Long Bronc Poems
Long Bronc Poems. Below are the most popular long Bronc by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bronc poems by poem length and keyword.
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!
He grew one of them bushy mustaches
like Sam Elliot wears under his nose
Bought him some fancy duds from Cabela's
sure looked spiffy in his Buckaroo clothes
Alligator skin boots and silver spurs
thought he looked like all them real cowboys did
Added chaps and ten gallon Stetson hat
and called himself the Kansas City Kid
He'd got him a Palomino horse that
he didn't have a darn clue how to ride
And a beat up old red Ford pickup truck
with a blue eyed dog to be by his side
He packed up and headed to Montana
from his home in the woods of Missouri
Said he was fixin’ to be a cowboy
and the best anyone would ever see
He rattled that old truck to Montana
it conked out right there in front of the ranch
He said he wanted to learn to cowboy
if the boss seen fit to give him a chance
Well the boss brought him out to the bunkhouse
told all us cowboys that his name was Tim
Said he wants to be a cowboy you see
so show him the ropes and take care of him
I asked him what he knew about branding
could he stick an iron to a cow's rump
He said he would probably be alright
if I'd be kind enough to show him once
Well can you at least ride that horse of yours
to cut out a heifer or throw your rope
That boy looked at me straight into my eyes
gave me a slight grin then shook his head "nope"
Think you might be able to break a bronc
that has spent its whole life out running wild
“Well I was in a real mean sheep bustin’
back in Missouri when I was a child”
What about fixin’ up supper vittles
I might be able to use me a cook
"Pretty sure I can do a decent meal
as long as I have some kinda cookbook"
Well I got me these here bulls need cutting
and a short stretch of fence that you could mend
Can't be that hard to cut a bull he says
if you would just show me how to begin
That was twenty years ago boss hired Tim
cause there was something in him he could see
Tim spent all that time learning to cowboy
and became the best there would ever be
After a long week it is Friday,
and that means it’s time to go
to a corral twenty minutes off,
the weekly circuit rodeo.
Get there early ’cause they always have
a barbeque before it starts,
also basic line-dancing lessons
for ladies and their sweet-hearts.
Drifting through the nearby western store
while things are getting ready,
buy a new belt with an eagle print,
it’s both rustic and steady.
In the ring they’re warming up horses,
preparing them to ride slack,
a teenage girls talks on her cell-phone
while perched on a gelding’s back.
It starts off with some nice pageantry,
a dozen riders with flags,
anthem plays to the stars and the stripes,
makes a free man’s soul feel glad.
I sit way up high in the bleachers,
bronc-busters the first to ride,
unbroken horses don’t like the weight,
they buck, they spin ’round, they dive.
The riders always will get thrown off,
it’s just a question of when,
next the ropers go line up to ride,
chasing steers loosed from the pen.
Lassos flicker in stadium lights,
and slowly they scribe a path,
then swoop down low and seize on a hoof,
how the heck do they do that?
Now the steer wrestlers leap from their mounts,
never fails to bring a cheer,
wonder if they put on resumes
‘Am adept at wrestling steers’?
Things slow down, the trick-roper comes out,
spins a line as if born to it,
then pops balloons from a woman’s head
with a swish of his bull-whip!
Then pony-tails fly behind women,
barrel-racers ride compelled,
moving so fast you’d think they were chased
by the damned devil himself.
Finally men, more crazy then sane,
sit themselves on a huge bull,
two thousand pounds of angry muscle,
testosterone flowing full.
One by one the riders are thrown off,
then the clowns distract the beasts,
buying the rider just enough time,
to scramble back to his feet.
But one young man will not break his hold,
he passes eight second by luck,
just enough to win the night’s small prize,
a hard way to earn a buck.
The crowd is drifting back to their cars
as the sunlight settles low,
cowboys and girls I’ll see again at
the weekly circuit rodeo.
In his cowboy outfit, young Danny was eloquently clad.
He'd never been throwed from his rockin' horse as a tad!
He aspired to be a cowboy and eventually got his chance,
But soon learned that cowboyin' wasn't all fun and romance!
The first thing he had to do was learn to ride a horse,
And then hire on as a ranch hand in due course.
With rockin' horse experience, he thought it a simple tour de force,
But he took many a bone rattlin' spill due to gravitational force!
He throwed the saddle on the horse and cinched it down too tight!
The horse would have none of that and unseated Dan with all his might!
His head was reelin' as he landed in a not too convenient cactus patch!
Extractin' thorns from his stern he mused, "Have I met my match?"
The horse, named Killer, glared at Dan with fire in his eyes!
He managed to climb aboard again - Boys, was he in for a surprise!
Again, that old bronc turned belly high landin' on all four feet.
Danny sprawlin' in the dust was ready to admit defeat!
Old-time cowpokes smokin' roll-yer-owns, hangin' around the corral,
Urged him on a-yellin', "Hang on greenhorn! Yippee Yo! Ride 'im pal!"
Dan lying in a heap of manure looked up and said, "Boys, he beat me good!
I reckon I'd better look around and find myself another livelihood!"
Weeds and grass grow in the cracks
of sun-faded, crumbling pavement,
a parking lot that once was full
of stressed parents and cowboys nascent.
A grand sign over the entry
now is rotted two-thirds away,
this old piece of my childhood
truly has seen better days.
It was an old-west town once,
where we learned of the frontier,
now the totem pole is fallen down,
brings to my eye a sad tear.
The old Indian village, long gone,
is now just some concrete pads,
not the grand teepees I explored
back when I was just a lad.
The cavalry fort once rose proud,
a solid wall of rough-hewn logs,
now one rampart remains, broken,
sinking into a nearby bog.
It’s old flagpole still stands tall,
but Old Glory no longer flutters,
trash and graffiti lie about,
the whole place looks like a gutter.
And up at the bank where long ago
the ‘bandits’ always struck ad two,
I can recall how kids with cap guns
always ‘made’ them drop their loot.
Nearby is the big stable
where families could take trial rides,
the roof is gone, it’s been ten years
since any horse was inside.
Finally I see the arena
where rodeo riders ran wild,
wrestling steers, breaking a bronc,
clinging to a bull with style.
The old stands are half-collapsed,
the corral is full of small trees,
hard to believe it ever enrapt
young children in such revelry.
Some say it was P.C. parents
afraid of imaginary strife,
some say the Hollywood now
can’t make a western to save their life.
Others say that the owners died,
and their kids didn’t want to load,
whatever the reason, it was sad
the day the old-west town closed.
I hear that there are now big plans
to turn it all into a park,
a taxpayer-funded state debacle,
as such projects usually are.
They have their designs but we all
know what should really be done,
it should be rebuilt so that our kids
have a place to run ’round with cap guns.
I heard tell some folks think cowboys built the West.
The only thing I know for sure is I always did my best
to give a man a good days work for an honest wage
ridin' among tumbleweeds and dried brush of sage.
I wear a Colt 45 to scare off rustlers and killin' snakes
and I don't play cutthroat poker with tinhorns or rakes.
It ain't never been an easy job, the life of a ranch hand,
herdin' cattle near the flowin waters of the Rio Grande,
but it's the only way I always wanted to spend my days,
beddin' down under the stars, watching the herd graze.
I'm keepin' one eye open for those wanderin' lil dogies,
chewin' on the end of what's left of smokin' my stogies.
I lassoed a proud stallion, and gentled that big paint.
He's been a good trail horse, so I got no complaint.
I was in love with a rodeo gal, a pretty lil' barrel rider
but she told me a cowboy wouldn't be a good provider.
So I strum my guitar, singing a lonesome cowboy song
about findin' a good woman who won't do me wrong.
One day I'll be an old cowpoke, lying up on that hill,
but not 'til my last roundup, and my body's had its fill
of ridin' the range, mendin' fences, ropin' mustangs,
and eatin' chuck wagon beans when the bell clangs.
I've been thrown off a bad bronc, name of Buckin' Jet,
but don't put my name on that tombstone; not just yet.
January 26, 2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
he Riders of the Purple Sage
They’re running through the canyons out across the western plains
They’re running under a cloudy sky and through a mountain rain
Their nostrils breathing fire as lightning streaks the sky
They’re the devil's band of broncos, they run cause they can’t die
The cowboys ride on ghostly steeds with eyes red like coals They’ve run the devil’s band for years, but they’re not getting old
They have no place to come from and have no place to go
They’re the “Riders of the Purple Sage,” down in Mexico
They can’t stop for water and they can’t stop for food
They keep those horses moving for if they stop, they lose
A demon is the wrangler and for the devil, they ride
Pushing broncos of torment across the western skies
They ride when the night is dark and the thunder starts to roll
They ride across a haunted sky when the winds are growing cold
They ride for eternity on a trail of shame and tears
Never reach their destination , they’ve been on the run for years
Now, if you rustle horses, you better mend your ways
A bronco stands at the hanging tree and a rustler’s wage is paid
There’s alway a bronc to wrangle, and always a range to ride
Riding the Range of the Purple Sage across the western sky
There’s been many a story told of all the dust and sweat cowboys trying to catch them broncs, but they aint caught um yet
They have to ride forever as men without an age
Riding the trail of rustlers, as Riders of the Purple Sage.
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”
Hank had rode the range a-punchin' cattle fer nigh on fifty years,
Ridin' through Texas northers and brandin' cantankerous steers.
He'd herded ornery longhorns along the Chisolm Trail to Abilene.
He'd signed on with the Triple D Ranch when he was about seventeen.
Hank had broke many a wild bronc and a heap of times was throwed,
And ridin' the saddle all them years, his legs was grievously bowed!
He put his loyal hoss Old Dan out to pasture and decided to retire,
To take quill in hand, reminisce and toss off verse by a glowin' fire.
He wrote about pullin' cattle-guard on dark and stormy nights;
The grandeur of the starry skies and the spectacular Northern Lights;
Splendid risin's of the sun and its magnificent settin's at end of day,
And sleepin' 'neath the mellow moon when it was time to hit the hay.
Hank wrote of the meager pay and many suppers of beans and bacon,
And the same for breakfast with acrid-tastin' java when he'd awaken!
The evenin' campfires with his pards a-singin' 'long with the harmonica,
And, yes, he wrote of a long-lost love, his dance hall queen, Suemonica.
He wrote about long, hot and dusty days in the saddle a-mendin' fences,
Of buffalo, antelope, tumbleweed and the beauty of God's great expanses.
His last poem spoke of the epitaph he wanted etched upon his stone:
"I ain't one to moan, But, Lord I was hopin' this ride You'd postpone!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
He made his way across the pond
when he was twenty-three,
an upper-crust Brit who even spoke
the finest, English R.P.
His name was Albert Framingham,
but to all the people here,
he’s the posh, English cowboy,
and lord, he knows no fear!
The first time he ever rode,
he fell off seven times,
got to the point that half the town
started rolling their eyes.
But Albert was something special,
a true, determined man,
and before two months was up
he’d been hired as a hand.
Ride, Albert, ride,
you magnificent bastard.
Ride, Albert, ride,
ride out and cut that herd!
He soon got a reputation
for never once getting tired,
he’d ride for days across the mountains,
that boy was cut from iron.
Though he liked a spot of tea,
he still went out every night,
with his pards to Randy’s Bar,
and drank everything in sight.
He soon had himself some sweethearts,
three in just one small town,
and in truest cowboy fashion,
not one could rope him down.
He had himself a wool slouch hat,
and tall boots for riding,
God forbid you ever lie to him,
he sure was cross when mean.
Ride, Albert, ride,
young man of steely nerves,
Ride, Albert, ride,
ride round-up with the herd!
One day he decided he would try
the local circuit rodeo,
roping he knew, the rest he figured
he would learn on the go.
His first time one a bronc lasted
a mere second or two,
but by the end of the season,
he rode eighteen seconds through.
His parents once visited him,
and could not understand
why their son sat by a fire,
eating beans from a can.
He’d gone to prestigious schools,
earned himself high degrees,
Albert shrugged, saying,”Mother,
this is what makes me happy.”
Ride, Albert, ride,
to the life that you deserve,
Ride, Albert, ride,
the greatest of cowherds!