Long Cowboy Poems
Long Cowboy Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowboy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowboy poems by poem length and keyword.
There's a trail that takes you everywhere.
Just be patient, that trail will get you there.
Up ahead, there is the town of Everywhere, USA.
When I got there, there was nobody.
I wanted to know where there was action.
So there was nobody to ask.
Nobody said that it's down there in the center of town.
When I got there, there was nothing.
Nothing said that the center of town is up ahead.
He said when I get there, just go right around the corner.
That is where the place action will be.
So there I was.
I finally made it here.
In the center of town, standing by the saloon.
Just Go Right Around the Corner.
There was Action.
Prettiest little thing you've ever seen.
Ben raised up a dern disappointment, Daddy, well, he wanted a boy.
Wasn’t nothing under the bleeding red sun Ma could do but keep on a tryin’
Ya’siree, she was one branded filly and dern iffin that filly didn’t birth a maverick.
Daddy, well he had him some hard times a com’n
and he didn’t ev’n try to hide his fallen face when Sis was born.
that un, well, she was maverick number two!
Daddy was the devil may care sort and him and his seed strayed far afield,
sowing his wild oats, praying for an heir, he himself was one
‘slick hairy dick’ so to speak [that’s cowboy lingo for a maverick himself]
and you know what they say, “The cow plop don’t fall far from its ****”
He kept on pokin’ Ma ‘till he got that boy, all nine caterwauling pounds!
Dynasty founded, one hell of a shindig was thrown, as luck would have it,
Dad strayed, but not before he taught his gal’s not to take guff from any man!
Out on the range, Dad rounded up a couple more Betty’s
“Yehaw, did that brand sizzle” got his self a couple more bucko’s
for the dynasty and another sweet filly, all of them mavericks to the core.
Funny thing is old Dad’s gal’s got more balls then most men.
So, I guess in the end [wink] he taught us well!
*This is a Cowboy Poem, it is a maverick to it's form because
Cowboy poetry is rhymed, metered verse written by someone who has lived a significant portion of his or her life in Western North American cattle culture. The verse reflects an intimate knowledge of that way of life, and the community.
[Never lived in the West, don't like anything that looks at me with one eye!
"...names have been changed to protect the innocent."
P.S. I'm the maverick!
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.’'
Mary Six Pack Pistols staggers through time portals drunk
Pretending to be a priest but she is not a mister or a sister
To the old west saloon through double doors she glides
Drunker than a nun on steroids swinging rosaries from her side
Into a smoke filled room in rusty spurs and fake mustache
Presenting herself as a monsignor from another time and place
Cowboy boots caked in mud with love she blesses them
Introducing her two guns from underneath a long black dress
It is a curtain, a robe, a nun inside a habit for blasting baddies
There must be a shower outside which indicates a storm
The spittoon in the corner of the room needs emptying
She feels the weight of outlaws in her midst
From here to there the crowd looks innocent
But Padre knows better so shoots them all to death
To kingdom come and back again through the chest
Through time corridors we suspect they must be dust
Mary Six Pack says a prayer and drinks some holy water
From a whiskey bottle in another time dimension soaking wet
Then returns from there to here less sober and less blessed
Charged with a misdemeanor for impersonating a monsignor
I set out from Chicago town
in spring, eighteen seventy-nine,
offered one hundred and a stake
in the new Kennevor gold mine.
Had to provide security
and keep all of the miner’s safe,
in the mountains of Montana,
out beyond the Missouri breaks.
I rode swiftly across the plains,
thinking it wouldn’t be much more,
when a passing cowboy said,
“It’s six more days to Kennevor.”
I did not want to believe him
setting out on that first morning,
but I felt that I was spied on,
then heard the thwock of some bow strings!
A party of a dozen Sioux
has all taken up on my trail,
I pushed my horse to outrun them,
but it was to no avail.
Finally I some rocks to ride,
and shot two to their horror,
thankfully then they galloped off…
Five more days to Kennevor.
The second day the weather changed,
a swirling funnel tore the grass,
I spurred my horse to run for in,
towards mountains racing fast.
Such a howling I never head,
the great winds even took my hat!
When we reached those high, rocky crags,
I had never felt more glad.
Then I foolishly asked myself
what more could this trip have in store?
I jinxed myself that very night,
four more days to Kennevor.
One the third day I found the road
blocked and closed by a landslide,
so I rode to a known back-route,
that wandered through the mountainsides.
The trail was made of broken stone,
loose granite that skittered and slid,
bad to lead my horse, keep him safe,
but then I felt my own feet skid.
Then I tumbled one hundred yards,
until my sin was bruised and scored,
angrily I trudged back on up,
three more days to Kennevor...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
...The months that followed were not kind,
a recall soon took his post from him,
and the angry eyes of the grieving kin
weighed so heavily upon his mind.
And word had gone out ’cross the land,
that Cyril Flint, he lacked real grit,
and people had died because of it,
nobody would hire such a man.
The next year would not go by fast,
Cyril spent most of his days dunk,
got by doing odd jobs, fit for skunks,
forever haunted by the echoing past.
In his despair he found himself asking
why he’d thought himself fit for the star
when couldn’t boast of a single scar,
was bravery such a hard-earned thing?
It seemed so clear to him in retrospect,
his ego hand hungered for the prestige,
he’d never been much for humility…
so much hubris on which to reflect.
As he puzzled on this one half-drunk morn,
a team of horses on a wagon stout,
jolted and reeled at the sight of a mouse,
and away with the wagon they tore.
They sprinted straight for widow Allandale,
Cyril threw himself hard into her side,
struck by the force, the widow did fly,
in wild circles did her arms flail.
She struggled to stay on her feet,
quit angry until a sickening crack,
Caught her attention, turning her back,
from her lips leapt a panicked shriek.
On the group lay Cyril’s bent shape,
trampled by hooves and iron rims,
half the bones in his body broken,
bloody from his shins to his pate.
Folks rushed up quickly to surround,
made no move to help, it was clear
there was nothing a doctor could do here,
his last moments in agony profound.
As he wavered in that morning’s light,
the very last words that he ever heard
was,”At least he didn’t die a coward,”
then on came that cold, endless night.
...On the fourth day I awoke to
a great grizzly snuffing about,
he had smelled the blood of my wounds,
what he wanted I had no doubt.
He gave a bellow and I shot,
my Winchester I did fire,
had to empty the magazine
before that damn beast expired.
To this day I sometimes hear
that great bruin’s awful roar,
barely escaped with all my limbs,
two more days to Kennevor.
On the fifth day I ran into
a pair of bandits with cruel eyes,
They said,”Your horse, and all your coin,
or cowboy you’re going to die.”
But my pistol flashed from the belt,
before that bandit could react,
caught him had in the forehead,
he hit the ground with a hard crack.
His partner was the follower-type,
and away from me his horse tore,
these peaks have been not but trouble,
one more day to Kennevor.
On the sixth day supplies ran low,
I started feeling those hunger pangs,
the creeks all tasted sulfurous,
not fit to be drunk by a man.
I got real woozy as I rode,
hot sun beating down upon me,
almost thought it was a mirage
when tents I believed I could see.
They quickly brought me a canteen,
did not even have to implore,
a small man came dressed in a suit:
“Welcome friend, to Kennevor.”
Now after I’d rested all night
that same fellow did reappear,
said,”I have a proposition,
if you would be so kind to hear.
I’ll buy out your stake right now,
one hundred dollars for your claim—”
I pulled my gun, said,”Speak one more word,
I’ll put a bullet through your brain.
After all that I have been though
I’ll take my share of the gold ore.
You will live up to the contract,
or you will not leave Kennevor!”
The man slinked back, out of the tent,
and never spoke of it again,
I did my job and kept the peace
amongst the rough-hewn mining men.
The camp grew into a full town,
and I invested in the range,
sold land to all the settlers
who were moving out this way.
That kept me rolling in the coin
when the gold mine closed its doors,
I’ve suffered but I have become
the richest man in Kennevor.
The sunrise paints the prairie gold,
The breeze still hums that tune of old,
Where once I’d ride with reins held tight,
Now I rock through the hush of night.
My boots sit still by the old back door,
Dusty dreams from days before.
The saddle waits on its wooden stand—
But now I hold life in my hands.
No roundup calls, no cattle cry,
Just lullabies and baby sighs.
I traded spurs for whispered songs,
And sleepless nights that stretch so long.
But oh, my heart—it rides each day,
Through love too fierce to drift away.
Though trails are quiet, and horses rest,
This little one is my newest west.
I miss the wind, the leather’s creak,
The freedom dancing on my cheek.
But I would choose this soft-eyed view
A thousand times, and all anew.
Someday soon, I’ll saddle high,
With baby watching, bright and spry.
We’ll ride again—me and the sky—
But for now, it’s lullabies.
Sittin’ in th’ saddle. Gotta soon skedaddle.
School marm says she’ll tattle. Sheriff wants a battle.
Kissed her on the cheek jes’ to git a li’l peek
at her widow’s peak ‘cause she’s purty an’ petite.
Gotta hankerin’ to git off ol’ Buck and sit
a spell afore I quit and have a chaw to spit.
Cogitatin’ and bidin’ time afore ridin’
down that canyon hidin’ lest I git a chidin’.
Starin’ out blinkin’, doin’ some proper thinkin’
‘bout the stars a twinklin’ and my heavy drinkin’.
My casual, carousin’ rife, hidin’ from the strife
of settlin’ down my life an’ takin’ on a wife.
Soon I’ll fergit the threat, fergit my social debt
I don’t wanna sweat dirt jes’ to pay a moral bet
farmin’ unfertile land, or workin’ for the man.
Druther take a stand and work as lonely cowhand.
Might as well admit it, I’m a social misfit.
Don’t wanna submit it, or give up an’ quit it.
Searchin’ but cain’t seem to find comfort in my mind.
Guess it’s ’bout time I recognize I’m doin’ jes’ fine.
He’d been on the trail many a month,
When he reached the town of Gulrith,
A mining village high in the peaks,
His named was Wainwright Smith.
He searched the west, looking for
A sister by the name of Henrietta,
Who’d been taken by men in old New York,
The search, he would never let up.
The men had been seen, to some were known:
Thugs who traded in lost girls,
But Henrietta had not been truly lost,
In her father’s eyes she’d been a pearl.
The daughter of a banker, on hard times,
He had not the cash for a detective,
So Wain went to the cops and there learned
What we could about his objectives.
Hannibal Mays was the man he sought,
Wanted badly in six different states,
Wain moved west from town-to-town,
Fueled by both love and by hate.
In Gulrith he’d heard Mays had set up.
Going under the name of Guthrie,
After eight brutal months he was now close,
So he went to where men got lucky.
But the cathouse hadn’t seen hide nor hair,
Though a young girl told him for gold,
That ever so often Mays found one,
That he didn’t see fit to be sold.
The whore made him pay for every word,
And told him where to find Mays’s house.
He paced up at night, Winchester ready
To rid the world of this damn lout.
He approached the house, and saw a light
Blazing away in a back room,
He approached slowly, readied his gun,
Kicked the door open with a boom...
CONCLUDED IN PART II.