Long Cowboys Poems
Long Cowboys Poems. Below are the most popular long Cowboys by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cowboys poems by poem length and keyword.
I live in suburban Pittsburg,
but my heart yearns for western climes,
undoubtedly from watching films
that dressed up and romanticized
the sweep of the tall-grass prairie,
desert cactus and red-baked stone,
endless pines in northern forest,
Earth’s tall, Rocky Mountain bones.
Where a man could breath the air,
and hookers had those hearts of gold,
when land was cheap and any one
could be rancher proud and bold.
Maybe all this is illusion,
but there’s value in more then facts,
I’m the Great Suburban Cowboy,
and I’m comfortable with that.
My riding was learned by lessons,
ranching tricks I do not know,
I’m prone to taking trail rides,
I have never thrown a lasso.
There’s a Winchester in my case,
gets me comments down at the range,
tried Deer-hunting with it last fall,
but saw nothing out there but rain.
And I have a big hat and boots,
bull-hide with a walking heel,
occasionally, with a lady,
they have helped me seal the deal.
Went twenty seconds, my record,
on a large, mechanical bull,
I’m a Great Suburban Cowboy,
and I must live my life in full.
Of course there is much more to it
then just dressing up for the part,
there’s a code that goes with it,
makes this more than just a lark.
The honor of the old west lore
shows a man a better way,
it certainly altered my path
from my more thuggish, younger days.
Urban folks will never get me,
and the real cowboys roll their eyes,
but so far no better choice has
revealed itself to my mind.
So the old western classic films,
and the books will line my wall,
better a suburban cowboy,
than never a cowboy at all.
I’m on my way to the big time,
But first, a road trip with my friend.
We’ll drive through the desert, rain or shine
And make memories that’ll last ‘til the end.
I know exactly where I’m headed,
Straight to the city of Dallas.
Change is what I’ve always dreaded,
But my new life begins in Texas.
I have no clue what to expect,
But I am very excited.
If I make the squad, I’ll earn respect,
But first, I have to be invited.
It isn’t even a dream of my own,
To be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
I’d rather just stop in San Antone,
Where my friend will, and stay with her.
I guess I’ll give it one real shot
Because someone (I can’t name) insists.
He just thinks the other girls are hot.
Oh, what the hell – his name is Chris!
Well, now you know my little story.
It’s a tale I’ll tell again and again.
I can’t wait to make some memories
With Michelle, my very best friend.
I always hear the sound of guitars strumming
harmonica music and cowboys humming
when I feel a warm night breeze upon my face
Whenever I look at a summer night sky
or hear the sound of a coyote's lonesome cry
it always takes me back to that peaceful place
Where men who did not care where they spit or cussed
with wrinkled leather faces covered in dust
would gather around the glowing campfire light
Singing those songs about how life used to be
when cowboys on the range were peaceful and free
until the day’s work tucked us in for the night
We’d rise up each day even before it was dawn
throw on a hat, a shirt, and shove our boots on
ride out to the herd to meet the rising day
It may not have been a fancy life that’s true
seems we always had a million chores to do
but this old cowboy still dreams of living that way
Ah, life would surely be tasteless without a ladle of Soup each day!
Ah, the variety of delectable verse to choose from that bountiful buffet!
There is romantic verse, hot and spicy, to warm the cockles of the heart!
Inspirational and insightful poems from the poets' very souls to impart!
So delightful are the witty and humorous ditties that evoke a grin,
And so are the spiritual writes that warn us against the perils of sin!
We learn so much from the historical ballads written by our creative peers,
And read of the vicissitudes of life that bring the hardest of hearts to tears!
Others write of the brave deeds of soldiers that swell our breasts with pride.
Still, others write of the grandeur of God's Creation so great and wide!
'Tis so pleasing to read glowing tributes to others written from the soul!
We enjoy tales of cowboys, their saddle sores and favorite watering hole!
Poetry Soup offers splendid opportunities for budding poets and is first rate,
But the folks who ladle out the Soup to receptive minds are what make it great!
Ah, life would certainly not be complete without my Soup 'fix' each day!
Ah, the variety of delectable verse to choose from that bountiful buffet!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 3 in David Williams' "Life Without Soup" Contest - February 2012
Things wuz purty quiet 'til them thirsty cowpokes stormed into Abilene town!
They'd been on the long and dusty trail and wuz ready to toss some whiskey down!
The trail boss paid 'em thar wages sayin', "Boys, behave yerselfs! Yer on yer own!"
They invaded the town like a swarm of locusts chased by a Kansas cy'ber'clone!
Like good cowpokes, they saw to the needs of thar hosses, feedin' 'em hay and oats,
Then skedaddled to the Long Branch Saloon to sate thar dry and thirsty throats!
They wuz met with open arms by Madam Bonita and bartender One-Eared Bob,
Who heard them coins a-jinglin' in the cowboys' jeans that they intended to rob!
Pianner Player Two-Fingered Pete played, "Thar'll Be A Hot Time In Town Tonight!"
He'd seen it all b'for and knowed b'for the night wuz done there'd be a wild fight!
Bouncer Tornado Tom tried to confiscate thar rods, but the boys had none of that!
After all, a cowpuncher feels mighty naked without his pointy boots and handy gat!
Some of the fellers started gittin' a bit too familiar with Madam Bonita's soiled doves!
Rabble offended at sech liberties with thar wimmin, resulted in pushes and shoves!
One-Eared Bob seen trouble wuz brewin' and placed his trusty 12-gauge on the bar,
And yelled, "I don't want no trouble! If'n yer lookin' fer trouble, git on outta h'yar!"
The boys paid no mind to Bob and started cussin' and tossin' aimless punches!
But Two-Fingered Pete brought peace and order playin' one of his sagest hunches,
Singin', "Oh, Where Is My Wanderin' Boy Tonight?" bringin' the rowdy bunch to tears!
The Sheriff mused, "I ain't seen sech tranquility at the Long Branch fer many years!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Copyright (All Rights Reserved)
Cowboys herdin’ cattle cross dusty trails
Sandy hooves paint ground fog in their wake
Shuffling along swattin’ flies off molty hides
Riders amble aside keeping eye on their stake
Chuck wagon camps, setting up by a creek
Beans and pan bread cookin’ over hot stones
Coffee’s meandering aroma penetrates the air
Greeting men carrying saddles over tired bones
Ranch hands scout the waters nearby
Look to the sky to judge the night
Storms a comin’ as night encroaches
Coyotes restless, cries rent last light
Cattle dogs alert to changes
Nip the heels of stragglin’ calves
Cowhand slaps his rope while coaxing
Blistered hands and lips in need of salves
Cowhands sing to calm their charges
Bedrolls gathered near the fire
Dreaming of a trail once taken
And of their loves as they retire
The Teacher
by Edmund Siejka
His grandchildren were playing
Shrieks and laughter
Tugging at his memory
Catapulting him on a journey
Back to his childhood.
Three brothers
One sister
And he made five.
Being the youngest
And the smallest of the lot
Family watched over him
And mother spoiled him.
In third grade
He was just a face
In Mrs. Early’s crowded classroom
Sitting all the way in the back
Near the cloakroom.
Teacher watched him
Doing his best
Memorizing multiplication tables
Division and subtraction
Reading adventure stories
Of pirates, cowboys and space machines.
At recess his sister would look for him
To see if he was OK
And at the end of a long school day
There was always an older brother to walk him home.
Looking back those were kinder days
Easy days
Fun days
When every day was a Saturday.
He recalled his teacher’s kindness
How she welcomed him to her class
With a smile and a hug
But the one thing he always remembered
When he met her again
Years and years ago
Was that she never forgot his name.
“The flower of youth,” that’s what Ma said,
the day we packed the wagon.
She tussled my hair and planted a kiss
on my cheek and tin cans to the tail gate draggin’
My bride, my Peg, she hopped on aboard
while her Ma, Nellie, stood by bawlin'.
Dad stood by the farm house door
and Ole Red stood aside him howlin'.
We left from Pennsylvania aimed for Oregon
I’m not sure we woulda gone if we’d new,
all the loss a comin’ afore the shores of Avalon,
land of milk and honey, where apple trees are strewn.
Peg-a-my-heart, fair she was, and our baby she was carrying,
we’d lose that chil’, I’d lose my Peg, before we hit Missouri .
I sold the wagon, and bought them a stone, markin' the place I’d laid them
and off I went on a cattle drive a broken man in a hurry.
A cowboys life was all I had, a horse and my whiskey
and every night afore I’d sleep I’d sing “Oh, Peg-o-my heart…I miss ye”
*this was what it was like to be a cowboy
The Foundation
When we went to school aeons ago
Christianity and life were easy for a teacher and us.
Jesus on his cross and a disappearing act
Daniel, fighting ogres and lions.
Pupils didn’t believe anything of this
but it passed the time waiting for the school day to end
jumping on our bikes and playing cowboys and Indians
those who lived in America.
But a residue of what we were told stuck
I have been thinking of religion’s origin before
the told stories, entertaining as they were.
I think we need the abstraction of an afterlife
(Not aftershave)
When the man rose above the struggle, the leisure
to think, is this all?
There must be more can’t end like this, forever
be dead; God was the rallying cry we gave
him life and spun an endless yarn.
The trains of cunning
Two men in a vast field of grain waited for the trains
to meet on a one-track railway line, one a mathematician
had worked out where the train would meet
the other was a reporter skilled in muddying the news.
Of the train drivers, one has a skilled hand used to getting
his way, the other was an upstart backed by western money
and told to call the older man’s bluff.
And there, in the brilliant winter light, they saw the trains
At great speed nearing, the point of no return.
There was a side track where one of the trains could stop
And let the other one through, but would they choose
To be sensible; we shall not know.
I mighty missile struck the track and blew part of it away
The driver of the eastern train was able to stop, but not so
the driver of the western train that ran onto the prairie
that had no cowboys or cattle and exploded.
The mathematician was happy his calculation was right
the reporter wrote an obfuscating article telling readers
the west had won; the man from the east smiled his
calculations had been spot on.