Long Rustlers Poems
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I rolled like Caesar down the boulevard the day I came to town.
My triumph was impromptu and abrupt.
I parked my Chevy by the curbside on a gentle downhill slope
In hope there’d be no need for backing up.
From near the Devil’s Crossroads where I’d tempted fate
To the edge of Austin in the Lone Star State.
I walked my hunger to a roadhouse, spied the waitress shooting pool.
She ignored me, so I had to volunteer,
“I’ll have the Humperdinck pastrami with a Chopin polonaise,
And Jesus Christ, I need a goddamn beer!”
I swear her body English, when she broke the rack,
It took my breath away and wouldn’t give it back.
She was a cowgirl from the city with a wide Bonanza spread
And the guns to run the rustlers out of Dodge.
I had an immigrant’s desire just to lay my burden down
And shack up in some low rent motor lodge.
I said, “I’m here on business, babe, but heaven knows,
How your desert blossoms like a gypsy rose!
She played the accidental vixen like a cunning ingénue
And adlibbed her audition for the part.
She said, “The Workman’s Daily Special comes with saucy bedroom eyes.
If you’re picky, you can order ala carte.”
It seemed an outright bargain in a joint like this,
A spaghetti western with a Hitchcock twist.
I said, “I’ll be your Prince of Darkness if you’ll be my guiding light
And lead me down the path of least regret.”
She said her hands were always busy, but her heart was sometimes free,
And humored me by playing hard to get.
I offered Old Persuasion from a bootleg flask.
Heard the waitress answer, “Thought you’d never ask.”
She left her apron on the counter, took her jacket off the hook,
Deposited the tip jar in her purse,
Then we motored off to Splitsville down a narrow one-lane road,
Playing chicken in a car with no reverse.
he Riders of the Purple Sage
They’re running through the canyons out across the western plains
They’re running under a cloudy sky and through a mountain rain
Their nostrils breathing fire as lightning streaks the sky
They’re the devil's band of broncos, they run cause they can’t die
The cowboys ride on ghostly steeds with eyes red like coals They’ve run the devil’s band for years, but they’re not getting old
They have no place to come from and have no place to go
They’re the “Riders of the Purple Sage,” down in Mexico
They can’t stop for water and they can’t stop for food
They keep those horses moving for if they stop, they lose
A demon is the wrangler and for the devil, they ride
Pushing broncos of torment across the western skies
They ride when the night is dark and the thunder starts to roll
They ride across a haunted sky when the winds are growing cold
They ride for eternity on a trail of shame and tears
Never reach their destination , they’ve been on the run for years
Now, if you rustle horses, you better mend your ways
A bronco stands at the hanging tree and a rustler’s wage is paid
There’s alway a bronc to wrangle, and always a range to ride
Riding the Range of the Purple Sage across the western sky
There’s been many a story told of all the dust and sweat cowboys trying to catch them broncs, but they aint caught um yet
They have to ride forever as men without an age
Riding the trail of rustlers, as Riders of the Purple Sage.
You couldn't rattle Tex
Ice water in his veins
No one ever saw him wince
let alone complain
Kept to himself, he did
Felt life was meant to be hard
Carried his lasso and holsters proud
Tackled fool rustlers, no holds barred
The range was his home, an honest calling
One where he gave his cattle free rein
'Til sundown was nigh, when he'd change his tune
Call in his options, by the light of the moon
Came a day when his ten-gallon hat
No longer was seen on the range, working at
The craft that he loved, more than life itself
Tex had roped his last steer, put his reins on the shelf
“Cowboys” , big John Wayne starred.
Cowhands abandon him.
Call, joining the Goldrush.
Could greenhorn kids succeed.
Camp cook and chuck wagon,
Complete the trail crew drive.
Cow punching green schoolboys
Called on to claim their jobs.
Cimarron, the oldest,
Capricious, turned away.
Cow punching, green schoolboys
Combating bucking horse,
Caught on to rope, brand, herd
Cattle, and cow-horses.
Cattle drive is ready.
Cimarron follows close.
Cattle-rustlers kill Will,
Corralling all his herd.
Cow punching green schoolboys
Caught and killed the rustlers.
Complete the cattle-drive.
Cattle sold, gravestone bought.
Carved, “ Beloved Husband and Father”
8/22/2016
Not for contest:
Pleiades C
22 lines, 6 syllable each line
17th line 9 syllables
The Cowboys is a 1972 American western film starring John Wayne,
John Wayne nickname Duke
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cowboys
using;
http://www.howmanysyllables.com/poem_syllable_counter_workshop/index
Barbed wire seems a 'thorny' subject on which to opine,
But there arose a need for such for people and beasts to confine!
Cowpokes cussed as they worked with it mutilating their hands.
Sheepherders fussed with cattlemen as it spread across their lands!
'Tis said back in 1874 Joseph Glidden, who 'bristled' with the idea,
Was awarded a patent for barbed wire to provide a cure-all panacea!
Split-rail fencing to outline boundaries was rapidly becoming passe',
To keep neighbors' straying goats, horses and other critters at bay!
Sheriffs found barbed wire handy to enforce a judge's firm dictates,
To confine hoss thieves, cattle rustlers and other such reprobates!
Inmates trying to scamper through the wire were apt to rip their pants,
Or worse, might end up in 'boot hill', caught trying to scale the fence!
Alas, sinister uses for barbed wire were found beyond bucolic meadowlands.
'Twas used to enslave thousands of innocent souls behind its menacing strands.
Thousands of men, women and children were consigned to death at Dachau,
Triblinka, Buchenwald, Ravensbruck and Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Among its many other diverse uses it has even marched off to wars,
To protect gallant American soldiers on far too many alien shores.
Mister Joseph Glidden was doing mankind a great favor, he thought.
Were he alive today he might say, "My gawd, what hath I wrought!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The unsung heroes of the open plains
The outlaw bandits like Jesse James
Cut throat thieves and black jack hustlers
Green horn Cowboys and long horn rustlers
They all stood the Cowboys test
A stetsons man a broncos best
Leather chaps and leather vest
A real man's man a cut above the rest
Blazing saddles and blazing guns
Long trail ride and mountain runs
Chuck wagon chilly and camp fire sites
Hot sweaty days and long cold nights
A Cowboy sits on his faithful steed
Quick draw fingers based on speed
Bandanna mask and whiskey flask
A Cowboys job is'nt an easy task
Tabacco chew and cow beef stew
a Cowboys gang and Cowboys crew
They did work from dusk to dawn
round 'em up and brand 'em all day long
Gee!!! and haw!!! right and left
Yee and haw out of breath
Cowboy slang and Cowboy lingo
even Mexican Cowboys that say Gringo
Greetings y'all and howdy stranger
long lost wranglers and lone rangers
Ruff and rugged with no frills
Ask questions later shoot to kill
Yellow belly buckaroos and snake oil peddlers
wanted dead or alive outlaws and frontier settlers
From the California gold rush of 48
to the 13 colonies of this great state
Cowboys lived and Cowboys died!!!!
Cowboys give for Cowboys pride!!!
Hank lounged on his porch watchin' the sun slowly sinkin' in the west.
He'd cowboyed for nigh on sixty years and figgered he'd done his best.
Hank and his faithful hoss Old Dan was now enjoyin' their leisure years,
And he had time to recall his ranchin' days while tossin' back some beers!
He was so bow-legged from ridin' saddle he looked like a pair of pliers!
His hands was stained and gnarled from roll-yer-owns and mendin' wires.
He'd hung up his spurs, chaps and well-worn saddle without regret,
But he wore his scruffy boots, leather vest, jeans and sombrero yet.
He shuddered recalling stormy nights that spooked the wild-eyed steers,
Causin' hell-raisin' stampedes that endangered him and his peers.
He remembered more peaceful times ridin' herd with cattle happily grazin',
And a time or two chasin' cussed' rustlers with his .44 guns a-blazin'!
He swore he'd never eat another bean, tater or bacon in his life,
Since that's all Cooky knowed how to fix, a subject of constant strife!
He recalled how he stammered when meetin' ladies in many a saloon,
Which left him pawin' the floor with his pointy boots, feelin' like a goon!
Hank remembered cattle drives and in Abilene drawin' his meager pay,
Spendin' it on rot-gut whiskey and schemin' wimmin, blowin' it all away.
Hank peered into the distance and gazed at a lone pine tree in the vale,
Thinkin', "I want to be planted there when I've reached the end of the trail!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
"ALL RISE! THIS HONORABLE COURT IS NOW OPEN AND IN SESSION!"
Th' court room wuz his domain, bailiffin' wuz his profession!
No one dared hornswoggle him in that hallowed room.
Should any nonsense occur, he'd surely lower th' boom!
Usin' th' butts uv his forty-fours, he'd gavel th' court to order.
An' he pounded agin an' agin to quell any cheeky disorder!
The wisened old judge tolerated th' bailiff with some bemusement.
His antics provided folks with local lore an' amusement!
He'd served th' venerable judge fer years on th' western frontier.
His steely-eyed glare filled grovelin' scalawags with fear!
Hoss thieves, cattle rustlers an' drunks he'd seen galore,
An' desperadoes, train an' bank robbers by th' score!
Warn't no guns er bowie knives 'lowed thro' th' front door,
An ya better aim fer th' spittoon an' not mess up his floor!
B'fore enterin' his sacred realm ya'd better wipe off yer boots.
He didn't take no guff frum any of them hell-raisin' galoots!
Adjournment wuz gaveled fer th' old feller an' is talked uv today.
He met th' Big Judge In The Sky, on th' cold floor where he lay.
Seems he vigorously gaveled his rods, a stray slug hit his head!
Th' judge couldn't cope with that an' he too keeled over dead!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Smokey hailed from someplace back in Missouri
was a slave until the ripe old age of ten
Left his master's home headed to Montana
and swore they would never hear from him again
Started out in the gold mines of Helena
then walked all the way to Bozeman alone
Through rustlers, wranglers, Indians and critters
to the place that he would forever call home
It was there he worked as a young stable boy
learning to be a blacksmithy as a trade
Through the freezing winters and boiling summers
he worked long and hard for the pennies he made
As luck would have it Nelson Story showed up
owned one of the big spreads just outside of town
Said he had some wild horses that needed broke
wondered if there was any busters around
Smokey was never one to pass up a chance
said he could ride better than any waddie
So Smokey signed up with the Story outfit
was the best bronc buster any man could be
The Story's land butted right up to the Crow
and while he was riding alone on the range
He shared his fire and food with the young Indians
that hunted for buffalo out on the plains
Smokey joined the Crow tribe and soon settled down
he lived as a Crow all the rest of his life
Running free as the wind that blows through the trees
just him, ten children and his beautiful wife
If you think the story of Smokey is dull
perhaps I will be able to shed some light
Most cowboys never stood out in history
no more than clouds crossing the moon in the night
As Mayor Tom often says when he's off on one of his escapades...
"Greetings" this time from Milton Creek! It seems like decades
since we've shared the latest news about what's been goin' on.
The law is still being abided here. For that, we thank Judge Horne.
Sheriff Mark is still away on a secretive meeting about a commission.
Guess, it's not so secretive since I just mentioned it in my admission.
The town is safe in the capable hands of Daniel Rodgers for a while,
and deputies Terry, Duke and Mike are always lookin' out for the vile.
It's been mighty tranquil here in Milton Creek and surrounding towns
since the hombres and rustlers are gone, there are no worried frowns.
The law here never lets down its guard against the evil doers of crime,
so, we're enjoying the pleasant atmosphere; a long-awaited peacetime.
Telegraph agent, Jerry sent word that soon we'll be hosting a rodeo.
It promises to be an exciting event for everyone... a big western show.
There's a list of events, and I hope each category will fill with names...
Calf ropin' and barrel racin' will take place with lots of other games.
I've noticed Jan and Tania have both signed up for a few of the events,
Ranger David will ride broncs and bulls, so will several other residents.
Deb said she would, too, although it's a decision she might regret.
Constance will be checking out the animals since she's our new vet.
There's still two months before the first rodeo opens in the Creek.
I'm adding a new wing of rooms to Aces Hotel; a few will be a bit chic.
We're hopin' to draw in nice folk who might settle down from afar
and bring in revenue for the Manx when they belly up to the bar!
Anne-Lise will perform trick riding to begin the rodeo celebration.
It'll be a week-long event, so we're extending this as an invitation...
Come to Milton Creek for drinks and eats... steaks and whoopie pies!
and bring your competitive spirit if you're aimin' to win a rodeo prize.
Preacher Paul Nederlof will be here to pray that everyone stays safe.
Cowboys and cowgirls, strap on your chaps so your legs don't chafe.
Guns will be collected by deputies when newbies ride into Milton Creek
cuz we don't take kindly to black hat gangs. It's peace here that we seek.