Long Tenderfoot Poems
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Dreamin' with my eyes on these Montana skies
Blue as the plaid in my plum good shirt
I got the mitten by a beauty queen smitten
By a flannel mouthed tenderfoot from the Wyoming dirt
I’m just a waddie but a big hearted fella'
That rides strong and long – I’m in apple pie order
I’m a good hand at fencin’ and herdin’ and tell ya
I chewed some gravel trying to court her
I’m sorta' like my hoss who’s an owl headed steed
Keep looking ‘round and can’t talk the skinny
Like the clown brute from the Wild West Weekly indeed
I’m tongue tied by words of love sorta' like a horse’s whinny
Stella hooked-up with a sweet talkin' two-bit chiseler
Who got his wiggle on the moment he saw her
He made his shuck and I ran out of luck-Oh Calf Slobbers!
Now my moon is hung low in my heart cuz’ I lost her
My saddle feels like a hoosegow-my gitty-up gone
I’ll hang fire and yarn the hours away
But my heart is as empty as a Montana prairie song
That I yodel everyday like some gypsy castaway
January 21, 2021
Cowboy Poetry Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Glossary of Cowboy Terms:
Plumb Good: the most well liked – the best
Got the Mitten: rejected by a lover
Flannel Mouthed: smooth talker
Tenderfoot: an inexperienced newcomer
Waddie: hired farmhand to tend cattle
In Apple Pie Order: top shape, high quality
Hand: a worker
Fencin’: building and mending fences
Herdin’: herding cattle
Chewing Gravel: to be thrown from a horse
Hoss: horse
Owl headed steed: horse that keeps looking around everywhere
Skinny: to make someone wink, laugh or smile
Chiseler: a conman
Shuck: lies and mistruths
Hoosegow: jail
Gitty up: to get up and go
Hang Fire: To procrastinate, delay
Yarn the hours away: tell long stories
The wild, wild, west he shot his last gun,
the big bad felon that thought he had won.
His boots are now kicking his big toes,
He's left a trail of nowhere to go.
The dusty road has all blown away,
No longer a tenderfoot, that's what they say.
This is what I know, this is what I send,
there is always a means to the end.
There are people who are artist,
nothing to do with talent, it's the farthest.
Taking a life or someones money,
to them it's all still funny.
There are people who are rotting,
deserving what they've gotten.
The bars they used to drink in,
are now bars holding them.
Ones whose punishment escaped them,
they will surely pay.
There's still alot to say,
And she along with God...will someday.
She wandered like a gypsy to Wyoming,
Where she settled in and sojourned for a spell.
She found herself a billet at the Hog Ranch,
And son, there weren’t no high-tone clientele.
It was just a soiled dove’s privy crib
Where Martha Jane set up her chicken coop.
She was a cowhand’s heartthrob,
All buckskin and sutler whiskey.
She could drive a team of oxen.
She could drive a man to sin.
Times she frequented Old Bedlam,
Drillin’ with them soldier boys;
Some were galvanized Yankees,
Some were mere tenderfoot lads.
When she wasn’t barkin’ at a knot,
She’d be somewhere raisin’ sand.
She considered each calamity
That buggered her contentment
As just another maverick to brand.
I came to poetry a novice, a neophyte, a fledgling
oh sure, I had written as a child . . .
but that was just the writing of a tenderfoot
as my life became more grievous and woeful
I found myself mournful and melancholy with a
a dolorous melody replaying over and over in my head
the years of repression and suppressed pain, and denial
had left me with shyness and inhibition . . .
I needed to write my sorrowfulness but felt a barrier
confused and struggling with my thoughts and words
I would flounder, fumble, tumble and stumble
with fear- then, I took the plunge . . .
I had spent a lot of time in the beginning reading poetry
most poems were beautiful or lovely sensual rhapsodies
but many were just big words extravagant to me . . .
some just a pompous bombast of rage and ranting
lecherous and blustering and well not my style
I wanted to write poems with depth in every form possible
but, I read on and inside me a fire burned . . .
it had no flame but was just a glowing smolder simmering
I suppressed my passion until I was totally ready
the timely care and preparation served me well . . .
and with divine providence- I let my pen drip on white
it dripped and dripped until it was bleeding words, syllables, phrases
finally, I was able to let my emotions free . . .
________________________________
May 21, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Letting My Emotions Free
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1214-201-02
All Rights Reserved, Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Strand Select 4
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
L ynn is how my name’s pronounced
I ntegrity and imagination the ideals
N otably nostalgic on occasion
E clectic maybe even a little eccentric
M otivated by a playful muse
O pen-minded at times obstinate
N o fancy pseudo nom de plume
I ntolerant to painful platitudes
Q uality time ideally by a fireplace
U nbridled passion for photography
E mbrace uplifting peaceful views
G rateful a constant state of mind
A rt aficionado to the core
U nconventional and proud of it
T echnologically challenged tenderfoot
H appy hibernating in cozy hideouts
I nfatuated with the infinite and all that’s zen
E nergetic when it comes to writing poetry
R acing to the finish line to leave a legacy
AP: 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2026, 3rd place 2021, 3rd place 2020, 3rd place 2020, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2023, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on April 30, 2020 for contest I AM: A LIST BIO CHALLENGE sponsored by ANDREA DIETRICH - RANKED 2ND
I for one can't help but wonder
how the Kid's life would have turned out,
had he not lost his mother.
The one true individual in his life
whom he loved devotedly like no other
and so too was her love for him,
the devoted unconditional love of a loving mother.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods
to customers she had amassed
and by doing much of the neighborhood's dirty laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate,
purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income
she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
Many a tenderfoot would show up at her door
and Mrs Catherine Antrim (the Kid's mother)
would nurse them, feed them
and provide them a nights board.
It's very obvious that Billy's fine qualities
were passed down to him from his mother.
Had she lived an average lifetime,
In my mind there is no doubt,
Billy, the Kid today may have been
a most different legend
that may have come about.
He most likely would have been
a very outstanding model citizen,
as well as a great humanitarian.
Today he may have been
an even greater prouder legend
had his mother's life not been
so abruptly brought to an end.
*
Dedicated to all The Great Mothers
who have Greatly Influenced Their Children.
Happy Mothers Day.
One has to wonder
how the Kid's life would have turned out, had he not lost his mother.
The one true individual in his life whom he loved devotedly like no other
and so too was her love for him, the devoted unconditional love of a loving mother.
Many a tenderfoot would show up at her door
and Mrs Catherine Antrim (the Kid's mother) would nurse them, feed them
and provide for them a nights board.
It's very obvious that Billy's fine qualities were passed down to him from his mother.
Had she lived an average lifetime, in my mind there is no doubt,
Billy, the Kid today may have been a different legend that may have become about.
He most likely would have been
a very outstanding model citizen,
very likely also a great humanitarian.
He today may have been an even greater prouder legend
had his mother's life not been so abruptly brought to an end,
but then again, there's always that possibility
that as great as the Kid's life could have had a chance to be
it may not have been great enough to be legend unfortunately,
and the Kid today would not be a legend at all, just another great figure of history
long lost and faded into obscurity.
However, the Kid in true reality
suffered a very short and violent life full of so much tragedy.
As far as I'm concerned, He Deserves To Be A Legend Eternally.
I came to poetry a novice, a neophyte, a fledgling
oh sure, I had written as a child . . .
but that was just the writing of a tenderfoot
as my life became more grievous and woeful
I found myself mournful and melancholy with a
a dolorous melody replaying over and over in my head
the years of repression and suppressed pain, and denial
had left me with shyness and inhibition . . .
I needed to write my sorrowfulness but felt a barrier
confused and struggling with my thoughts and words
I would flounder, fumble, tumble and stumble
with fear- then, I took the plunge . . .
I had spent a lot of time in the beginning reading poetry
most poems were beautiful or lovely sensual rhapsodies
but many were just big words extravagant to me . . .
some just a pompous bombast of rage and ranting
lecherous and blustering and well not my style
I wanted to write poems with depth in every form possible
but, I read on and inside me a fire burned . . .
it had no flame but was just a glowing smolder simmering
I suppressed my passion until I was totally ready
the timely care and preparation served me well . . .
and with divine providence- I let my pen drip on white
it dripped and dripped until it was bleeding words, syllables, phrases
finally, I was able to set my emotions free . . .
____________________________
May 21, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Taking The Poetry Plunge
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1145-887-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the Eight Word Free Verse Challenge
sponsor, John Hamilton
Second Place
Fifty years ago this December, I was taken to the nearby foothills, by the scout leader and his right hand helper, to complete part of the tenderfoot test. It involved successfully tracking the two of them, as I would have studied that part of the scout manual. It included the elements of backtracking, animal print recognition, and other tracking basics. Similar to the childhood game of, "hide and seek", I had to close my eyes and count to a hundred. After the allotted time, I looked around and saw their tracks heading off into the newly snow dusted landscape. Thankful for the white stuff that made it easy to see their footprints, I easily followed along, even through the heavier made backtracking tracks. When the tracks took me under a large evergreen tree, the footprints suddenly ended. I searched carefully every direction, and scratching my head I was completely confused, until I heard their muffled laughter... just above my head!
pictures of Sherlock
show him inspecting the ground
never looking up
date:12/18/19
contest:December Haibun
sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Sine Wave replicated the Hand whistle, a drum and
bass and tremble guitar fused with a funky mix of
in opposition tothe fella's camped further in the distance.
There a banjo and fiddle were played while a crooner
serenaded the dust clouds kicked up the drunken
cowpokes.
While the Elders sleep or were to drunk to refuse them
wise mid twentyish people grabbed instruments and
went into the barn and began to
fuse there style
with sounds that were never heard before. A member
of the orchestra used his influence to
convince these busy hard working people
to make time to get together
and create music. The way music needs to be appreciated.
Night hides the meanest of day
but moring tell the true story
if she'll go
or if she'll stay
Regional flavors
Capsicum Annuun
Hot Peppers and Milk
Pizzicato wash your hands
begore you pull
them strang's
Headdresses and Cowboy hats
Hazing a Tenderfoot