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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
He was born too late to be,
What he knows he is in his soul,
And though he’s quite accomplished,
Sometimes he doesn’t feel quite whole.
He’s a lawman of sorts,
Born out of his time,
Trying to uphold basic beliefs,
As an example for others to toe the line.
And he rides an iron horse,
And though it’s not a muscled steed,
It gets him where he’s going,
Whenever there’s a need.
They say, sometimes he’s crazy,
Plumb out of his mind,
Searching, for something,
They say he’ll never find.
He rides the asphalt prairie,
Through the heat and through the cold,
Just a Concrete Cowboy,
In search of Days of Old.
He believes in rescuing maidens,
Stuck beside the road,
And he wouldn’t have it any other way,
Than to live by a Code...
“Do what’s right by every man,
And never compromise,
Be good to little children,
“Cause life is a surprise.”
Stuck between buildings,
Of metal, brick and glass,
The only time he sees green pastures,
Is when he cuts the grass.
Looking for a way out,
To a place that’s in his dreams,
Only other Cowboys,
Would ever know what he means.
When he says he’s headed someplace,
Where he’ll race the open sky,
Only other Cowboys,
Understand the reason why...
Why he rides an Iron Horse,
For all the world to see,
It’s his one last chance to go back,
To a time when he was free.
Loyal in his heart,
To those who have gone before,
He scans the horizon,
Looking for that open door.
In the company of Ghost Riders,
In the roaring of the engine and the wind,
He searches for his destiny,
Old lovers and old friends.
Galloping across the miles,
One day he’ll reach the open sky,
Many, will see him pass,
But only other Cowboys will sigh,
Because he rides an Iron Horse,
Through time reflected in the glass,
Riding towards the future,
In an effort to reach the past.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
It would have been a pretty moon,
If I’d not been alone.
It would have been shining bright,
On a heart I called my own.
But here I sit beneath a sky,
Of darkness I have made,
And think of this game I’m in,
But wish I hadn’t played.
Oh liar’s moon, I’ve been deceived,
By the brightness of your smile,
You called my name, made me believe,
You’d be here for awhile.
I’ve been a fool for your love,
Gave up my heart and home,
The sky is empty...You have gone,
I’m left no place of my own.
So, now I am a prisoner,
Of lives I thought were dreams,
The bars that surround me,
Made of your piercing beams.
I realize I am still a fool,
And though I feel so lost,
I’d throw it all into the wind,
And count you worth the cost.
Chorus:
Oh liar’s moon, you’ve won again,
I guess the joke’s on me,
You stole away my spirit,
And called it “setting me free”,
Oh liar’s moon, you’ve won again,
I guess the joke’s on me.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
The Farmer woke,
Before break of day,
And for a little rain did pray.
Then hitched his team,
And plowed the land,
Given him by the Master’s hand.
The Cowboy awoke,
And a prayer he sighed,
“Please give us rain, for the prairie is dry.”
Then in the heat,
He did rope and brand,
The cattle given him by the Master’s hand.
At night, before sleep,
The Farmer read,
The words from the Bible that God had said,
“If you’ll keep my Commandments,
In it’s season I’ll make it rain,
And you shall eat,
And your land shall fill with grain.”
The Cowboy fell asleep remembering,
A verse his Ma had read,
A promise God made and the words he said,
“Love and serve the Lord God,
And it shall come to pass,
That I shall make it rain,
And for the cattle, there shall be grass.”
So each resolved, in his own way,
To be a better man,
And follow closely the Commandments,
And there-fore save the land.
And though they never met,
They prayed for the same thing,
And watched the sky for the clouds,
And the rain that they would bring.
And though it was long in coming,
The drops fell upon the land,
And revived and refreshed these special places,
Given by the Master’s hand.
The Farmer and the Cowboy,
Each prayed for the land of which they were fond,
And through their belief, they saved the Earth,
Through the Lord’s Common Bond.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
In the heat of July,
While bringing in the hay,
He gave her a baling wire ring,
And this is what he had to say...
“Someday I’ll put a diamond,
Here on your hand.
A diamond pure and perfect,
As sure as I’m your man.
But, you know, a diamond,
It won’t ever shine,
As long or as bright,
As this love of yours and mine.”
So they saved for her diamond,
By putting little bits away,
Money for the diamond,
He would buy for her one day.
But the money for her diamond,
Fixed the tractor and bought a plow,
And in the dead of winter,
Paid the vet. bill for the cow.
The money for her diamond,
Put the water to the barn,
And paid the increased taxes,
The county levied on the farm.
The money for her diamond,
Paid the doctor in town,
And when their daughters were all grown,
It bought the wedding gowns.
It paid for the new roof,
When the big wind came through.
Then it it paid off the mortgage,
Before it was due.
The money for her diamond,
Was always well spent,
She never even asked him,
Just where the money went.
The money for her diamond,
Helped them to survive,
The money for her diamond,
Kept their hopes and dreams alive.
Today it’s been sixty-three years,
And the diamond is on her hand.
But, as usual, in her pocket,
Lies her original wedding band.
A twist of baling wire,
Bent and covered up in rust,
A symbol of the greatest of loves,
His Promise and Her Trust.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
I’ve seen a lot of tee-shirts lately,
That say “Get a Cowboy Attitude”,
But the fellows who were wearing them,
Appeared to be plain rude.
They think that being a Cowboy,
Is a swagger in your walk,
And a dip in your lip,
And a drawl when you talk.
They think it means a high dollar horse,
And a trailer with a tack,
And a forty thousand dollar pick-up,
With vanity plates on the back.
They think a seventy-five dollar shirt,
And a Stetson with a fancy band,
Are all that it takes to make,
The measure of a man.
But being a Cowboy,
Ain’t necessarily what you ride,
It’s what you believe,
It’s who you are inside.
It’s looking past the problems,
To further down the road,
It’s standing up for others,
And living by The Code.
It’s giving more than your share,
It’s doing what is right,
It’s knowing how to appreciate things,
By taste, or feel, or sight.
It’s knowing that it’s not necessary,
To be Politically Correct,
That either you do, or you don’t,
Deserve your ounce of respect.
It’s knowing the definition of Freedom,
The Responsibility that it brings,
It’s Heart and Soul and Strength and Grit,
And even more than just those things...
It’s wearing what is practical,
And even if you’re money poor,
If you really are a Cowboy,
You’re rich in Something More.
Because being a Cowboy,
Isn’t something that you learn,
It’s putting your shoulder to it,
It’s the one thing that you EARN.
So, when you see a fella’,
Wearing his “cowboy attitude”,
You can know that he’s a “wanna’ be”,
Or maybe just a dude.
As for the Real Cowboy?
Well, you’ll know him by the look in his eyes,
And he’ll be the one wearing plain clothes,
‘Cause he don’t have to advertise.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
It's quiet as he rises,
Makes his way to the kitchen,
Builds a pot of coffee,
In the dark before the morn.
Stands on the back porch,
Looks upon his Cowboy Kingdom,
And savors the perfect Stillness
As a brand new day is born.
He moves out to the corral,
To his throne upon the top rail,
Seats himself to where
He can look off towards the east.
He contemplates the North Star,
Circled by the big dipper,
Cowboy clock, keeping track
While all the world's asleep
He can see the shapes of cattle,
In the tallgrass of the pasture,
A sliver of a moon
Casting shadows on the ground.
Hears the nightbird call,
As the wind begins to stir,
And the soft talking of horses
As they begin to move around.
He'll watch the stars awhile,
Pick out the constellations,
Wonders what it's like
To ride the Milky Way.
And bear a silent witness,
To this solitary moment,
Say a thankful prayer
As the East begins to gray.
Streaks of light are moving,
Dancing bright across the sky,
He feels a little sadness
At the dimming of the stars.
There's Something holy in the darkness,
That reveals a sacred promise,
That binds us to the earth,
And reminds us who we are.
His cup of coffee finished,
He slides down from the top rail,
Feels fortunate and privileged
To be part of the dawn.
He smiles into the fading night
And walks back to the cabin,
Without a doubt he knows
This is just where he belongs.
It's the best part of the day,
Sitting in the darkness,
Knowing in your heart
That all is right.
The best part of the day,
Sitting in the darkness,
Waiting for the morning
And the light.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill and G. Casey Allen
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
If I could win I would fly,
Across the big wide open sky,
And laugh at those who didn't try,
To get published in a great big book.
Oh how I desperately long to see,
My name in a huge Anthology,
With others just as naive as me,
I can't wait to take a look.
So I'll take a moment after I rest,
To pen some lines for your contest,
And swear on my heart they are the best,
While on the stove my potatoes cook.
So as soon as you can, send the letter,
That tells me my poetry is so much better,
And I'll dance free and totally unfettered,
While you think I've taken the hook!
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2006
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
He was just a stove-up old cowboy,
Who only drank to ease the pain,
And he really didn’t need it,
Except when it was cold or gonna’ rain.
He’d spent his life bull-ridin’ ,
Until he had that wreck,
The bull threw him high, he came down hard,
And busted his legs all to heck.
He’d been my Daddy’s best friend,
Up until the day my Daddy died,
They rodeo’ed together,
At the funeral, he cried.
I’d see him every now and again,
At one or another rodeo,
He always had kind words for me,
Acted like he hated to see me go.
He gave me my first pony,
And a saddle with a dally horn,
They say he drove my Mamma to town,
The icy night that I was born.
I heard he’d talk about me,
And only had good things to say,
He never told me to my face,
But I knew that was just his way.
It came as a surprise to me,
When I heard that he was dead,
I couldn’t forget the last time I saw him,
Or the last thing he ever said...
“I wish you’d been my own son,
I’m proud to know ya’ as a man,
I wanted to say ‘I love ya’,
While I’m sober, and I can.”
Then he turned and strode off,
And his back seemed straight and strong,
I’m not real sure, but I’d have sworn
That limp of his was gone.
So, on those nights when I’m alone,
And hurt gets in my way,
I think of him and the guts it took,
To say what he had to say.
And now, when I see an old Cowboy,
A little drunk and broken down,
I stop and listen to the stories he tells,
‘Cause I know he’s been around.
And Somewhere, Jake is bull-ridin’,
Hittin’ in the eighties on every ride,
Young , and Free, and Wild again,
In that place, called The Other Side.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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Debra Coppinger Hill Poem
Johnny Clare is an example of many a young man who Cowboy'd in the truest sense of the word. He did a job. He did it well. Though he met an untimely end, his life did not go unnoticed. Continental Oil Company put up a monument to a young man who worked for them, but Larry McWhorter's words made him real. The essence of who he was is immortalized in that poem. It is more than a poem about one Cowboy...it is a poem about every Cowboy who ever rode for the Brand. It is a poem about the heart and soul of men who built our country through hard work and sacrifice. It is a poem about one man's basic belief that time may march on, but those everyday Cowboys like Johnny Clare will not be forgotten. The monument stands as a reminder of "where," but Larry McWhorter's words stand as a reminder of "why." His words, a tribute to the spirit of man and a lesson on how to live what you love.
I cried that day. Tears of joy for having shared this moment with Larry and Andrea; for having one of my heroes of Cowboy Poetry recognize me and for his gift of words to me. We have been friends since. I love and respect him and Andrea; because they are good, kind, strong people of the land with deep conviction in their faith and strong relationship with the Savior. They live each day with grace, they give that grace to others and they make all strangers friends. Proud am I that I know them. Lucky am I that I got to go to Weatherford, Texas that day.
I have learned that it's not the trail we ride, but the tracks we leave behind for others to follow that matters. Time may march on, but word and deed live on forever; as does the spirit of any person dedicated to living life to the fullest while serving their fellow man. The impression we leave is our memorial to this earthly life. Building a monument with words and telling the stories about others so they are never forgotten is our memorial
to those we love and admire. Johnny Clare, Larry McWhorter, all those men I grew up with and those I am privileged to call my friends; all living life their way by the Grace of God, all fighting the good fight and marching forward no matter the obstacles, all inspiring us to live life to its fullest. When it comes to great men of heart and spirit the memory never fades and the words of praise are endless. And that, my friends, is the greatest monument of all.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
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