Long Wild west Poems
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Back in the days, when men bold,
spun golden legends;
of exploits in the wild west;
of punch-in and herd-in cows
and saloon brawls where they’d shoot
and scores of bullets roared.
Stories of the Iron Horse’s roar
and gunfighters and marshals, bold;
Of gamblers, who’d go shooting
for the stars in cards; those were feats of legend.
Days when plains of cows,
fur-painted the landscape of, the old west.
These are the breed that won the west,
as across the plains, the Iron Horse roared.
those are the backs worn, herding cows;
the exploits of the brave and bold.
those brave and haggard legends
made of silver spurs and pearl-handled shooters.
You’re darn toot-in, shoot’in
like that, was what won the west.
While the Iron Horse died, its legend
lives on, belching out its roar,
across the plains, so bold.
Still, cowboys herd and rope their cows.
Modern day cowboys, herding cows
by truck and shootouts
no longer ring so boldly.
Wild no more, is the west,
where now, only cars and planes roar.
Yet, there still live the legends.
They aren’t as great, these new legends,
but it doesn’t phase the cows.
They calmly graze, amid the airplanes roar.
Though one may say, “shoot,
it’s spoiled now”, the legends live on, in the west,
of heroes brave and bold.
The west will always, have its legends, Though trains no longer roar.
Cowboys will always rope their cows, as they did in the old, wild west.
Upon museum walls, stories of the shootouts,
are told; of ancient heroes brave and bold.
10-8-2020
Impress me with an old poem (002)
Poet Destroyer A
William Bonny AKA Billy The Kid
A Tale Of Billy The Kid
By Robert Gorelick
“Quien esta?”
Bang! It’s over,
you’re a legend now,
Billy.
Born in Hell’s Kitchen in
ramshackle consumptive squalor,
New York’s crammed gang infected
rat-infested shacks
and alleys.
Amid the iniquitous stench
of rot and the soul’s decay,
in a nation at war,
pulling, stretching, ripping
to shreds the frayed fabric
of its precarious union.
An abused juvenile fleeing west
emerging from the muck
to where a soul and body
may heal, breathe deeply,
expand.
At last—life
New Mexico territory spreads open
and wide, easy to be seduced by cynical
range-war ranchers’ welcome greetings
they pay you well for
every cattle rustled,
then desert you as you flee the
sheriff’s posse.
“Quien esta?”
With a concealed knife
you stab a drunken gambler,
self-defense is no excuse
as the ruffian had
important friends.
You’re set to hang, Billy
in a daring display
you shoot your way out,
steal a horse and gallop
off to your woodland
shanty.
Midnight, your shack’s pitch dark,
there’s breathing nearby,
your Mexican novia?
Why doesn’t she speak?
“Quien esta?”
Bang. Pat Garrett guns
you down.
A throw away kid from big city squalor,
becomes a legend of the wild west.
You’re a legend, Billy
1/8/23
Metrical Tale Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
Deep secrets won’t make me feel guilty,
there are moments best kept to yourself.
Sacred sort of scratches the surface
of words that don’t make it to whisper.
Smushed within the ashes on these lips,
deep secrets don’t make me feel guilty.
That choice ends their potential gossip,
it is best to leave truth the question.
Soon enough a new story’s floating
then you relish not making the news.
Deep secrets don’t make me feel guilty,
no one can twist what doesn’t exist.
New wind blew in and flattened the sails
as I laughed all the way to the bank.
I’ll stay private in this new Wild West,
deep secrets don’t make me feel guilty.
Strap on your six shooters or reach for the sky.
The police in Minneapolis are going bye bye.
The powers that be want the police department gone.
Be careful of what you wish for and the line that you’ve drawn.
Maybe we should stop paying taxes and see where that leads.
Defund our government and start wearing beads.
The summer of love in two thousand twenty.
A redo of the wild west in the land of good and plenty.
At least we are still armed and able to buy lead.
Our safety and security are quickly being put to bed.
Remember to lock your windows and both of your doors.
The criminals now rule in this political war.
Will we die from a virus or get shot in the street?
More lawless communities, now wouldn’t that be neat.
I’m disappointed and sick when I think of what’s next.
Our leaders are failing and need a reality check.
Twinkle Twinkle
Little Star
ICE shot a woman
In her car
As their encirclement
Tried to tighten
She drove away because
She became frightened
Three quick shots
To the head
One more to add
To their tally of dead.
Kristi Nome said
There was no shame
The victim herself
Was to blame
ICE it seems
Has the power to use
Stop and search
To physically abuse,k
The old Wild West
From days of yore
Seems to be coming
Back once more
Or is it just an era of
intolerance and hate
Heralds the birth
Of a new NAZI State
Twinkle twinkle
Little Star
An innocent shot
In her car..
I'm safe in bed
But i cant sleep
I want to curse
I want to weep
Dreadful thoughts
Flow through my head
That an innocent woman
Is needlessly dead
Unlikely the explorers of the Wild West,
I'm bound for sheer adventure, not amazing discovery;
finding gold is far from any quest
while this clanking, slow-moving stream locomotive
will take me to places so primitive...
even a small ghost town has tales that conjure mystery!
Whistle along train as your steam puffs...
reaching clouds and turning them into raindrops,
California is still a seeker's dream for the unhappy folks living
in bustling cities enduring noise and pollution;
soundless are the canyons drifting
by without any fearless cowboy riding,
but the watchful coyotes will resent this intrusion...
whenever your whistle startles them when they are napping!
Whistle along train as your steam puffs,
I didn't bring along a single book to read not to be distracted by reality,
only a huge map showing me historic towns...
where daily shootings were as common as drinking whiskey!
Imagine seeing the ghosts of Billy the Kid and Jesse James
roam the dusty streets ready to start a gunfight;
see crowds gather and wait for the winner to shout...
it's like watching a Clint Eastwood's western movie drawing his guns!
Pearl Hart was Canadian Born,
And she put her poor parents to test.
She met and fell for a ne'er-do-well gambler,
Who eventually took her out west.
Inspired and enamored by the strong women there,
And the heroes and Wild West legends,
She mustered the courage to leave her man,
Took a train and Colorado befriended.
She gave birth to a son who she gave to her mother,
And left Arizona bound,
Where she became un-enamored with the wild West,
Where hard times was all that she found.
Her husband finally caught up with her,
And begged her to come back to him.
She returned to him, learned to drink and to smoke,
He beat her and left her again.
Pregnant again she gave birth to a girl,
Left this one with her mom too;
But a woman alone found it a hard go,
And she found her a man named Joe Boot.
Joe taught her to rob and to steal for her gain,
They started with people, then stages and trains.
She enjoyed her part as a lady bandit,
And as her legend grew she found fame.
It remains unknown what became of Pearl.
Some say she died here or there.
Some say she married an Arizona rancher,
And lived a quiet life out there.
Happy Trails
Upon the floor I lay,
Glued to the black-and-white TV set
In my western-patterned flannel PJs,
Toting a cap gun holstered at the waist
And a whistle tethered
To my cowboy hat chinstrap.
With my hands cradling my face,
And my arms bent at the elbows
To support the weight,
And my restless legs waving
With my bare feet fluttering,
I watched the Lone Ranger
And his sidekick, Tonto
Round up outlaws
To bring to justice
In the old Wild West.
He wore a white hat,
And covered his face with a mask,
And loaded silver bullets
Into his Peacemaker’s chambers,
Unafraid of dying
In my childhood mind.
And I cheered for the Lone Ranger,
When upon his horse, he galloped
Down the road at the end of the show,
Shouting, “Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!”
But Roy Rogers was my hero,
And Dale Evans was the girl I adored.
Because he sat tall in the saddle
And cast a long shadow
When he rode on Trigger
At the Double R Bar Ranch.
His throat was bone-dry,
But his eyes glittered
When he sang campfire songs
Under the California sky.
And she sat tall in the saddle
When she rode on Buttermilk
And trotted right up
To the carrot in my heart,
And she said, “Buckle up, buckaroo,
If you want to be my hero.
Dust yourself off now,
And get back in there.”
She was the girl I adored.
And I would watch
Roy Rogers and Dale Evans
Ride into the sunset
At the end of the show.
They would wave their hats
While singing “Happy Trails”
And say, “See you tomorrow.”
He was my hero,
And she was the girl I adored.
And I knew there would be a tomorrow,
And I would never grow old,
Watching the Roy Rogers
And Dale Evans show.
***
Note:
The "Roy Rogers Show" was an American family western TV series that ran from 1951 to 1957 on NBC.
My grandfather taught me an unusual way to catch fish.
I tried it out one night I went with mom who is a musician.
During the day, she gives well off kids, music lessons, piano, guitar, and so on.
Mom is versatile in the music realm, not only instrumental, but composes and sings.
At night she plays in a hula dance troupe known as an Halau (hah-LAU).
They perform at hotels for the tourist, one was Ross Martin from 'Wild, Wild, West', TV series of the 60's, who met personally with the halau, backstage--and an 8 year old me.
I did what was told me by grandpa.
I brought from the house a few bread in its plastic bag.
Where mom plays at night, there's a hotel bar, the hotel sits on the bayfront of Hilo.
Outside the lounge sits stacks of discarded hard liquor bottles that's not always completely empty.
I would pour whatever liquor into the plastic bag of bread, as it sops it up really fast.
I would break up the soaked liquor bread and toss into the bay that's a few feet away from the hotel.
I would have dad's big net with the long handle and wait a short while.
Soon, fish will float up on their sides, stiff and not dead.
I would scoop them up and put them in our Hinode Rice cloth bag.
As they are a variety of fish that would float up, I scooped only one that I like.
The rest would revive and swim away, whilst the caught ones would be slammed onto the ground until the bag stopped moving--better than a prolonged suffocation and or fried alive, which is the method since they are too small of a bother to chop.
We call them, Manini (MAH-knee-knee) which means small in Hawaiian.
They are really good eating fish, very oil enriched--great frying fish.
Silvery body with sparse black stripes going down their flat sides.
Night trips with mom produces a catch between 12 to 18 manini's.
We also have spaghetti, beef stew, curry stew, and I am not listing any Hawaiian food as they are too great a variety.
Date: 06/15/2019
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From Cattle Monguls
a book by.
Hatcher Causguaver
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Negasunt Powder
An ornery sort,
I wondered if
my choice of horse
was a good decision or not.
It gave me the opportunity
to ask the tenderfoots about
their readiness of relief
against the infestations.
Two dogies due to illness was alarm enough
for me. Now if something due to unreadiness
wouldhave us seen as unfit countrymen
I wanted to be prepared.
We practiced readiness drills
and due to what was happening and what could
happen we worked smart
and stayed ready.
We bought power for open wounds if there were some
and kept cattle out of wooded areas and
nearest to the center of the grazing fields.
More good things to say than bad, neither
found us in a position that created a tense feeling of being
overwhelmed but an action to show
readiness might have us
trade our hands to different parts.
Meaning let these guys go over there and work
in a new area and let the other guys
come over here and do there thing.
Before something happens and we are
forced to be meaner then what is needed.
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Cattle rustling has evolved from historic Wild West
raids into a sophisticated, multi-million dollar underworld
The guy is said to be the guy who warner bros.
Yosemite Sam is based on.
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