Long Stetson Poems
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He's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
No matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
He wears his Stetson hat, Alligator boots
Jingle Jangle Spurs with stylish Chaps
He dresses the part this cowboy work of art
Draws attention wherever he's at
He loves his Karaoke
Always requests a yodel song
When he's up on the stage folks don't know what to say
As he asks them all to sing along
You may wonder why he's not in Texas
He prefers it brisk and cold
Since he was born and raised among the Northern crazed
But it's the cowboy life that stole his soul
He has no cowhand to help with roundups
Local Yocals wouldn't dare be seen with him
He rides and ropes on his bike cats and dogs at night
With no horse or cattle to his name
Cause he's a cowboy in Connecticut
All Southern drawl and wide tooth grin
Where no matter how he tries it ain't no lie
The boy just don't fit in
A well-appointed cowpoke, of whom there are still a few,
Wanted to be properly clad for his first job interview.
So, to impress his potential and somewhat cynical boss,
He has a silver-studded saddle throwed across his hoss!
He's wearin' a ten-gallon hat, a Stetson if you please,
And a bandana 'round his neck to catch the dusty breeze.
The dude has a roll-yer-own a-danglin' from his lips,
And a shiny pair of forty-fours a-hangin' from his hips!
He's wearin' a hand-tooled leather belt of the finest grade,
And a "cowboy" shirt and a vest cut from top-grade suede!
A woolly pair of chaps covers his bow-legged knees,
And protects his Calvin Kleins that fit so tight they squeeze!
His gleamin' pair of Tony Lama boots with pointy toes,
Completes what he considers proper cowboyin' clothes.
The silver spurs on his boots glint in the noonday sun;
Ah, he's the ideal picture of a range-ridin' son-of-a-gun!
The boss, arms folded, feet spread, sportin' a knowin' grin,
Didn't seem to be impressed, much to the greenhorn's chagrin.
Sizin' him up from head to toe, he said, "You look fit and able",
Handed him a fork and shovel and sent him to the stable!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved
What he really wanted
was a girl that was dumb enough
to love him prematurely
as if he were a project to be worked upon,
however grey hairs
in an otherwise flaxen field,
foretold a rocky end
to yet one more silver-tongued fox.
In a frouzy saloon
he hitched-up with a slow thinking,
quick drinking woman,
someone’s ex
on a reliable government check.
Eventually settling down with her
in a holler in West Virginia.
He took off his Stetson,
dutifully plowed her and some scant acres,
while collecting motor parts
for his fantasy truck -
plumb out of luck
he could never quite put it together,
no matter how well
he stummed his old guitar at the local bar.
He grew one of them bushy mustaches
like Sam Elliot wears under his nose
Bought him some fancy duds from Cabela's
sure looked spiffy in his Buckaroo clothes
Alligator skin boots and silver spurs
thought he looked like all them real cowboys did
Added chaps and ten gallon Stetson hat
and called himself the Kansas City Kid
He'd got him a Palomino horse that
he didn't have a darn clue how to ride
And a beat up old red Ford pickup truck
with a blue eyed dog to be by his side
He packed up and headed to Montana
from his home in the woods of Missouri
Said he was fixin’ to be a cowboy
and the best anyone would ever see
He rattled that old truck to Montana
it conked out right there in front of the ranch
He said he wanted to learn to cowboy
if the boss seen fit to give him a chance
Well the boss brought him out to the bunkhouse
told all us cowboys that his name was Tim
Said he wants to be a cowboy you see
so show him the ropes and take care of him
I asked him what he knew about branding
could he stick an iron to a cow's rump
He said he would probably be alright
if I'd be kind enough to show him once
Well can you at least ride that horse of yours
to cut out a heifer or throw your rope
That boy looked at me straight into my eyes
gave me a slight grin then shook his head "nope"
Think you might be able to break a bronc
that has spent its whole life out running wild
“Well I was in a real mean sheep bustin’
back in Missouri when I was a child”
What about fixin’ up supper vittles
I might be able to use me a cook
"Pretty sure I can do a decent meal
as long as I have some kinda cookbook"
Well I got me these here bulls need cutting
and a short stretch of fence that you could mend
Can't be that hard to cut a bull he says
if you would just show me how to begin
That was twenty years ago boss hired Tim
cause there was something in him he could see
Tim spent all that time learning to cowboy
and became the best there would ever be
There’s a global inflation problem
everywhere lungs are puffed up
heads are swollen.
Balloons increase in volume overnight.
The cost of rubber bands
has been stretched to its limits.
We recall sadly the heady days of deflation,
when shrinkage gave us more space
to spread, to drink our fill
of a less bloated air.
Politicians and pronouns
are loudly popping
empty suits and Stetson hats
billow and blow more than we can
know.
We see the mushrooming clouds
of bluster and bluff from afar.
The world pumps on way too hard
continents expand beyond their land.
The sky busts out of its high wide window.
Soon we shall see
how it will be before the big bang
as we escalate into fat flatulent globs
and awfully slow, bulky, bouncing blimps.
her face is chiseled but not hard like her father’s
Cher wears a black Stetson with a silver band
is she smoking? Is that allowed in this bar?
I note her makeup, put on by an expert hand
Has she a fashion consultant?
Because she never looked this gorgeous before
I hear she is running for fair queen
She has my vote
Never have I seen her look more beautiful
And she has always been a looker
Even as a six-year-old, I knew she was special
She turns and looks my way. Gives me a wink.
I am excited to say that I know her.
She has facets of personalities and is fun.
Cher, I hope you get queen, I think.
And she does.
In my mind I'm a cowpoke
Glass of jack in my hand
Watching Texas Two step
To a Texas Swing Band.
I've got slim line Levi's jeans
And a black Stetson hat
and tooled leather boots
I'm a real cool cat.
There's no jingling spurs
Or pistols slapping leather
Just the sound of the couples
Dancing close together.
This place is Hicksville,
Any state, Western USA
The time is the present
The date is today.
No hitching rail of horses
Ears twitching in the breeze
Just a big concrete car park
Full of dusty SUVs.
As the last notes of swing
Slide down past my ears,
I open my eyes
And reality appears.
No glass of Jack
Just a mug of cold tea;
No roomful of dancers
Just lonely old me.
There'll come a time
But I don't know when
I'll close my eyes
And go back there again.
Slumped in my chair
I know I'll soon find
Hicksville, USA, filed
Bright and clear in my mind
Hats are such a marvel,
when the weather is so garbled,
A multitude of quick coverlets to warm the brain
protect the head from snow, wind and rain.
A dapper, flamboyant chapeau
to quickly dawn where ever you might go,
A fedora brandished by some handsome man
that would display his appealing stand.
A stetson for the guy from Texas
who stands tall before the rest of us.
A tam, a topper
a Panama show stopper.
Some pretty little girl in a bonnet
that inspires a Shakespearean sonnet.
Better yet, a woman's choice of millinery
to walk a fashion show off fritillary.
To church or same gandiose Easter parade
that gleams and stands above the seasonal charade.
Hats are such a blessing
when the cold requires warm protective dressing.
The prediction is for gusty winds and cold,
hats need only be warm not necessarily bold.
Take your pick
but make it quick
your nose, your face, your head
need covering, that goes unsaid.
as temperatures drop
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Twas the night before Christmas, in Texas vast and wide,
Where tumbleweeds danced and coyotes don’t hide.
The stars shone like diamonds on black velvet so deep,
While ranchers and oilmen lay fast asleep.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
But these weren’t just stockings—oh no, they were flair:
Boot-shaped and sparkly, with *conchos so bright,
Reflecting the glow of the fire’s warm light.
Out on the prairie, there rose such a clatter,
I grabbed my Stetson to see what was the matter.
I flung open the door to a curious sight:
Eight tiny armadillos, all harnessed just right.
And pulling their wagon, so sturdy and slick,
Was Santa himself—but hold up, hold hic—
Howdy, pardner! he called with a twinkling grin,
His red suit swapped out for leopard-skin with leather trim.
Ain’t got no reindeer down here in this heat,
So these little diggers sure make my sleigh look neat!”
He tipped his ten-gallon Stetson, then whistled so sweet,
And those armadillos took off down the dusty Dallas streets.
As they sped out of sight, trailing dust in the air,
He hollered, Merry Christmas, y’all—take care!
And I laughed as I whispered, my heart full of cheer,
Now that’s how we do Christmas down here!
*Conchos come from the Mexican vaquero tradition and serve both a decorative and a utilitarian role on western saddles. Conchos are metal disks, traditionally with two slits to allow saddle strings to pass through and secure the saddle’s skirts to the saddle tree. (Source:texasuniques.com/blog/what-are-conchos/)
Born December 5, 1961,
blonde cherubic, lips of rose buds,
eyes of the bluest baby innocence.
Remember the 1960's brother,
Massapequa proud, Long Island.
Our Cedar Street,
lined once with what now are
vintage Chevys, Buicks,
our lime-green Rambler.
1964-65 World's Fair in Queens
at the fireworks show-
we briefly lost you there,
found you with a good-hearted
police officer,
brother of our souls.
Us siblings watched Romper Room,
Wonderama, Lassie, Flintstones,
the Wonderful World of Disney
on Sunday nights,
so idyllic then,
before the tragic Vietnam War roiled
the country.
Christmas Eves waiting for
Santa's reindeer stirring on
the roof.
The decades, they passed too soon,
us siblings scattered and aged
out of our youth.
Life, it can take us on roads
far apart,
but I thought often of us,
brother of our souls.
You rode horses
Western style,
your Stetson shading your
fair freckled skin,
keep riding above the bounds
of the mortal earth,
your journey here is done.
Remember the 1960's brother,
that was the times of childhood,
of us,
and they will live on,
brother of our souls. ~
In Loving Memory of
Gerald DeGruchy
December 5, 1961-January 30, 2024