Long Cowboy westernlife Poems
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Old Jacob was hard, but that was the only life that he knew,
At fourteen made his first cattle drive and was top hand with the crew.
He could ride, rope, wrangle, and shoot,
And helped to hang a many owl hoot.
Indians on the prairie, some were okay,
But there was those that would lift your scalp and not a word would they say.
But that was the west and why men relied on there gun,
Cause mister dealing with rustlers and Indians sure ain’t no fun.
Well those that stayed with the drive at the end of the trail,
Had a few months worth of money and some yarns they could tell.
Not all blew their money on liquor and ladies,
Some were God fearing and knew about Hades.
Many a good cowpoke lost his life in those joints,
Getting all liquored up and going for his gun to make his point.
It would be all for nothing when the smoke cleared away,
The undertaker would be the reaper of rewards on those mournful days.
Old Jacob rode the trail till a stampede broke his back,
Caused by some rustlers as they made their attack.
Laid up for months he had to relearn to walk,
He hated for people to point at him and to gawk.
He stayed to himself in a little cabin out west of town,
And when he’d come in for supplies it would be after the sun would go down.
Never once asked for help just weren’t his way,
Old Jacob was my friend and that’s about all I guess I can say.
The sun settled over the mountains jes' 'bout two hours ago.
Now the moon is risin' in the east a-castin' its meller glow.
In the distance, howlin' wolves render a very discordant choir,
As weary, sleepy cowpokes lounge around a glowin' fire.
They've had their supper, the usual beef, beans and applesauce.
Each has seen to the comfort uv his good and faithful hoss.
They slurp cups uv steamin' coffee and each the others regale,
With talk uv wimmen, whiskey and many a towerin' tale!
It had been a long and dusty ride on the old trail today,
Roundin' up the herd and chasin' dogies gone astray.
'Round the fire some fellers enjoy a wad uv terbaccy chaw,
While others savor a roll-yer-own, fashioned by calloused claw.
Frum across the vale a harmonica's melancholy tune is heard,
As the night guard keeps vigil and soothes the restless herd.
The boys by the fire sprawl on their blankets a-gazin' at the sky,
Marvelin' at God's handiwork, thinkin' uv home with pensive sigh.
Cowboyin' is a lonely life and the rewards are mighty few.
It's fer certain the material things uv life he'll never accrue.
I s'pose some folks reckon a cowpoke's life is purty strange,
But he'll keep on a-wranglin' 'til called home to that celestial range!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Mind all that your pa says
And don’t give him no reputes,
Sit quiet on the wood rail
Down by the corrals and chutes.
Don’t dally your digits
Or dive head long from a horse,
Listen to all your elders
And run your life to full course.
Appreciate grease wood
Ride your life free in wild sage—
Know you’ll not always be young,
And act older that our age.
Brush off your jeans real good
Whenever you do get throwed,
Don’t brag ‘bout a right answer,
That’s where real respect is sowed.
Be part of a question
But never the main worry,
Take care in what you’re ropin’—
When you catch it, don’t hurry.
Be kind to all critters,
Give them respect they deserve—
Treat folks like you’d want to be
Treated – don’t you ever swerve.
Pass on all that you know
To those that now come after—
Your legacy’s in their minds
With your wise words and laughter.
And in your final years
Enjoy the rest that you’ve earned—
Think back on those before you,
Try to rebuilt bridges burned.
Teach your kids the same thing
As they coach their own recruits—
Pass on the lessons learned
Down by the corrals and chutes.
A COWBOY IS
Who is a cowboy, what can be stated?
Shane, the ideal hero, brave but understated.
Eastwood, tough, fair, evens up the score.
Wayne, big shoulders, represents goodness, law.
These are fictitious figments of movie dreams
Their actual life was not what it seems
Real cowboys were lonely and died young
With broken leg or shot in the lung,
Injuries untreated, isolation, meals uneaten,
Loneliness, poverty, danger, savagely beaten.
Best friend his horse; best tool - his gun -
Was rarely used, and never for fun.
Never a deadly shot, never hit an ace-card.
His life was often ended by wolves - hard.
Illusory movies like Magnificent Seven
Tell a fairy tale story of hard-working men
With an unhealthy and short life, ending when
Dead - more like The Dirty Dozen.
He plays not for the buffalo, nor tepee’s on the plains
No wistful, haunting melody, will his stolen past regain
In hallowed place, this holy glade, he whistles for the wind
To plays for lands with life renewed, and awful deeds rescind.
No more will the Ghost dance sound, among the gathered clans
No more will the young bucks roam, in raucous hunting bands,
His way of life, with every breath, is lost upon the wind,
His tribe, his life his people, more sinned against than sinned.
He plays for peace, he plays for hope, forgotten days now gone,
With saddened heart he plays for all, and everything he owned.
And yet in that forgotten glade, the keening air remains,
Recorded by the winds of change, and carried to the plains.
(for Badger Clark)
Oh, when mornin’ wind blows away your memory
And all the bad things in your life go to hidin’—
When you grip tight the reins upon that short grass sea,
Then you hold on for your life and go a ridin’.
A ridin’, ridin’, away from all of the earth,
Away from the low hum of the city and lights—
A ridin’ now free as that first day of birth—
A ridin’ so furious toward that last dark night.
Yes, the wind in your hair and a spirit now free
Call deep down to your soul as you pull your mount still—
You run without runnin’ – fly past river and tree—
As one now with your horse till you reach that last hill.
A ridin’, a ridin’, we all ride toward the crest—
A ridin’, a ridin’, till we pull up and rest.