Western Poems | Examples of Western Poetry

Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes... (plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink. She started what would immediately become a first and last generation tradition (the spouse as washer woman and scullery maid) soon after we moved here eight years ago come July 1st, 2025. I trumpet her pioneer spirit to apply elbow grease (to tackle...

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Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes... (plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink. She started what would immediately become a first and last generation tradition (the spouse as washer woman and scullery maid) soon after we moved here eight years ago come July 1st, 2025. I trumpet her pioneer spirit to apply elbow grease (to tackle...

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Wear something nice Not to fancy Check the heels On those shoes Tonight I feel like dancing This is a lovers Interlude Iwe feel in love in Ole Dell Rio Under a Strawberry Moon It ain't that complicated It's our destiny I assume She's such a sophisticated Lady Darling can I hold your Hand It's a privilege to say Your my lady I'm so proud to be your man Now and then I would Answer If only you would...

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A HONKY TONK WOMAN named ANGIE heads out to our bar every night. And those WILD HORSES with hombres show up to get drunk or to fight. Bar's sign, “RUBY TUESDAY” is red; behind, though, they did PAINT IT BLACK. Some sit down to start TUMBLIN DICE; ROLLING STONES stop by for cognac. Now, Angie and I hit it off;...

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Christian daimyo, Yukinaga Konishi Born a merchant, became Commander of the Sea Granted favour by God and man Defended faith throughout the land The youth once granted his father's name That title but promised a life of pain Graven in paradoxical parts Warrior with a gentle heart Living in a world that met cruelty with acclaim Defeat in war cost him his head But faith...

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wind-swept tumbleweed rolling through baron plains hope clings to dry roots...

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Whether the Indigenous People, robed in leathers, head dressed in feathers, who had their own sovereign nations, wanted it or not, June 2nd 1924, U.S. President Calvin Coolidge condescendingly signed the Snyder Act, a.k.a., the Indian Citizenship Act, into law, thereby conferring American citizenship on American Indians. He had it backwards, it was no more than an affront as, whether the Indigenous People wanted them or not, it was...

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Soon be a beautiful brown color For naturally brown lover....

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He rides beneath a sky of burning light, A shadow stretching wide across the plain. His boots are weathered, his hands are stiff with dust, Yet in his eyes, the calm of open land. The cactus stands vast, hard and still— Green scars that mark the path he must make. Each choice he’s made, each trail he’s had to make Leaves dried...

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The fog sits heavy on broken ground, Snow lays light where the stubble’s browned. No sun, just hush and hoofbeat slow, And breath that drifts like chimney smoke. The cows stand scattered, heads hung low, Dark shapes caught in a pale gray glow. I ride out quiet, don’t make a sound... They know this hat, this horse, this ground. A calf’s come early,...

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Dusty little towns West of the Great Divide Where great-grandchildren of cowboys On ranches still reside. Small western museums With local antiquities inside; Native American artifacts, Some horse tack for a cowboy's ride. There among the fancy Are two dresses hemmed above the knee, 20's Jazz Age fashion Worn far from the speak-easys. Caused a bit of an uproar, As they danced on the sawdust floor. Who...

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The wind knows the rider before the horse does. Long before sunup, boots scuff barnwood and the rawhide creaks with memory. A buckaroo doesn’t announce himself… he just is. A silhouette stitched into the mesa’s edge, hat pulled low not in mystery, but in reverence. Out here, to be known is not to be seen,...

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Sun down in Death Valley The memory of white branded heat Falls away so fast Dissolving in flashes of sagebrush shadows The long flat bands of sand Submerged in desert darkness, the sky A wall of impassive indigo The moon a ghost, ancient When the sun was young To walk this vast Wind pricked emptiness Is to feel the grim beauty of nature As our dust parched...

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I bought me a horse from a feller named Clyde, said, "She’s gentle and sweet, just a joy for to ride." Well, "Maybe" she was, and maybe she weren't-- the first thing she did was dump me in dirt. I saddled up hopeful, boots shiny and proud, "Maybe" just yawned and sat down on the ground. I pulled, and I pushed,...

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Out where the cottonwoods lean on the breeze, and rivers carve songs through the sage, a lone rider hums to the hush of the trees, an echo of some other age. His boots wear the dust of a thousand trails, his hat wears the weight of the sun, but his heart still believes in wide-open tales, and dreams in the key of...

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