayed the Lord's forgiveness but the vigil I must keep.
The star reflected in the eyes of creatures all around,
waiting for the lonely stray or any sheep they found.
I could not shirk my duty to seek Him out that night,
but I knew I never would forget that glorious, wondrous sight.
I had that dream some years ago, but should that star reappear,
I've hung my rope and saddle up. I can follow with no fear.
Posted: 12/1/14 For "One of your best" contest
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Cowboy Poetry
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Sly had him no love for Christmas,
It was just another day—
When the devout celebrated
And weak-willed cowpokes did pray.
Old Sly, he weren’t all that bad—
No, by gosh, he sure was not—
He never did shoot him a man
That he didn’t think need shot.
Sly Stern was just an old drover
Who outlived his friends and time—
That was headed nowhere that day
Without a care or a dime.
So it was Christmas that morning
As he crossed the Mummy Range—
Heading higher and still higher,
When he felt a little strange.
He’d crossed these old mountains before,
But never on Christmas day—
Yet now he felt a bit confused
And he couldn’t find his way.
The wind and the cold grew fiercer—
Snow hit his face with hard slaps,
Sly knew he needed some shelter
As one hand froze to his chaps.
But all he could find was a ledge,
A wind break with icy sage.
He unsaddled his horse gently—
For the first time felt his age.
Quickly, Sly gathered up damp wood—
Built a fire to heat his soul—
Christ seemed nothing in a blizzard
As the snow soon took its toll.
Hours passed and so did the fire
As white snow whirled and then screamed—
For a moment he saw a face
Or so that old drover dreamed.
The blizzard grew stronger that day,
The worst in thirty odd years—
Covering the whole Mummy Range:
A Christmas with joy and tears.
With numb hands and ice-cased whiskers,
Sly took bullets from his belt,
Gently arranged them in the snow
To spell out just how he felt.
For in those final dear moments,
One face appeared in the snow—
The face of the Lord of this earth,
A face that he would now know.
Two months later his friend found it,
Next to his rock-frozen hoss—
The old drover’s bullets laid out
In the rough shape of the cross.
Though his saddle and gun remained,
There was no trace of old Sly—
It was as if he’d been taken
Away, far up, in the sky.
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Cowboy Poetry
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My son’s name is Dylan, was country raised
in the hills of Wyoming where cattle graze,
helped on the ranch, but never felt fulfilled,
hated his hometown as teens often will.
But he ‘did his time’ until graduation,
went to college clear across the nation,
said by the best companies he’d be employed,
that he’d die rather than be a cowboy.
Now obviously this didn’t please me,
but I waved it off, he was but nineteen,
he immersed into college as young folks do,
bought into all the leftist clap-trap to.
He though protesting would do the trick,
solve everything he found ‘problematic,’
started smoking weed, raved ’bout ‘the man,’
even griped to me that you can’t ‘own land.’
Wouldn’t celebrate Christmas when he came home,
kept spouting slogans that just make you groan,
I sent him to learn, but he just annoyed,
he’d be better off had he stayed a cowboy.
Then he graduated to the real world,
employers cared not for protesting churls,
only got hired by a coffee shop,
where he contracted the damn hipster rot.
Pretentious preening, loved the obscure,
wore the strange clothes to show he was ‘pure,’
disparaged most music, such a killjoy,
he though that was better than a cowboy?
Even that was not his greatest mistake,
Hipster progressed into full-blown snowflake!
If you didn’t conform you deserved hate,
which he wrote up in online click-bait.
Harassed advertisers to silence ‘bad’ views,
your freedom meant nothing, he knew ‘the truth,’
any awful tactic he would deploy,
hard to believe he’d ever been a cowboy.
But minds in their twenties often are blind,
and Dylan’s allies came for him in time,
he said a ‘wrong’ word, took out of context,
before he could speak up his career was wrecked.
With no options left, he traveled back here,
I put him to work riding with the steers,
his sadness was heavy, his pride devoid
at the thought of becoming a cowboy...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
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Cowboy Poetry
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For half an hour Dix had rode true
when the canyon opened up wider.
In front of him five stubbly men
sat around a roaring fire.
The leader Dixon recognized,
as his sifted through Santa’s sack.
He was an outlaw known far and wide
by the name of Randsome Mack.
Their eyes fastened upon him
when he and his horse rode into sight,
every one of the men had guns,
they all looked ready for a fight.
Dixon looked up to the skies,
but he could not see a sleigh.
He had left plenty of bits of scarf,
had Santa somehow lost his way?
He swallowed deep as Randsome rose,
and glared deep with hateful eyes.
“It seems we got us a trespasser.
Boys, let’s put him down the mine—”
But Dix spurred forward as he spoke,
catching the bandits all off-guard.
Before they could could drew, he scattered them
and seized the sack with a strong arm.
“Get him!”angry Randsome cried,
as Dixon turned and dashed through.
“I want that sack, I want it all!
Run down that blasted fool!”
The race was on through canyon walls,
half covered in ice and snow.
Dix was ahead by a good span,
but could he get clear? He didn’t know.
On he pounded, but his foes gained,
not weighed down by Santa’s sack.
If this kept up Dix knew that he
would never made it back.
But a ringing of bells sounded above,
and a shadow raced on past.
Santa’s sleigh soared above the gorge,
his flight blew and icy blast!
It slowed the bandits in pursuit,
they ducked to cover their heads.
Then Old Saint nick skimmed with snow,
with the runners of his great sled.
A wall of white tumbled on down,
landing on the bandit’s far below.
They shouted and sputtered, motionless,
socked in by a mountain of snow!
By the time the dug themselves out,
Dixon and his horse were too far gone,
out or sight and far beyond
the reach of Randsome’s throng.
When Dix cleared the rocky canyons
and rode out into the cold parklands,
he found Santa and his reindeer team
pulled up by an aspen stand.
When he approached, Santa laughed,
and slung an arm around his back.
“My boy I knew you would pull through.
We got Christmas back on track!”
CONCLUDES IN PART III.
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Cowboy Poetry
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Santa flew off to make his rounds,
and Dix made quick tracks for home,
to a one-room shack outside of town,
that his ma and sister called their own.
It wasn’t much too look at,
and his pay barely made ends meet.
He shuddered to think that without it
they’d both be out on the streets.
They exchanged countless hugs,
Ii really had been a long while.
His sister sang all she knew
of songs in a Christmas style.
It was a crowded Christmas Eve,
even tighter than the bunkhouse.
But he was home for the holiday,
and could deal with the resident mouse.
On Christmas morn, while ma cooked,
a knock rapped loudly on the door.
Ma asked,”Who could that be?”
then opened up to Boss McChord.
Dix was stunned, and jumped up,
scrambling ‘round, trying to dress.
Boss said,”Now hold on, take your time,
they’re ain’t no reason to fret!
“See I came on down to tell you
something that you need to hear.
Then this strange old man gave me this sack,
And said,’Bring Dix some Christmas cheer.’”
With that he lowered a red sack,
and spilled in out on the floor.
Gifts and gold and food spilled out,
at least fifty pounds or more!
“And the think I wanted to ask you Dix,
if you’ll forgive my holiday entrance,
is if you want to be my partner,
I’m expanding the McChord Ranch.
“I bought three thousand acres more,
And I’ll give you a ten percent share.
For all the work you’ve done to save the herds,
I think that it’s only fair.”
Dix was stunned, and could only nod,
McChord clasped him quietly warmly.
“You’ll have plenty of space to build a house,
big enough for the whole family.”
Ma she cried and thanked him,
and invited him to stay for lunch.
They sang and ate and opened presents,
which came in a mighty bunch.
In the sack, amongst the gifts
Dix found for himself a new red scarf.
Then below it something that
struck still his beating heart.
It was a brand, new Winchester,
well machined, oiled, and slick.
Hanging from it was a simple tag
that bore the name ‘Ol’ Nick.’
He saw writting inscribed on the stock,
and the words it said were this:
‘To My Good Friend Dix, now forever more
'The Cowboy Who Rode for Christmas.’'
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Details |
Cowboy Poetry
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Dixon Bullinger braced himself against
another frozen blast of winter wind,
riding through the front range to Denver
where his family was a-waiting.
It was morning on Christmas Eve,
and he was a long time overdue,
but Boss McChord had paid him double
to rescue horses from being consumed.
They’d taken out a problem bear
and had a drink to celebrate,
he’d exchanged good wishes with the boys,
then had set about upon his way.
He rounded a corner in a craggy gorge,
and there he saw a stunning sight:
Santa Claus sat on an empty sleigh,
brooding sadly amidst the white.
Dix rode up, and doffed his hat,
saying,”Father Christmas! What are the odds!
May I ask why you are sitting here though,
‘tis the skies that you usually trod?”
Santa then sadly shook his head,
said,”My boy, you don’t understand.
I stopped for a rest and was robbed blind
by a gang of five masked men!
“They took my sack and with it
all the gifts for the boys and girl.
if I cannot somehow get it back,
there’ll be no presents for the world.”
Dix frowned deeply at the thought,
a coldness creeping into him.
Christmas may have been more than gifts,
but try telling that to the kids!
He said,”If you’ll ride with a fool cowpoke,
I’ll gladly help you find the fiends.
A Christmas with no gifts to give…
that’s not something this world needs.
“I have some skill at tracking, see,
from months chasing stray cows.
If you point me the way they went,
we’ll lick these bandits, and how!”
Santa nodded and pointed off
to a narrow slot canyon,
“That’s the way they all took off,
when the foul deed was done.
“If you start along tracking them,
I will follow as soon as I can.
My reindeer are bushed from today’s work,
Donner is nearly all done in.
“But once they’ve had a breather,
I’ll fly them up into the air.
If you leave a trail for me to follow,
I’ll catch up and meet you there!”
Dixon nodded and removed
his brand new, red, silk scarf.
He cut off a piece and then said,
“This here is bright as any spark.”
With that he took to the trail,
riding down that rocky cleft,
to save Christmas for the little ones
he’d undue this savage theft…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
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