Long Cowboy western Poems
Long Cowboy western Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowboy western by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowboy western poems by poem length and keyword.
Locked in the history through the doors of his mind
Are the remains of an unwritten contract he signed.
The rules he lived by with his own flesh and bone,
Wrote in his blood and signed alone.
An Indian father or a Spanish bride,
The white mans greed won’t alter his stride,
The black mans courage with endurance within,
Mixed with trials errors and mortal sin.
Through the hardship and horses through courage and pain
These are the hands that held the rein.
Annie Oakley, Kitty Wilkins and Bell Star,
Combined lace with leather and created a gender scar.
From Picket, Custer, and Crazy Horse,
These are only a few who would not alter their course.
And those less know on Oregon’s trail,
Who sold all they had and to the west set sail.
Chisholm, Goodnight and French, some of the Cattle kings,
They all are the reason a cowboy sings.
And their blood still flows through our veins,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Forgive them for they knew not what they done,
As they settled the west with hand and gun.
Fought for open space they went through,
Not knowing that greed and politics followed them too.
Restless by nature a curious kind,
Searching for answers they will never find.
An unwritten code he rides for the brand,
It pumps through the veins into the soul of this man.
He gathers those memories and tries to remain,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Writing no letter for he can’t but he would,
To who he’s not sure but it is understood,
There is no place to send it anyhow,
So he saddles his pony and rides for the cow,
Sings a song and says a poem in rhyme,
To cut the quiet and pass the time.
That helps keep the stories of his horse and life,
As he sings of a friend and dreams of a wife.
Through the doors of his mind those memories remain,
For these are the hands that held the rein.
Like shuffling a deck he’s held in his hand
He has gambled his life and made a stand,
And made a vow he will try to fulfill,
With the luck of the draw his blood flows still.
To the next generation, with changes in time,
We still hear his stories in song and rhyme.
And if one more day could be spare
For the songs sung and poems shared
Let him live just one more day,
Let him ride for the brand and draw his pay.
In our future let our history not be in vein,
For our hands are now what hold the rein.
Form:
You Rode Into My Town
Gunned all The Lonely Deputies Down
Blew-Up The Bank Of Trust, In Our Face …
Where, There Was Hope … Is Now Empty Space …
… Now, I Gotta Chase You ! …
Outlaw !
Armed and Dangerous
Outlaw !
Jesse James, Would Be Jealous
… of You – Outlaw !
You’re Outrageous …
… and You’re An Outlaw ! …
Stealing Hearts, Like They Was Gold
… Silver Bullets, Are The Lies, You Told
Just A Masked-Man, Running Away …
No Longing-Arms, Can Make You Stay
… This Is Where You Pay (Now) ! …
Outlaw !
# 1 On Our Wanted List …
Outlaw !
They Told Me You Never Miss ! …
Outlaw !
… In A Duel, or A Quick Kiss …
… You’re An Outlaw !
Rustlin’ Cows and Cheating at Cards
Done Knocked Down, Many A Weak and Off-Guard
I Will Chase You Long and Hard
To Show You, How It Feels To Be Scarred …
… My Personal Reward ! …
Outlaw !
$ 10,000.00 Reward
Outlaw !
A Dollar, For Each Broken Heart
Outlaw !
… Better Get A Head-Start …
Outlaw !
Chorus:
Oh, I didn’t do Anything / That’s What All Outlaws Sing!
Oh, I didn’t do Anything / Then, This is Just A Real Bad Dream!
Oh, I didn’t do Anything / Stop! … Then, Where’s Her Dadgum Ring? …
Outlaw …
You Avoid Honor, Like A Hangman’s Noose
Out There, Wild and Still Running Loose
Wanted Posters, Up On Every Wall
When They Look At It … Tears Just Fall …
… You’re A Real Quick-Draw ! …
Outlaw !
Look At That Brim …
Outlaw !
Cocked-Low, Like A Trigger-Rim …
Outlaw !
… Yeah, That’s Him ! …
… It’s The Outlaw ! …
This is Showdown For Nerves-On-Edge
No More Hide-Outs; Not Another Hedge
No More Ladies, Lying On A Ledge
No More Lies, Or A Broken Pledge …
… See This Badge !!! …
Outlaw !
I Shoot Straight From A Curve-Hip …
Outlaw !
You Won’t Get To Give Me The Slip …
Outlaw !
You’re Gonna Get Wild-Whipped …
Outlaw !
Chorus:
Girl, I Know You’re Hurtin’ / But He Was Only Flirtin’
Luv, Stop Your Crying / Break Free From His Lying
Hon, I’m Doing You A Favor / He Ain’t Never Gonna Put No Ring On Your Finger …
He’s An Outlaw !
(Part One of Two)
Johnny Clare is an example of many a young man who Cowboy'd in the truest sense of the word. He did a job. He did it well. Though he met an untimely end, his life did not go unnoticed. Continental Oil Company put up a monument to a young man who worked for them, but Larry McWhorter's words made him real. The essence of who he was is immortalized in that poem. It is more than a poem about one Cowboy...it is a poem about every Cowboy who ever rode for the Brand. It is a poem about the heart and soul of men who built our country through hard work and sacrifice. It is a poem about one man's basic belief that time may march on, but those everyday Cowboys like Johnny Clare will not be forgotten. The monument stands as a reminder of "where," but Larry McWhorter's words stand as a reminder of "why." His words, a tribute to the spirit of man and a lesson on how to live what you love.
I cried that day. Tears of joy for having shared this moment with Larry and Andrea; for having one of my heroes of Cowboy Poetry recognize me and for his gift of words to me. We have been friends since. I love and respect him and Andrea; because they are good, kind, strong people of the land with deep conviction in their faith and strong relationship with the Savior. They live each day with grace, they give that grace to others and they make all strangers friends. Proud am I that I know them. Lucky am I that I got to go to Weatherford, Texas that day.
I have learned that it's not the trail we ride, but the tracks we leave behind for others to follow that matters. Time may march on, but word and deed live on forever; as does the spirit of any person dedicated to living life to the fullest while serving their fellow man. The impression we leave is our memorial to this earthly life. Building a monument with words and telling the stories about others so they are never forgotten is our memorial
to those we love and admire. Johnny Clare, Larry McWhorter, all those men I grew up with and those I am privileged to call my friends; all living life their way by the Grace of God, all fighting the good fight and marching forward no matter the obstacles, all inspiring us to live life to its fullest. When it comes to great men of heart and spirit the memory never fades and the words of praise are endless. And that, my friends, is the greatest monument of all.
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
So you think you know just how us cowboys should behave
But listening to your jawing, I hear Chisholm spinning in his grave
A Cowboy who don’t drink or cuss, I’ll tell you that’s not right
Ain’t you heard of Old Whiskey Row, Where two cowboys got tight?
To go to tying knot’s in the Devil’s tail took more than lemonade
There’s been liquor on the bar in every movie John Wayne made
Back when Chisholm blazed the trail & cattle claimed the West
It was music round a campfire, as the hands settled for a rest
They’d often talk of home or sing a tune to pass the time
You’ve seen that in the movies, when it only cost a dime
They sang of Laredo, Lil Joe or maybe Annie Laurie
Right then & there you decided what a Cowboy ought to be
There are some things we might share with Hoppy, Roy & Gene
But real cowboys won’t ever be like those on the Disney scene
Any buckaroo can sure clean up sharp for a Saturday night dance
Even be persuaded to use pretty words when sparking a romance
We pick a little guitar and some can make that harmonica wail
But you’re just as apt to hear La Bamba as you are a song of the trail
Those cowboys that you talk of, all slick & squeaky clean
All pressed and starched, with proper speech, they ride a silver screen
You see that feller in the corner, all tattered & dusty, that’s the real McCoy
Battered old Stetson, mud & manure spackled jeans, a bonafide Cowboy
He might be rough around the edges and his language a bit coarse
But when he sets to working cattle, You swear he was born on a horse
We are only human after all; sometimes we just need to cut loose
Shoot out the lights, kiss all the ladies; drink our fair share of the booze
We still love our mommas and say grace with most meals
We just don’t handle being boxed, can’t stand the way it feels
Those who don’t tolerate a lot of rules choose the cowboy way
Much like this cowboy you see here before you today
I can see you are trying to sort this out in your head
For all you know of cowboys is what you’ve seen and read
I surely hope this little talk about cowboys made it all a bit clearer
The only one we answer to is the maker and the face in the mirror
I hate to burst your bubble, still you best here it from me
Cowboys can’t be pigeon holed; they must be wild & free
Catherine Lilbit Devine © September 19, 2005
city limits;on 2nd street and elizabeth avenue,near a tire shop,and its where billy
the kid the out law lived and died;as brushy bill,so sad,yet here stood by those
very same street names in real life,his last 3rd living descendent, generation gap
as i guess we could of called it now!he wasnt dead,like all would of like to
believed or masked;he was my son,mr pj bertrand jr,and me im his mom;norma
jay bertrand the writer4386/homeless international poet of the usa/07!in reality
how practical does that sound,but my son at 24 years of age looks more
idenitical to him every day,its gets kinda spooky!in and out of hico,texas,except
here he was by the same stop sign holding a white plastic sign with a christian
quote on that read on wed,oct 26,05 can gods people help this family in
america;why?we that is i and my family was out on a personal fundraiser walk on
our own;since we were victims of both hurricanes and had no address physically
and lived in our suv;that eventually quit.no organizations cared and femur refused
to aid us;so we did it on our own,headed toward dublin,texas no less;off hw y6
north west for that one paticular night,it was where no one was giving rides and
only passing us by;like a real loser we felt inside;in and out of hico,texas,what
they didnt want to realise;billy the kid wasnt missing he was right there by my
side on the side of a abandoned house of white stone;resting my shattered knee
caps due to my bone cancer,on 2nd street and elizabeth avenue i was then
petting billy the kid who resemblance could kill a real deer that happened by! and
it could of been seen on the back on a rural map;its where njay wrote this on the
side of the ditch,if the residents came up and some would be in literal tears
telling him do you know who you look like;he could only nod yes mam or sir!and
sigh!believe it!ask the manager of chicken express cafe america;if you think i
lie;its more than just a word of mouth!i and he was both in and out of hico ,texas
and thankgod it wasnt in the south;yet no body asked how?nor had the nerve to
smile or laugh!or saw wowl!his living legacy america!is in actual replica on your
streets;a remake of the notorious gun slinger of the west in and out of hico,texas
call me and you can see him more than twice;at 409-679-5423
There were Indians just over the Brazos
With a buffalo herd in between
They weren’t trying to stay hidden
They wanted to be seen
The chief of these Comanche
Buffalo Hump by name
They say no one's looked him in the eyes
Was ever quite the same
The COL said go parlay
Invite the chief to sup
I want to look him in the eye
And determine just what’s up
With our white sheet fluttering in the wind
Like the scalps on the big Chief’s lance
We started out across the plain
Taking quite a chance
Our crooked-tooth Pawnee scout
Led the way through the herd
Through the smell of a thousand animals
And the sound that would drown each word
I felt and smelled their hot breath
As I rode my pony near
I turned my pony into the throng
A pathway none too clear
Inching through the buffalo
Blinded by the dust
I held on fast to the reins
Just riding my pony's trust
Once through the thundering buffalo
I glanced up to the rise
The Indians still were waiting there
Much to my surprise
The Pawnee scout then turned to us
Said if they should attack
First take out the big chief
Then that little one in the back
I can understand the big chief
But why the little guy
He said he’s like a badger
He’ll fight until he dies
He said that one's a horse thief
The best you'll ever find
He'll snatch a horse from under you
As if you had gone blind
The big chief started towards us
Shut up the Pawnee said
You young boys keep your damn traps shut
I’ll do the talking instead
The Comanche’s body shone with grease
Had a necklace made of claws
He had a stench about him
That made you gag and pause
My eyes met the chief’s eyes
My hand rested on my gun
He had a look could kill a soul
But I was too scared to run
The Pawnee and Comanche
Spoke in some foreign tongue
I vowed to learn their language
While I was still young
Then all at once the chief turned
And rode on up the hill
Our Pawnee scout turned back for camp
But I just sat there still
For he had pointed at me
With that scalp encrusted lance
And said he’d have MY scalp one day
If he ever got the chance
For last week on the Brazos
Someone had killed his son
And looking me right in the eye
He knew I was the one
Mdailey 2/26/12
1st place finish in contest
For PD’s contest dare. Chapter 11 of Dead Man's Walk by Larry McMurtry. It has been years since I read a western but am finding this one interesting.
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
He rode a Silverado
That was a dusty gold,
His clothes were worn and ragged—
Their style was odd and old.
They watched him as he walked in
To Wally’s Waffle Place—
With silver spurs that jingled,
A hat that hid his face.
He strolled up to the counter
And placed two gold coins there—
“I’ll take a big heap,” he said,
“Of yer fine dinin’ fare.”
Well, he sat down on a stool—
Pulled makin’s from his vest—
“No smokin’!” growled the waitress,
“This here ain’t the Old West!”
Well, the stranger tipped back what
Looked like a cowboy hat
And then slowly rolled his smoke
And grinned just like a cat.
“I don’t mean no disrespect,
But this here’s open range—
Though I must of wandered off,
‘Cause you folks sure is strange.
“See, I had to leave my hawse
When he done pulled up lame—
Then found that hawseless carriage—
Got me here all the same.”
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
“Seems some things has changed ‘round here—
They caught the James Gang, yet?
And how ‘bout Wild Bill Hickok?
He’s still real fast, I bet!
“And what ya hear of Custer
And all of his good friends?
Heard he’s clearin’ our country
Of all the Indians!
“Reckon I’m out of touch some—
Been ridin’ ‘round so long—
It feels like forever
And that now I don’t belong.”
The waitress stared – told the cook
To dial up 911—
She knew something was not right
With this old cowboy son.
“Now, we don’t want no trouble,”
She stated in soft words—
“But all I want is my grub,
‘Fore I rides to the herd.”
“Say, mister – you all right?” that
Waitress asked all concerned,
But then she saw his six gun—
“Well, now I’ll be goll-derned!”
Then that cowboy disappeared—
The Silverado gone—
With tire tracks toward the desert,
Lost in the purple dawn.
And so all the legends go—
But these are just the facts:
They say they found that old truck,
Then just a horse’s tracks.
So when you go to Wally’s—
If that’s what you must do—
You’ll find a deserted shack
Closed in 1992.
It’s some place that used to be
Where all things would fall twixt—
A beat, battered, broken shell
Off old Route 66.
I went to work for him that year,
early on, in the fall,
It was my job to help feed,
water, and clean the stalls.
The quarter horses that he raised,
were among the finest to be seen.
Then there were the mustangs,
rough and rank and mean.
From time to time, the mustangs,
would somehow make an escape,
No matter how carefully it was chained,
they seemed to be able to open the gate.
Then we’d saddle-up and chase ‘em,
and push ‘em back to the pens,
When it came to the mustangs,
trouble knew no end.
He never really answered,
when I asked him why,
He kept these three, who were dangerous,
with such wildness in their eyes.
Once, he said,”They’re the last of our kind,
a rare and special breed,
Spirits, not of this earth,
waiting to be freed.”
This didn’t help me understand,
the mustangs or this man,
Who seemed to keep them at all costs,
though they didn’t wear his brand.
Then, one day as we fed, I saw him...
as He took loose the chain...
Softly, he said, “Come with me”,
and we walked to the truck in the rain.
We rode the truck to the hill,
where we could see for miles.
Motioning to the tailgate, he bade me sit,
and gave me a knowing smile.
Below, the mustangs had finished their feed,
and, as if they had good sense,
They began their morning journey,
around their pasture, checking fence.
When they came to the gate,
for a moment, they did pause,
And gave a glance towards the hill,
as if they knew the cause.
I will remember the next few moments,
Forever, they are etched into my mind,
And the emotion I felt, as we sat in silence,
never again, shall I find.
We watched them bolt from the gate,
Running for all they were worth,
All four feet up off the ground,
Flying, between Heaven and Earth.
The explanation that he gave,
he didn’t have to give.
But, his words ring in my memory,
all the days, that I live.
He said, “I let them go sometimes,
so I can remember, when I see,
What it’s like to break loose,
and truly, be Free.
For awhile I’m allowed, by Grace of God,
to be a part of wondrous, unseen forces...
And that, my fine young friend,
is why I keep wild horses."
Continued From:
10. BTK Coming Attractions Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195844
****************************************************************************
BILLY the Kid's Great Escape.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in each barrel of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet loving whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet.
" Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell said angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing a man in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place.
One thing's for sure. Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall, Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the outhouse Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
****************************************************************************
To Continue Go To:
12. BTK Coming Attractions Part 4
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195841