Western Poems | Examples of Western Poetry

Amidst thy grassy sea, Stands a lone cottonwood tree. A man of red– His many feathers Scatter like dust– Away in the wind. Amidst thy cottonwood tree, Lies a man who once was free. A man of blue– My musket, aflush A sacred scarlet– Stricken with iron. ‘Thy brother’s blood crieth unto me.’ My blank canvas, Suspends in time– For I – I Hath begotten flames– Unto this rich plain Of gold. My...

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When your heartbeats drum their message of love. My heart soars like the birds flying above. As flashing thunder streaks across dark skies, I will come swiftly, believe not their lies. If any would stop me, my rage I’ll display. Nothing or no one will stand in my way. True love hath no captor, it must be free. Our hearts and our...

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2nd Place, but not bad !...

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He stepped down from the stagecoach kicking dust up with his boot He stood a while, he lacked a smile, his teeth gripped his cheroot His Stetson it was thick with dust, his guitar case was too He looked around this downbeat town; found no man that he knew He’d travelled to this lawless town of which he’d...

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Nickel and dimed, nickel and dimed: the neglected human center can't hold undone for gold....

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Once, they claimed to hold the torch, To light the world with truth and reason. But the West’s media empire— Was born not in truth, But in treason. From BBC’s royal scripts, To CNN’s manicured myths, From Fox’s fury-laced fables, To NBC’s polished distortions— They were trained, not to inform, But to perform For the empire's applause. Every lens tilted, Every headline coded, Every silence calculated— To shape the world In...

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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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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 Twin strokes that signal a life of pain Graven in paradoxical parts Warrior with a gentle heart In a world that met cruelty with acclaim Defeat in war cost him his head But faith he...

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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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