While riding my bike down a lane
I felt an incredible pain
I was astraddle
Without my saddle
That's something I won't do again!
Categories:
saddle sore, humorous,
Form: Limerick
I won't be the first cowboy
to chase a mare without reigns,
across wide and wild oat fields,
summer heat, and pouring rains,
and no one will be the last,
for Love's pursuit never ends.
No saddle sore can throw me off,
when Beauty my soul befriends.
Every dream's worth the chase.
Don't resist the one you love,
for she shall lift you to heights
that smile on you from high above.
. for public domain
Categories:
saddle sore, beauty, horse, love, pain,
Form: Rhyme
God blast this prairie dust.
Screw the regulations.
Another forty miles on beans and hay
And I ain’t seen no injuns.
Raw edged and saddle sore
From tracking that heathen, Lo.
Still trusting Custer's luck,
Hard-ass though he be.
I’m bent on venting spleen
With damn good reason
For my righteous indignation,
Assailed as I am on all sides
By factors that torment my spirit
And bastards who bugger my gut.
But sure as Gideon called on the trumpets
My Spencer will sing.
I mean to kick ass, regardless.
Hoka hey.
Categories:
saddle sore, allegory, conflict, war,
Form: Dramatic Verse
The Cowboy bloke of yesteryear
Would work in mud and dust
He would tackle any hardship
As long as it was just
Out on the range from dawn to dusk
Rarely saddle sore
His butt was tough as leather
From calluses he wore
Had the same thing on his hands
Where red hot rope slid through
His courage part of legend
A guide for me and you
Very rarely got to town
Had a blow out when he did
Imbibing plenty rot gut
Then in the stable hid
Head out to the ranch next day
Full trust in his horse
Swear never go to town again
A short lived thought of course
They were the stuff of legend
But the same applies today
You could never live a better life
Than by the Cowboy way
Categories:
saddle sore, history,
Form: Ballad
When all the wranglin' chores was done and the sun settled in the west,
The cowboys was lollin' about the campfire savorin' much needed rest.
From early dawn they'd branded dogies and herded cantankerous steers,
Now it was time to unwind, spin some bull and toss back some beers.
Fer supper they had the usual beef, spuds and beans as hard as stones,
Now they fired up their cigars, pipes and a few fellers lit roll-yer-owns.
A guy played melancholy tunes on his harmonica to calm the antsy herd,
And in the distance the yips and snarls of pesky coyotes could be heard.
They had fed and tethered their hosses and kicked off their boots,
And leaned back on their saddles - what a band of hell-raisin' galoots!
They spun tales of wimmen, whiskey, horses, gamblin' and such,
And took turns bad-mouthin' the trail boss who they didn't like very much!
Their slurred twaddle dwindled to a close and it was time to hit the hay,
Knowing that they had to rise early and face another saddle-sore day.
Usin' their saddles fer pillers they sprawled 'neath a big yeller moon,
Snorin', groanin' and breakin' wind, each emittin' a melodious tune!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Categories:
saddle sore, humor,
Form: Rhyme
The Call of the Highlands
Oh I'd love a day out in the heather,
With a ghillie a gun and a stick,
I'd stalk 'cross the moors, crawl about on all fours
All the way from Fort William to Wick.
Oh I'd love to catch fish in the river,
Cast my line, it's no problem you see,
For the fish that I catch will find they're no match
For a quick-witted lassie like me.
Oh I'd love to go riding on horseback,
'cross the valley the glen and the moor.
I'd gallop all day o're the banks and the brae,
And come back a bit saddle sore.
Oh I think that maybe on reflection,
If it's snowy, or if the wind roars,
That I'll find me a nook, cuddle up with a book,
By a nice cosy fire - indoors!
Categories:
saddle sore, humor,
Form: Verse
final dismount, final ride
pasture waits for dappled roan
girth mark of the lonely byways
lather from the battles flown
dew eyed weary, spinal backed
stumble step'd and nostril blown...
stirrup brass with bugle hung
faded strap and leather worn
bridle twisted, crackled spur
broken packboard, blanket torn
carbine scabbard, saddle sore
salt and stain wrung round the horn...
cosmoline and splintered stock
powder burned and pointed lead
flashpan crusted, blackened sight
ramrod tamped and barrel fed
faceless names etched in the action
thunder echoed, eardrums bled...
now the rider, less the man
mustered out a thousand suns
restless eye and palsied hand
scattered mind behind the gun
drumbeat sigh and breaking heart
no true glory grasped and won...
in the world
of the world
in joy's cascade as much as grief
season turns
while seasons end
wind blows down the autumn leaf.
Categories:
saddle sore, metaphor, veterans day, war,
Form: Heroic Couplet
This is it
I give up
I throw in the towel
I draw the curtains
I pull down the shades
I close the doors shut
Finito
The end;
No more haggling
No more beseeching
No more whining
No more whimpering
I'll call it a day,
Saddle sore
I am heading home
I am out of the race -
Get me off the grid.
World-weary,
Timeworn,
I am done.
Flat-lined
I am pulling the plugs;
I ran the gauntlet
Kaput
Stop the earth
I am getting off -
Sayonara!
I am just circling the drain -
Get me off this hamster wheel,
I am at the end of my tether,
I have just about seen
the last of the sunsets,
No more sunrises for me,
I am sitting fallow,
I am at the end of my rope
I am teetering on the precipice
I am hanging by the skin of my teeth
I am dying on the vine
I am ready to kick the bucket -
Uh...can someone
bring me a bucket please!
Categories:
saddle sore, angst, fear, loss, me,
Form: Free verse
I help herd the cattle to market far away.
I am riding high in the saddle each day.
I travel many miles, and then some more.
That makes me quite tired and saddle sore.
The sun bakes me until I’m red and dry.
The ordeal is enough to make a lesser man cry.
Each trip is dry, dusty, and dirty.
It’s a difficult job, but it’s my duty.
Categories:
saddle sore, adventure, cowboy-westernme,
Form: Rhyme
I taste your meek cravings;
your numbing friction of desire
you are my fiend; my devil;
my good-for-nothing share
of saddle-sore pleasure.
I let your unrighteous lips
savor my own
with shameless animation
letting your fingers
incinerate me entirely
as your name escapes
my tongue-
entangled in a moan.
your embrace propels me
again to the
bottomless hell.
please, let me sink deeper-
tasting Purgatory-
feeling Heaven.
Categories:
saddle sore, life, love, passionme,
Form: I do not know?
Embryos sing saddle-sore sonatas, beneath
the despot eaves of chromium skies, reflecting
black light down upon the harbours where
ambition claws the air and slowly dies; and
nighthawks scream a siren song of sadness, for
all the lovers lost and ripped apart, their
entrails steaming, scattered and decaying, cryogenic
memories still the beating heart.
Somewhere in a paean of pain and passion, eyes
upturned in sockets sear the night, telescope
and zoom into the heavens, ruptured
vessels crack the milky white; for
all the golden graces of the goddess, stealing
and absorbing love and soul, hoarding
with her sadist smiles of sorrow, reaps
the diamond, reimburses coal.
On the moon my blood drips sour and savage, fills
the craters and the fossil seas, scars
the surface dust like crazy paving, packs
the vacuum deserts with disease; on
the moon my blood is frozen solid, crystallising,
still as tombstone script, cold,
implacably cast as death's dominion, to
love no more, enamelled bathtub crypt.
Categories:
saddle sore, death, loss, lost love,
Form: Rhyme