Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,
Fire in his belly, a cork in his eye;
And wordlessly sleeping, a-snooze in his bed,
His words, when awakened, go straight to your head.
Alluring to look at, golden is he,
There when you need him as sure as can be;
And anxious to aid you, he doesn't think twice,
The cost of his concert, your soul is the price.
Then, tell him to go now, bid him goodbye;
Leave him to slumber, let sleeping dogs lie!
Tell him his concord you are shooing away,
The lad with the nostrum may no longer stay.
Well! time he was leaving so, show him the door!
A flagon of whiskey a-smash on the floor.
Outspoken mom to eight
Ornery little boys
Omelets for dinner
Only drank rye whiskey
Orchids, her private love~
Old letters in the hand
Of my great grandmother.
4/05/21
Pleiades O contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
(the syllable count was verified on howmanysyllables.com)
Their bridled haunt, each day may be their last; yeehaw.*
The narrow way, down mountainside, and clop of shoes.
The saddlebags dip left and right in gait and gnaw.
The spirit wind and pouring rain their hoofs refuse.
Begs me to ask, “Are horses as brave as cowboys?”
Lights’ heads bowed low to the path of perilous sight.
The kick of spurred heel, a “Giddyap,” of steel, “Go boy!”
They’re made to trek down mountainsides as stones ignite.
What’s turned ‘round the head of Roy, his slack rope in lead?
This corral dust, no it is fact, the slip and slide**
of horse-hide, ain’t no dignity of his tan breed.
No grave for him, his service blow is bonafide.
The cowboys “yip” and “holla” spittoon-chew and cussed.
Ornery snorts, flyswatter tails replay course sounds.
The clinch mountain, after hazardous ride, kicked dust
in snout of grieving herd; and buckskins stood their ground.
1/20/2021
Cowboy Poetry
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
*yeehaw - used to express delight. Here I’ve used sarcasm.
**corral dust - lies and tall tales
***clinch mountain - rye whiskey
HMS used for 12 syllable count. Site was off on 2 lines.
I went to Miami to find the beach
The beach was sandy and warm
It tasted like rye whiskey
Smooth and hard to forget
I went to New York to find a vacant bench
But there were too many bums who’d made
Them their homes
I went to church to pay for my sins
And to search for meaning; but all I
Found were bad priests
I went to China to find communism
But the streets were too busy with
Mercedes’s to cross
I went to the fridge to get milk but
It had turned; so I read Chaucer and
drank tea from a saucer
Miami is the place to be.
John was losing his mind over Mary.
For days by her house he would tarry.
But she knew him not
Giving him no thought.
Now he lives on rye whiskey and sherry.
My Grandpa used to dance and sing,
Joy to my heart he always would bring;
Just a few bars, not the whole song,
Pretty soon I’d be singing along;
“Rye whiskey, rye whiskey” you’d hear us both say,
Or “Red River Valley”, if it was a good day;
All the old westerns, when I hear them I cry,
I don’t hear them often since Grandpa died;
No one sings “Old Faithful” no more,
It’s just an old song that people ignore;
He used to say “now that was art”,
I have to agree, I know them by heart;
I catch myself humming an old melody,
And I smile, hoping he’s thinking of me;
And to prove that I know it, I burst out in song,
And maybe in heaven, he’s singing along;
“If the ocean was whiskey and I was a duck,
I’d swim to the bottom and never come up”;
My Grandpa was so special you see,
And by having his songs, he lives on through me!
There’s been a lot of speculatin’
‘Bout the cologne some cowboys wear,
And the toothpaste and the sweet mouthwash
And the way he combs his long hair!
I’s here to clear up the confusion
‘Bout these gallant ol’ equine gents—
And tell ya the gall dern ol’ stark truth,
That will make fer good cowboy sense.
Cowboy toothpaste is black gunpowder
And his mouthwash is rye whiskey—
But we’ll never know ‘bout his cologne
‘Cause getting’ close is too risky!
And if on the subject of hygiene,
He remains silent as a sphinx—
Ya better chaw ya some strong garlic
To cover up the fact he stinks!
Don’t git me wrong on my conclusion,
When some ol’ cowboy smells like rot—
‘Cause others take a bath once a month,
Whether they dern needs it or not!
You’re nineteen years old and fancy
That you’re fast as that Wild Bill—
You ride and shoot and go crazy—
Drink rye whiskey to your fill.
You bet that you’ll live forever
And never see a sick day,
Till some sense is knocked in your head
That soon won’t go far away.
That buddy you said you’d kill for
Lays dead because he was shot—
And there was nothing you could do,
But hold on to what you got.
So you grow wrinkled and wiser
And think what you need is gold—
To buy your dreams and your lovers
As days and years make you old.
But the gold comes and then it’s gone
And only your kin stand by—
As you watch them die one by one
And all you can do is cry.
So you tighten up your cinches
And delight in God’s sad plot—
Then savor those you love the more
And hold on to what you got.