Long Roan Poems
Long Roan Poems. Below are the most popular long Roan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roan poems by poem length and keyword.
She arrived from the big city
wearing a red ten-gallon hat,
and a denim stone-washed outfit
which topped off her shiny new
cowboy boots that were designed
by Tucson Sue.
This dude ranch cowgirl had a secret,
she never rode a horse in her life,
she knew it was time to learn the ropes,
all her life she lived in the city,
the closest she got to a horse was on T.V.,
it was a shame and a pity.
Early next morning she arose,
washed her face, brushed her teeth
and combed her curly hair,
carefully placing her tall hat on her head,
she sauntered into the dining hall.
looked around and decided to sit next to Fred.
He was a cowpoke who roamed from town to town,
grabbing jobs wherever he could working with horses,
the young lady and Fred made small talk,
she confessed she never rode a horse before,
and didn't know the front end from the rear,
he knew she was a city slicker and had to learn more.
Fred took a liking to her right away,
he told her that he had a perfect horse for her,
her name was Ginger, a stawberry roan,
the only problem was that she had a three-legged gait,
would she mind learning on Ginger for her first time,
she noticed that the cowpoke was handsome was this fate?
She told him that her name was Cindy Lee,
he liked the sound of her name and thought she was pretty,
off on the trail they rode together,
Ginger with her uneven trot headed straight into a tree branch,
Knocking off the young lady from her saddle,
She tumbled and fell and wished she was back at the ranch.
Cindy Lee and Fred fell in love while she was on vacation,
he taught her to ride and learn about horses,
she was determined to hang on and not let go,
Ginger was replaced by a quarter horse who knew leg commands,
a palomino with lots of pride who on occasion would throw its rider
against a fence and snort without demands.
Fred and Cindy Lee decided to get hitched,
a September wedding was planned with everyone invited,
all the dude ranch staff and the entire small town,
both rode their horses on their wedding day very much in love,
she wore an old-fashioned lace dress with her boots,
off they rode into the sunset together peaceful as a dove.
Conley Pratt slouched over the horn
of a battered and trail-worn saddle,
been on the run for several hours now
after being caught rustling cattle.
His side ached, caked in fresh blood
from where a large bullet had struck,
he heard a gurgling rasp in each breath,
and knew he was running low on luck.
He’d never expected to end up here,
a hunted, desperate, ailing rustler,
but times had been hard, he’d made a choice
and now rode, despondent, for the border.
He saw it ahead, just a small stake
that stuck out of the dull, desert ground.
Then somebody shouted,”Look, there he goes!”
Conley did not even bother turning 'round.
He spurred his old roan, pushing onwards,
each step painfully jarring his wound,
He gritted his teeth, and kept up the gallop,
he would be reaching safety soon.
He crossed over then, be he didn’t stop,
not knowing they’d give up the chase.
Shots rang out, and one caught his arm,
but the posse did not push on his way.
Moaning, and bleeding from a new gash,
he struggled hard to maintain his path,
But he’d reach her, he’d reach his Marlena,
and then there’d be no looking back!
He could see her now in his mind’ eye,
tanned skin, dark eyes, and straight hair,
his Mexican beauty, she had pledged to him,
with Marlena there would be no despair.
And now since he could never go back,
he would take her down before the priest,
But first he would have to heal from these wounds,
by ministrations she’d give tenderly.
Her two-room hut came arose in twilight,
And from within it came a soft glow,
bathing in lantern light an adobe wall,
and a small, rectangular widow.
Conley slumped lower, horse trotting on,
having reached the place just in time,
His stomach throbbed, his lungs labored,
without help he faced the end of the line.
He dismounted slowly, then limped on up
and through the window did he see
Marlena on her back, long legs spread wide
while a tall man thrusted vigorously.
Conley’s strength flagged at the mere sight
and he slumped against the hard wall,
his vision faded out to the sound of her cries,
The fates really had taken it all…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
...McClors rode up, and smiled quite thin,
He said,”Woman, get away from him!
You come with me now, and it will suffice.
You play more of these games, and you’ll get the knife.”
“See I’m in no mood for dumb girlish stunts—”
A blast roared out, and McClors gave a grunt.
From the back of his horse the villain did flop,
His chest torn apart from a load of buckshot.
Adam he turned while all sat there stunned,
And found the three lackies with his scatter-gun.
The horses they stomped, the lackies they blustered
Stupidly bunched in one great, big cluster.
The other barrel it was already cocked,
And Adams laid waste to the thugs with one shot!
Two died right quick, and the third man moaned,
Trapped underneath his dead mangled roan.
Adams stalked up, stared down at the man,
He said,”Listen up now, or forever be damned.
It seems strange to say it, amdist this strife,
But I’ve decided to make this woman will my wife.”
“So I’ll let you live, and run back to the town,
And tell all the people the way things are now.
This woman right here none shall disrespect,
And if I see you back here, I’ll stretch your damn neck!”
The lackie he stumbled and faltered away
Miriam had no words, nothing she could say.
Adam nodded. “I’d accept your offer,
But I think there’s a better one that I can proffer.”
“If you don’t mind a killer for a husband,
Than you and I will go to Reverend Dan,
Cause I still have a few good kith and good kin
Who wouldn’t approve of us living in sin.”
And so they went down, and so they were wed
And raced to his home, barely making it to the bed.
The mayor later stopped by, still half-rattled with fear,
And said “ ’twas all self-defense! It’s perfectly clear.”
Now Kline he lucked out with his newfound bride,
She gave him seven kids, their joy and their pride.
And as they years went by, their pasts they did fade,
Both found some peace in the life they had made.
Though still some townsfolk whispered of her,
But said nothing aloud to avoid Adam’s anger.
From that day at the ranch, till death came in time
She was known simply as: Misses Miriam Kline.
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.
...But as Burning Wing approached them
three leapt up with long knives in hand,
and dragged Burning Wing from his horse,
down onto the rough desert sands.
Todd cried out as the knives slashed down,
spurred his horse in a sprint, gun drawn,
his pistol flashed, saw two men fall,
the other four ran and were gone.
He leapt of his horse and bent low,
saw Burning Wing choking up blood,
knew from the wounds there was no hope,
through him raw emotion did flood.
Burning Wing had enough strength left
to momentarily meet his eye,
but it soon left and Todd was forced
to sit there and watch his friend die.
It was over in a heartbeat,
his partner and pal was no more,
as he stood, stained by his blood,
Todd just sought to even the score.
He could see the trail in the dust,
four men were not easy to hide,
he walked over to his red roan,
mounted up, and began to ride.
The trail took him to the mountains,
he pursued them for half the day,
his mind told him that he was mad
to chase the Apache this way.
But Todd no longer thought of life,
all that remained inside was cruel,
the killers did not expect him,
did not think he would be such a fool…
It was early the next morning
when the army found Burning Wing,
Todd’s trail was quite easy to track,
the cavalry now following.
They came upon a massacre,
four bodies strewn upon the ground,
a dying man against a rock,
twas Todd, the soldiers gathered round.
Their commander came up to him,
said, “My God, son, what happened hear?”
Todd croaked, “Those bastards killed my friend…
my brother, so I brought them fear.
“I could not prevent his killing,
I was too slow to save my friend,
but if I couldn’t save his life
at least I’d see he was avenged.”
“You did this for that Indian?”
said the commander, shaking his head.
“Our people value loyal friends,”
said Todd, “Such true things are not dead.”
He died another hour on,
they brought them both back to the fort,
side-by-side in the potter’s field
the two will lie forever more.
I sat in restless chairs
I breathed stilted air
what feeling compares
with feeling squandered?
I’m not sadfishing,
I was bored in a 5-star hotel.
I’d swum the Atlantic - in the underground pool
and I felt like I was marinating in boredom.
It was as if the loudest thing in our suite was
the sound of my eyelashes flapping up and down.
I wasn’t in solitary confinement,
Lisa was there too - and just-as bored.
She didn’t complain, 'cause she’s ‘New Yorker’ stoic.
So I started complaining for her - for the team.
We’d filtered every boutique,
sampled every eclectic café,
there’s just nothing to do in Geneva.
It is an implacable reality.
Peter (my bf) was at work all day and we were on vacation.
It’s different when he’s around.
He walks into the room, and I feel like
a phone that’s been placed on its charger
- the world lights up and I get - charged.
“We should make a list,” I'd announced, “‘the pros and cons of boredom.”
“No,” Lisa said, “Let’s name fun things.”
“Fruity Pebbles popcorn,” I started.
“Girl panda makeup” Lisa offered,
“Foot massages and bubblegum”
“Cotton candy and sunflowers”
“Holidays and sparkly things!”
- we went on and on and on and -
“kittens” I updogged dreamily, then I switched subjects completely.
“We need to go to Paris.” I announced, with a tone of relief.
“Oh yeah?” Lisa asked, with a little side head-bob.
“Actionable intel,” I whispered, “Grandmère wants to see me.”
Lisa gasped, adding, “You’re in TROUBLE,” drawing the last syllable out slowly.
“That would be a first,” I laughed.
“Kisses!” She exclaimed, resuming the game.
I remembered the first time I thought of kissing Peter. The thought was a flash, an emotional Rorschach test and I smiled. It was like a movie kiss, an abstract heaven - not the breathy, erotic kisses of real life.
“Where’d you go?” Lisa asked, grinning.
Some emotions are too thick for words.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Disco Boots by Gavin Turek
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
Form:
please allow ample delivery time
per arability of friendship
and hoop fully this acquiescence
can render an accord shared
via exchanging calumet peace pipe
initially invoked qua
piercing, gouging, digging...from hooked aquilinity
upon awareness miss applying the squaw aridity
mine swallowing capacity as pins pricking
a voodoo likeness doll (of me),
though this claim could steeped
in utter contrived artificiality
fusing flagrant faulty aromaticity
asininity admitting absent attentiveness
as ska walking a fine line
betwixt asexuality behooves
rectification allowing solution Wiccan agree
upon linking assimilability, assignability, assiduity
implicating with asperity whore err roan
nee huss rubble word choice prompting asperity
inducing me to cast the first stone
of apology, and self awareness
totally tubularly offer thyself as human sacrifice
redeeming conceding unalterable venal tone
role of squawking chief fowl ling at the end zone
regarding, where associatively properly went
assumability, anonymity of the internet vent
ting modality adopting immunity,
viz virtual community tent
revival meeting adumbrating atypicality, attainability
avoidance of audiological atrocity, sans atonality sent
to ear rate, the autoimmunity authority,
authenticity, austerity, audacity, co rent
ting availability, automaticity, accessibility
asper automobility to scale tenement, pent
house, or pre faux ying bing avascularity,
avidity, avuncularity avers automatically tall lent
aim to amble along xy feigning tubby
with minimal audibility clark kent
information superhighway
axiality grid via galavanting gent
can be activated swimmingly
with less overt axe said dent.
I was heading to the bunkhouse, after a wild night on the town
dancing & romancing & one too many round
Back in my wild & woolly days, one more rowdy Saturday night
full of cheap beer & whiskey & the necessary fight
I set Ol' Gus on auto pilot, he knew the way back to the spread
And I set to fighting with those rotgut demons dancing in my head
We were getting pretty close to home, so I eased up on the bit
when all of a sudden that dang horse he up & quit
His ears were all pricked forward, listening quite intense
I caught a drift of what might pass for music, somewhere beyond the fence
It took a lot of persuading, cussing & cajoling
but I got ol' Gus headed for all the caterwauling
the sound got more peculiar as we crested the hill
the memory of what I saw that moonlit night stays with me still
for I had stumbled on a peculiar party, hosted by a peg leg dog
and there was a one eyed pole cat doing comedic monologue
A Blueberry Roan soon took the stage, singing Motley Crue
I swear I saw a big ol' ornery hog with a "born to squeal" tattoo
There were bulls & Heifers dancing, I couldn't believe my eyes
why those bovine wore spikes and body piercings, in places utterly unwise
There where horses with mohawk hairdos head banging to the song
I swear to you, Ol' Gus, he began to sway & sing along
Now I know what you're thinking & I most heartily agree
it was the moon & wind playing tricks, along with rotgut whiskey
You city folks can keep your pink elephants parading in tutus
for this cowboy was shown the light by a Roan in blue suede shoes
I gave up hell raising & carousing, said so long to the honky-tonk life
Happy now to stick to ranching & dancing under the moon with my wife
But every now & again, when the wind blows & the moon is shining bright
I swear I can hear the livestock laughing & head banging through the night
Aubrey Mc Govern
by Don Johnson ........
Aubrey McGovern and the Deaf & the Deefe
lived down on Cubbie on damper and beef.
The damper was easy McGovern could cook
the beef it was shady Deaf & Deefe was a crook.
When the meat bag was empty and had to be filled,
the first neighbors beast just had to be killed.
It was a bush law that you don't kill your own,
when picking one out it was mostly a roan.
These cattle are softer and won't hurt your gums,
digestion is better and won't hurt your buns.
Whips could be made from their soft roan hides,
and last for years when properly applied.
You could make hobble straps out of green hide you know,
bell straps for the horses,…(green hide uncured leather off a bullock)
but twisting hide ropes was ever so slow.(hobble pegs 4 hobble strap)
They would last for years if you kept them well oiled,
and kept under cover so they wouldn't be spoiled.
With head ropes and leg ropes and a Bronco horse,
the branding was done on the old water course( Cubbie stn)
McGovern was evil when on the grog,
Swore until his death he'd met the Devil agog.
He met him front on with a pot full of spuds,
he threw it all over him and scalded his duds.
Yes the Devil took off McGovern did say,
and he didn't come back for many a day.
The tools of the Bushman are simple and few.
So he hit the old devil with a bucket of stew.
Sometimes when sober and a few friends around,
They'd query him about the Devil,
he declared the story was sound.
by D H Johnson
This eating of the neighbors cattle or sheep was
traditional, and IS accepted as the done thing.
in south west Queensland. http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush