Long Saddle Poems
Long Saddle Poems. Below are the most popular long Saddle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saddle poems by poem length and keyword.
They formed a posse and it was loaded
Three experienced at tracking
And their guide
He was a one-legged kangaroo
No one dared to waltz with him
Even Matilda kept clear
The heat was unbearable
Australia
And no one liked bank robbers
Crossing upstream the three rode through rapids
One horse was bitten by a bee
It startled him and reared
Throwing the third rider into the rapids
One scream and carried downstream
The other two rode the banks and the rapid
And their one legged kangaroo hopped
One hop forward but always angles
They came to a suddenly quiet pool
They saw a hat that was clear
The horse whinnied and a single tear
The kangaroo was exhausted and thought of a new line of work
His master lay face down and floated
The three horses gazed at the floater
And the two men followed their lead
And what about the bank robbers
They had a pint
A Lil' Bit of Aus... Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver
Saddle up! Saddle up! It time to go.
I heard the Sergeant’s call
I held by rifle against my chest,
And vowed to give my all
It’s time the Sergeant said, move out
Let put your boots on the ground
For God, Corps and Country,
I took a solemn oath, I’m duty bound
To the landing zone I gladly went
Then the day slowly began to wane
I picked up my ammo and weapon,
Not a word did I complain
Suddenly, I heard high in the sky
The gunships thundering roar,
I watched with great anticipation
Then felt my pulse begin to soar
Six Huey Cobra gunships suddenly
Bursting forth from the sky
It was my ride to to camp Khe Sanh
Where many marines live and die
Towards the besieged compound
Without a word we went
Their engine roaring louder,
The gunships pilots refusing to relent
When I arrived on the battlefield,
I stepped out and pensively planted my feet
I looked around at my surroundings
The pestilence of war their I meet
From inward fears beyond passion’s pledge
In their hands they held my fate
And of this mortal enemy
Their rockets would not abate
Then I heard the sergeant shouting
I wished the rocket had gone awry
While in this dreary existence
I turned to God and sought a reason why
I dove into my sand bag bunker, I didn’t’ hesitate
I felt my heart beat strong in a bunker in Khe Sanh
And when the sun rises heralding a new day
I’ll strain all my senses, look and ponder long
I never meant to linger, only thirteen months I’ll stay
For strong is the life of which I intend to save
As the North Vietnamese Army surrounds us
Their intent obvious, to put me in a grave
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
When cowboys sprawl 'round the camp fire after the days work is done,
They strum guitars and tootle harmonicas and sing to have fun.
Real cowboys don't sing Honky-Tonk or She Done Me Wrong stuff.
They leave that to rhinestone cowboys, considerin' it to be so much fluff!
Real wranglers sing about ropin' dogies and fixin' barbed wire fences,
Roundups, brandin' time and the magnificence of God's grand expanses.
They sing of home on the range, rodeos and dinin' on bacon and beans,
Cattle stampedes on stormy nights, the old corral and dance hall queens.
They harmonize about ghost riders in the sky who've met their fates,
Tumblin' tumbleweeds, cool water, tin cups and eatin' from tin plates.
They sing about bein' back in the saddle again and the streets of Laredo,
And belt out songs about horses named Old Paint, Ol' Dan and Tornado.
They yodel the cattle call and sing about when the bloom's on the sages,
And croon about their yellow rose of Texas and their pitiful wages.
Real buckaroos sing about Christmas in the bunk house and rye whiskey,
Cattle drives on the Lone Star and Abilene trails and a life so very risky.
They sing of the grumpy foreman and when the works all done this fall,
And tweedle about ragtime cowboy Joe and many a barroom brawl.
Real cowboys sing about ridin' the range, the chaparral and dusty trail,
And leave Hank Snow to warble about lost love, honky-tonks and landin' in jail!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Strong Bonds
Muddy river,
crystal clear,
and sometimes green as grass.
Grains of sand, hot on the pan,
Gifts of pine?, smell all you can…!
Cowboys, Indians, artists
and rodeo, powwows.
Towns gone,
now ghostly kept…
Mines, claim jumpers,
stagecoaches and poker players,
School teachers,
and the right to vote?
Mountain men…
Too many people,
and broken treaties.
Ever paving the way
toward the future…
of a highway.
Scoundrels and sheriffs,
preachers and train trackers,
carpetbaggers, and mayors…
purveyors of law, yet without order.
History remembers…,
Don’t let them forget.
Pioneers, robbers, and slaves,
built OUR country…
Heroes of a past,
we need more today,
than ever before.
Stand up men that put their life on the line.
Western hearts, that carried through time.
Horse and saddle, bronc and buster,
ride again into the sun!
“In God We Trust”
His skin like the patina of worn out leather,
burnt and cracked from many hours in the sun.
Across the wide plains in the hot Texas weather,
he rode tall in the saddle to get the job done.
North to Kansas City on this last cattle drive;
then back down to Fort Worth he hoped to survive.
Weary and tired from his night spent under the stars,
as he pushes the dogies along the Chisolm Trail;
across the dusty open range, pristine with no scars,
unlike the plains today, fenced and crowded and frail.
On his last cattle drive for the Goodnight Ranch,
heading up north across the Red River branch.
This proud crusty cowboy, way back in the day,
rode with Jack Hays at the Battle of Plum Creek,
when Buffalo Hump’s Comanches went down in dismay,
now just an old timer, tired and grey and weak.
This last cattle drive before his spurs are hung,
this cowboy’s patina, the legend of which songs are sung.
June 29, 2018
Used to be we'd pay to see freaks on the carnival way.
Now, for free at the mall we can see some most every day!
Kids (and adults) with tattoos, purple hair, nose and eyebrow rings,
Navel rings, tongue studs and other self-mutilating things!
Now, of course, we didn't do such things six decades ago!
Our parents would have disowned us - besides we had no dough!
Sure, guys wore zoot suits with baggy pants and chain.
I just can't comprehend today's modes, they seem so arcane!
Gals wore battered saddle shoes and one of Dad's old shirts,
With tails flapping in the breeze over their poodle skirts!
They wore bras (or so I'm told), hair coiffured with bangs,
They didn't bare their navels and hang out with rowdy gangs!
It's hard to discern who is who when viewing them from the aft.
Two long-haired kids, holding hands, and acting rather daft!
Is it the "he" on the right or is "he" the one on the left?
It's none of my concern, tho' it does leave my curiosity bereft!
I suppose it's all the rage to let the kids do their thing,
While they're young and carefree, let them have their fling.
I'll roll my eyes and shake my head, looking on aghast,
Wondering what's next after these current fads have passed!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
He’s judged and condemned to take the saddle, yet, still fighting
without surrender, while we slip the bit between his jaws.
This, and ducking feet in dubble time while lashing
the gear to his back, dodging lightning while riding Thunder.
A saddle placed on a throne and strapped to a rocket.
He fights, he chokes, and rolls his eyes.
Who would give a dollar for his tough ole hide,
go sit on him in the seat of a rocker or hang him over the pea-patch
With the crack of a bullet, he could be gone.
I have trouble waiting for my chance to sling the sweat.
I purch high on the seat, chaps folded back, a nod to pull the rope.
Then out of the gate we fly, the dust, the slobber,
the foaming mouth and ears laid back.
I am screwed to the back of the saddle and
held there by centrifugal force.
Suddenly, the earth and sky are drunken things,
bucked from my senses, jolted to and fro as fence
reel past.
My dreams of being a cowboy fading rapidly
into the choking dust.
Yet, I hang to a flying hearse, the horse called Thunder,
whose hoofs beat drums of doom with boiling smoke.
I’m tossed high in a sickly orbit of sky and earth.
Thunder, still kicking as if to sling his burden to the stars,
plunging ahead, searching for a place to land.
The sky appears to darken around my head,
somewhere between a raven’s wing and the
back of a buzzard. With my shaky hands, I feel
the knots on my head, I fight for breath while spitting
sand, choking on dust and red eyes rolling. I feel hands
on me as they pat my back with hoots and hollows
beyond the limits of my brain. I stand up with
my unsteady feet and stagger. I see Thunder standing
at the other end of his domain.
Then the red bronco whirls in a resounding charge,
rumbling a folly of hoofs in rapid fire.
The final defeat, as I hurl myself over the rail.
Who would give ten dollars for that piece of leather
hanging slightly to the right side. Who, while shopping
for a bargain would settle for a deal.
When I come back I will be a warhorse
Twenty one hands high
I will ignore my mistress, taking no direction.
I will run toward the valley
Where I will be free with no bridle or saddle
Thundering through, amazing other creatures.
My coat of many colors will dazzle the mares.
I will be a stallion
Well hung, and proud
Unless I choose to be Irish-setter red.
Irish setter red might be the best.
Then I could blend in with autumn and the fire sky.
My name will be Beauty Thunder
I will be followed by magnificent faeries
And sneaky, mean elves will despise me,
Putting raisins in my oat bucket.
Yes, I will return to my mistress's stable in the evening
To have a formidable bucket of oats.
I am not a hillbilly after all.
And I love running water,
I will win the Triple Crown twice,
Showing up all the other horses.
Yet with no training at all.
None can break me.
For I break myself,
Always in charge
Even as a warhorse.
Vivid vitality, vast ductility, and opulent appearance.
Powerful and fiery, bearing a deep sense of tolerance.
We won't fail since we have sinew and dear freedom.
A luring maxim to rank on the victor of a battle.
Alike the eagle's eyes as they fly up a zenith saddle.
America's yielding was cognitive to be limitless.
Ethical skills were set by the fathers to progress.
Whenever they set to foster their ingress of liberty.
The bald eagle fight with repute, uproar, and flood.
Like the peak and seal, a fight for might in a spud.
The bald eagle stands gladly by the clock tower.
The Uncle Sam Flag and the star-spangled banner.
The Statue of Liberty and the Americans who relish it.
Empowering hook and eye fly over Satanic storm.
We have tweaked our saws and freedom swarm.
Our friend's eyes were loaded up with tears in Arlington.
Deprived fighters who fought and died for liberty, won.
Freedom isn't modest or free, troops die while fools rest!
Under the starlight, frogs sang into the foggy wood.
When I rested in freedom, I dozed deeply and stood.
Written: March 17, 2022
Freedom Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori