“He’s dealing off the bottom of the deck!”
“You calling me a cheater, what the heck?
You better be quick with your gun,
Or in a flash you will be done.”
“My mistake, it’s not worth risking my neck!”
A classic wind upstaged the evening,
Vocalizing Leaves and Tremulous Aria
Branches. On accompanying fused-sand, framed
and clear, began a run of finely tuned
rivulets -- busy writing, I had not
looked, and saw, dark clouds conjugating --
nor sniffed thickening troops of air~ my
sinuses alerting, their usual swelling. Came a lantern's
flash, came a vivid slash, rumbling
likened to a heavily weighted freight-train, with frantic
mind to lighten its burdensome, brooding load.
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 brother in red–
He is dead–
And my sin hath killed him.
In shaking tears,
I run out into the sky–
Chasing his feathers.
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 love are just meant to be.
So, hold on to faith and be not dismayed,
The last card in this game has not been played.
They ceased control because we’re still young,
Meet me out back when you hear the bell rung.
I’ve bought fast horses, we’ll be on the run,
You’ll be real safe, long as I have my gun.
Nickel
and dimed, nickel
and dimed: the neglected
human center can't hold undone
for gold.
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 ask
I'd kiss you now
It neither chore or task
We feel in love
In Ole Dell Rio
Put a flower in
Her hair
She is such a sexy woman
I could watch and stare
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;
Her sweet, gentle ways stole my heart.
YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT.
But kindness cements a good start.
Too soon, it got UNDER MY THUMB!
A huge fight began, as I said.
This bar gets its share of mean thugs!
I grabbed Angie's hand, and we fled!
Christian daimyo, Yukinaga Konishi
Born a merchant, became Commander of the Sea
Granted favour by God and man
Defended faith throughout the land
A youth once given his father's name
Twin strokes that promised 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 held unto his death:
"The things on Earth are all in vain
But when they pass, God shall remain."
wind-swept tumbleweed
rolling through baron plains
hope clings to dry roots
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 American Indians who,
altho' they made no claim to own Mother Earth,
should have conferred American citizenship
on the Paleface People,
who were mere trespassers on tribal territory.
And Woody Guthrie
(1912 – 1967),
another white man,
was not referring
to Native Americans
when he wrote,
'This land is your land.'
Soon be a beautiful brown color
For naturally brown lover.
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-easy.
Caused a bit of an uproar,
As they danced on the sawdust floor.
Who were these rebel cowgirls,
These flappers from western lore?
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 pioneers did
As windows of timeless reverence
Here is abandonded the
Plushy comforts of convenience
Here, the night gives you nothing
But silence and stars
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, and I pleaded and begged,
but Maybe just blinked and then stomped on my leg.
Now me and ol' Maybe, we're thick as can be--
she naps in the shade, and she bosses on me.
Folks laugh when I ride--I don't mind much, you see--
'cause Maybe's the only girl stubborn as me.
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 a gun.
The campfires remember the names that he spoke,
the horses still answer his sigh,
and somewhere beyond where the prairie smoke broke,
the past rides eternal and high.
Specific Types of Western Poems
Definition | What is Western in Poetry?