Long Wagon train Poems
Long Wagon train Poems. Below are the most popular long Wagon train by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wagon train poems by poem length and keyword.
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
...It was two days before she lost them,
and an arrow slashed her small finger,
a small wagon train did take her in,
but a doctor found gangrene in her,
chopped her pinkey with barely a word.
Fever set in and it was two weeks,
she got so sick she could barely speak.
At Denver she left the settler crowd,
only to learn that Merlon was gone,
he’d been absent about two years now,
and his trapping has never been strong,
that he would’ve gone bust before long.
Celeste felt that her heart would soon break,
but she heard word he was in Salt Lake.
Once more on the trail Celeste did go,
through frozen and rocky mountains high,
taking hard paths she didn’t much know,
in those cold peaks she often did find
that her stomach was kissing her spine,
lost fifteen pounds in that rocky span,
but finally saw the Mormon lands…
She soon learned where Merlon was living,
rode towards his spread with a smile,
couldn’t believe this was happening,
she’d not felt such hope for a while,
and prayed for rewards for her trials,
but when she made it to his cabin
she saw a woman standing with him.
Celeste froze at this awful scene,
Merlon gasped and ran up to her mare,
he then cried out,”My dear Celestine…
Please, oh will you come down from up there?
You are looking half-dead, have a care.”
Celeste was too broken to shed a tear,
Merle just asked,”How did you end up here?”
She cried,”I came to find my fiancé,”
but said nothing of all the great harms,
the woman came up and Celeste’s gaze
fixed upon a baby in her arms,
she was too broken to feel alarm.
Merlon said,”But I thought you’d hate me,
I’m a deserter, so unworthy…”
She barely heard his words as he spoke,
feeling as if her whole life was done,
she couldn’t breathe, she wanted to choke,
Heard him say,”But I am now Mormon,
and God doesn’t limit wives to one.
Yes, my dear, I think we’ll welcome her,
another wife, to be your sister.”
The wife just looked on, her face quite blank,
Said,”Bring my sister in from the cold.”
“Ah,”cried Merle,”Our family gives thanks!”
Celeste numbly did as she was told,
she was soiled, and thirty years old.
not something most wanted in a bride,
so she let this man lead her inside…
Chorus:
There sits Mama old and gray,
Rocking, rocking night and day,
Her life was always full and gay,
Till that day, Pa went away.
Narration:
Time was when she was so young,
Raven haired and full of fun,
Many a beau would come to call,
But her heart she gave to Pa.
She would flirt and tease them all,
Wear her shoes out at a ball,
Pa just stood there with a grin,
Some how he knew, she'd marry him.
Their life began on a bright sunny day,
In a little church in I-o-way,
They packed their things, joined a wagon train,
And headed west to the open plain.
They didn't have much, like most folks then,
A change of clothes and a couple ol' hens,
Some pots and pans and a hog or two,
And Pa's big stallion called Ol' Blue.
Ma road the wagon and helped Mrs. Green,
Pa helped Fred with the cattle and things,
When evening came and chores were through,
Ma'd help Pa brush down Ol' Blue.
They couldn't travel very fast,
But Pa and Ma made each day last,
Every minute of every day,
Seemed a treasure to store away.
They went through snow, rain and sand,
Until they reached, Dakota Land,
Some how in their hearts they knew,
Here at last, their journey was through.
They took the land the law allowed,
Built a sod house and small corral,
And as their family grew and grew,
More land, was added too.
It was a struggle, you can bet,
To raise a family on just plain sweat,
When evening came and supper et,
From the Bible Papa read.
Through Indian raids and summer drought,
When Prairie fires burned them out,
Buffalo stampedes and winter's freeze,
Pa and Ma'd be on their knees.
They taught us the laws of God and man,
No finer couple, in the land,
They were always there at beckon call,
To take our hand lest we should fall.
No matter what hardships or trails they knew,
Together, they did see them through,
And for 68 years this proved true,
As their home on the prairie, grew and grew.
It breaks my heart to see Mama there,
Sitting in her rocking chair,
She's just waiting till the angels call,
To take her home to be with Pa.
Chorus:
Cile Beer
written l975
Form:
The fire burned warm and brightly,
As the little band of wagons were gathered close and their animals were
tethered tightly.
The ladies sat about preparing meals for the coming day,
While the men folk took on chores there wasn’t nary time for play.
Scouts were still out and their water was getting low,
Restricting their selves was the only way to go.
The wagon boss was talking on changing their course,
Said things ain’t looking good, best we prepare for the worse.
He said I know another way but it’ll be harder at first.
But about a weeks ride south there’ll be plenty of water to fill our thirst.
Bright and early next morn the little train pulled out,
Changing its direction added miles there was no doubt.
As they slowly plodded on the desert took on a new look,
But the sun still shone brightly in the day they all cooked.
The third day in the scout came riding up,
Said it’s a good thing ya’ll changed directions as he reached for the cup.
He said the last three water holes were only sporting dust,
Real early next morning the old scout lit out said he’d find water for it was a
must.
He strapped a couple of small kegs on an ole pack mule,
Took along a shovel in cased he’d need a tool.
Less than a day out he was taken by surprise,
Found an old dry creek bed that had just been on a rise.
There stood a solid rock basin as full as it could be,
He plopped down and drank his fill then rested for a moment by an old
mesquite tree.
He filled up the little kegs then he headed on back,
When he caught up with the train he told of the water and said there were all
kinds of animal tracks.
Next day they made it there to this little glory hole,
And rested up for a few days and then took off to their destined goal.
You just hope for the best,
And make sure your guide knows the way west.
There is no guarantees whether you make it or not,
The trip out west you’re either wet and freezing or you’re dirty and hot.
William Harrison Hardy
1823 - 1906
I believe a fair introduction is in order here.
Not that a handshake from me could ever take place anytime soon.
I was Captain Bill Hardy:
Proud Indian fighter!
And celebrated toll road builder!
I was the one who built the big road
From San Bernardino to Prescott Arizona!
And it was I, Captain Bill Hardy,
Who founded old Hardyville in Arizona
On the sandy banks of the cool Colorado.
Back when Lincoln was still warm
And the blood of Gettysburg was still not dry.
Back when the old west was coming alive
With wagon wheels and railroad ties.
Growing as a child would
With intrepid enterprise and such derring-do
The likes of which few eyes have seen since!
I came out west from New York
As Captain of a California-bound wagon train
And found a fortune in gold in Placer County.
But it was in the Arizona Territory where I later
Made my mark, and lost my fortune.
Oh my friends. I found out.
Found out what plain hard work can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant riches.
I found out.
Found out what plain greed and dishonesty can accomplish
And I learned of its resultant poverty.
Alas, I was but a survivor in life,
And that was my final legacy.
My friends, have you ever stared death straight in the face?
Have you ever seen the eyes of a wanton murderer
Only an inch away from your own eyes?
Nothing is more frightening and more sobering than that!
But I, Captain Bill Hardy, at your service please,
Experienced it first-hand that day in the scalding desert sand.
That Indian devil was right there!
His nose next to my nose!
But I got away!
Ran away from that place and lived to tell about it!
My friends, next time you come to Clark Cemetery in Whittier,
Go to the eastern fence by Dorland Street,
At the corner there, you will find my little plot of land.
It is a far cry from having an entire city named after you!
But it is a fine and restful spot.
Come closer and lean down to me.
I wish to extend my firm handshake to you all!
A quote from "90 North" by Randall Jarrell:
"I see at last that all the knowledge
I wrung from darkness -- that the darkness flung me --
is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness.
And we call it wisdom. It is pain."
The first bike I ever owned --
when I was ten or eleven --
was a Christmas gift
from a friend. He was receiving a new one
and I was gifted with his old bike.
He had cleaned it up and brush painted it
with a nice coat of red paint.
It was the only gift I got that year,
one of my only gifts as a child.
I loved that bike:
it freed me to pedal around so
I could accompany my friend
as we rode anywhere in our tiny,
sandy, two-paved-road fishing town.
Before the bike, I ran alongside him.
I was quite accustomed to running everywhere,
especially in summer, barefoot, usually shirtless.
Most years from first grade
until we were about twelve,
we spent our time together,
at his house or in imaginary jungles
or on wild, indian-infested wagon train trails.
We defended those trails from apaches
intent on taking our scalps.
Sometimes, on pirate ships, we manned canons
or forced reluctant traitors and mutineers
to walk the plank for failures and misdeeds.
We were never bored, usually outdoors.
On jungle safaris we were frequently attacked
by ferocious lions and tigers and
often captured by cannibal head-hunters
who put us into large pots to cook us
while dancing all around and brandishing
their spears. They sang or chanted
amazing, invented language repetitive
verses overloaded with frequent "ughs'
and tongue-twisting nonsense phrases.
His mother served us gallons of Kool Aid,
gave us snacks we ate with relish.
With a child’s trusting nature,
I hoped this could never end –
I felt secure in friendship and
apparent acceptance by
my friend’s parents. Of course,
things did change.
But..........I did not.
Not for a long, long time.
In that far northern part was where I was born,
Over forty years ago my journey started in my home.
My Mom and Dad worked so hard to feed us eight kids,
If one can learn to love anyone in this world it was them.
My mom told me one day her mom was born on a wagon train,
Of how Great Grandma traveled over Donner Pass in winter,
Just two weeks after the Donner Party passed away.
Great Grandpa never got over it she would say.
Still, 16 children her mom would birth way back then,
It gave me enough aunts and uncles and cousins for life.
In fact it was almost enough to start our own small town,
Of course that's also another story left for the pondering.
My Dad's real father died when Dad was only 4 months old.
His name was Charles Epps and was kin to the Wilkinsons,
Dad has told me stories of the famous English iron masters,
And of how George Washington by marriage was my relative.
Isn't it funny how that fact now makes no difference to me?
Because I feel akin to all my brothers and sisters of earth.
We all started somewhere on this world and no matter where,
And I didn't have a damned thing to do with what George did.
So isn't that much more relative to the point we all make?
All I know is I watched my Mother and Father sacrifice for us,
That is all that truly matters and is all that truly counts.
To love all the billions is what flies my current mortality.
Famous or unknown we all end up just exactly the same,
Spirits with no mortal baggage holding us down for take-off.
Free at last to roam a universe forever untied from greed,
And beyond a place that once was called a human's paradise.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Wiley McCracken was many things,
But it can be said he was no fake—
Yet folks only smiled and they nodded
When he spoke of the face in the lake.
They said it was years of prospectin’,
Then long years of hard north woods loggin’,
That made him see the world different
And may have somehow touched his noggin’.
Ol’ Wiley never paid mind to creeks
Or oceans or all them wild rivers—
But when he came round to a clear lake,
It gave us all shakes and the shivers.
He’s slowly ease up to that lake’s edge
And peer out blankly into the blue—
While cowpokes or whoever would watch,
Just to see what fool thing he would do.
Wile would gaze into the lake water,
Then he’d shake his head like he was sad—
And he’d stare at faces around him,
Like he was searchin’ for something bad.
Then he traveled with a wagon train
And they took out headin’ to the west—
And Wile sadly watched the lakes they passed,
Knowin’ that not lookin’ then was best.
But the train stopped outside a near town,
Then sure ‘nuff, there was a lake and face—
But ol’ Wiley couldn’t help himself
And by water’s edge he took his place.
Then there came forth a tall, fair gambler,
Who some said went by the name of Bill—
That stood next to Wiley by the lake
To see if that dark face was there still.
“I had me a dream,” the gambler said,
“About swimmin’ to the other shore”—
But he only saw his own pale face
And he would not look on it no more.
”I never see my own face,” said Wile,
“It’s the one thing I look for, friend—
I only see the next to pass on
And a number, just now that was ten.”
The gambler grew even paler yet,
For now, at long last he understood—
He’d be dealt a hand in that saloon
In the ill-fated town of Deadwood.
Next day, Wiley McCracken returned
To look again at the lake and face—
While Wild Bill was makin’ history
And Wiley’s image now took his place.
George W. Towne
1847 – 1899
From Iowa I came by restless wagon train.
From the mid-west I arrived
With satchel and silken scalp still intact.
I read Proverbs and Ecclesiastes to pass the time.
I read the Gospels of John and Luke.
I read Harriet Beecher Stowe and
I read John Greenleaf Whittier.
I saw the icy Rocky Mountains beckon me to the west
Waving their invisible fluid fingers
Like blond ballerinas in silent ever-moving tableaux.
I saw the railroad snake through the endless golden valleys.
And I saw the muddy roads converge
Under a hundred bee-infested pepper trees.
And it was here in this new colony I found a home
For my wife Fannie and our three dubious children.
You could always spot me in the distance,
Walking down Pickering Street.
For I was the dapper one in black derby hat
Taking the cash in the Greenleaf Avenue millinery.
I was the suited one in dusty black,
Winking and bowing to the lovely ladies
Showing my respect but imagining something else
Deep within my empty searching soul.
I was the tall, cleanly shaven erudite
Who had memorized the entire Gospel of John
And walked the northern foothills at sunset
Wearing my ever-present derby hat
And meeting, yes,
Secretly meeting Lucy Swain
Under the tall cedar tree on Rideout Ranch.
Confession is indeed good for the soul.
Confession has always allowed a good but dishonest man to sleep soundly.
To sleep long languorous hours on a cold winter’s night.
To sleep for an eternity without guilt or regrets
Under the hardened forgotten dirt of Clark Cemetery.
For I was the handsome one in derby hat
And only Lucy and I knew,
Only she and I knew intimately
About the patch of soft carpet-like grass,
There under the tall silent cedar tree
On Rideout Ranch.
Proudly the white tummies purposefully sauntered forth
Orange arrow beaks decidedly pointed
Stubby feet not nearly strong enough to hold them up
Yellow mirrored eyeballs, reflecting the sun
In sheer giddiness, frightening the menfolk.
I stopped the wagon train and gave them a stern talking to.
Yes, I am the wagon master, thank you much.
And this is the Wild Venus, not the Wild West.
It is a new world, of course.
Unfortunately when I stopped them, they fell over
Onto each other’s laps, making the menfolk laugh and laugh
Making me sorry we had given them their lobotomies before we reached destination
It was the only way we knew to control their testosterone,
Of course, it was my idea, one of my worst I later discovered.
We resumed our journey after they all regained a semblance of composure
Our pet menfolk and our pet yellow-bellies.
I smiled, knowing I might have been right all along.
Women would rule the Venus colony
TVs would be banned, and no animals would be harmed
In cages or hunted or trapped or any of that nonsense.
Some other women came to my wagon that night
We formed a sing along bonfire, and we laughed and talked well until morning.
Knowing our menfolk would be more than willing to get up with the
One point two children we had allowed ourselves and our
Yellow penguin brigade.
Congratulating ourselves on our new status
Rulers of Venus, Committee of Sixteen,
Power of the Woman
In Charge Forever
Until we realized sixteen women cannot agree on anything.
Without at least one or two opinions from the yellow penguins.
That is when it all changed. And they slyly took over,
Feeding us the feminine-out-sauce that took away our will and our minds.
Well done white tummies. Well done!