The
Western and Cowboy poetry on this site was inspired by a 1940's
acquaintance with Badger Clark (then Poet Laureate of South Dakota),
my experience as a ranch hand in the Sandhills of Nebraska in the
1930's and 40's, and a more recent opportunity to meet Sherman
Alexie (a Native American poet, novelist, and screenwriter). All of
the poems on the site are copyrighted and permission is required to
reproduce or distribute them in any form. For permissions, please
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Earlier Poems Published and Archived -
The poems which previously appeared on this page have been published
in five volumes of western and cowboy poetry...Where Horses
Reign; Sun, Sand & Soapweed; Western Images;
Views from the Saddle; and Harkin' Home...all of which are available through
any local or internet bookseller. The contents of the five volumes
are listed on an archives page on
this site. Quite a number of my poems also appear on the premier
website for cowboy poetry, CowboyPoetry.com.
Poems appear in date
order with the most recent first.
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It doesn't matter whether you ride a Harley or a Horse! When a day's ride is over, it's nice just to settle down in a quiet spot where you can enjoy the stars in the western sky and hear the sounds of the night as you sip that last cup of coffee before hitting the sack.
When you're ridin', justa roamin',
when ev'nin's drawin' nigh,
and you're feelin' sorta tired
as miles go slippin' by,
you start lookin' for a camp site,
a place to spend the night.
It can be somewhat rewardin'
to be out on the range,
when you're ridin', just a roamin',
o're land that seems so strange
and when you find that place to rest
as Mother Nature's guest.
The long day's ride slips from the mind
and you prepare your camp
gloryin' in the settin' sun,
Ma Nature's day-time lamp,
then restin' as you settle down
so many miles from town.
Not that you like that city life,
it's better way out here
where prairie creatures rule the night
and there's not much to fear,
it's just another night too spend
as day comes to an end.
Several old cowboys live in a nearby senior retirement community. Accustomed to living and working alone, it's a new experience to know so many people and to be recognized by the servers in the dining room. They value that!
Servers at The Creekside
acknowledge elder fame,
greeting each resident
by calling out his name.
How can they know so much
about each person there,
and greet each one so well
in showing that they care?
Folks do appreciate
this staff's dedication
in tending each one's need
without reservation.
The elders come and go,
but servers stay the same,
always remembering
each elder person's name.
It was not at all unusual to learn that an itinerant preacher had taken up temporary quarters in the local one-room school. Henry Bell was one such Prairie Knight traveling, reminiscent of Don Quixote, from place to place delivering his message to a welcoming rural audience.
His sword was just a willow branch,
not much for folks to see;
his steed was just a mangy mule
to ride 'cross this prairie.
He was a dedicated knight
and cared a lot for us,
checkin' how us folks was doin'
without a lot of fuss.
His only guide was Biblical,
a book darned near wore out,
and nestled in the saddle bag
of this prairie devout.
He'd commandeer a one room school
to preach to rural folk,
leadin' his flock to salvation
with all the words he spoke.
It was western entertainment
of a redeemin' kind,
whenever he would visit us
his role was well-defined.
He came to save as knights of old
from dragons of the soul,
then ridin' on across the way
continued in his role.
This prairie knight was serious,
his name was Henry Bell,
with a calling, as he saw it,
to save us all from hell.
In that local retirement home live retired cowboys and others whose memory is triggered by music, tall tales, and other stimuli. It is frequently not a matter of just hearing the old and familiar, it's actually reliving, momentarily, the events of the past.
Eyes dull, unseeing;
quiet, hardly there,
list'ning to the song
from an old wheel chair.
The music stirs her
and eyes flash with life;
we are together
a man and his wife.
Our song is playing
"It Had to be You,"
we listen to it,
vowing to be true.
Whispering the words,
of so long ago,
to that love of hers,
her eyes now aglow.
But the song, their song,
ended much too soon
and the moment lost,
burst like a balloon.
The timeline shifted,
came back to today
from the distant past
Her song showed the way
As the song ended,
her eyes glazed again
but deep down inside
she still lived back then.
Old salts of the sea have interesting tales about the Songs of the Sirens - winged females luring sailors from their appointed tasks. One wonders what would happen if some Sirens made it onto the great plains and there to sing their songs to the cowboys.
The Sirens soar on feathered wings,
their voices softly call,
to lure the cowboy from his task
and lead him to his fall.
The prairie grasses move in waves
across the western land,
a visual score for Siren songs,
seducing this poor hand.
Should he succumb to plaintive tones,
should he drift from the brand?
He shook his head and spurred his horse,
he did not understand.
How could they be this far inland,
the den'zens of the sea,
here luring him to leave the herd
and fly with them, so free.
He pulled his gun, fired in the air,
to silence the Siren sounds
and, list'nin' to them fade alway,
went back upon his rounds.
Some lonely cowboys hear these calls,
but turn their heads away,
because these are lost Sea Sirens
who could lead them astray.
Most every cowboy poet eventually writes of his lost love. It began with Charles Badger Clark, the classic cowboy poet, who wrote "A Border Affair," which was first published in his book, Sun & Saddle Leather, in 1915. He read it to us on a warm, romantic summer evening in Nebraska. Incidently, the poem was set to music and recorded by Bob Daylan as "Spanish is a Lovin' Tongue."
Down in Nogales
I met a young gal,
my senorita,
at the Grand Corral.
Our language was love,
e'en though we did care,
our lives were star crossed
no words could we share.
I know she loved me
and I loved her too,
my senorita,
a love that was true.
But she did leave me
and I stood alone
wond'rin' what happened,
how I could atone.
I found her later
and held her close there,
my senorita,
how much I did care.
Then I understood,
she'd always love me,
but the problem was
that I didn't "si."
Some folks never quite reach those magnificent goals they set for themselves - they somehow get lost along the way and never manage to get things all back together.
I think that I lost part of me,
but where I do not know,
and I've been searching far and wide
for life so long ago.
What life was like in years gone by,
I may not quite recall,
few memories of yesterday
that's what I have, that's all.
Those memories of days gone by
do seem so very dim,
but thoughts of many years ago
make my life not so grim.
It seems that I've searched endlessly
for that lost part of me,
my youth so clear, my age so dim,
I'd like my mind set free.
But now I've found a won'drous friend
who helps me through each day,
a friend who always waits for me
and helps me on my way.
Is this the one, the rest of me,
that I've been searching for?
If so my search is over now
and I need search no more.
This is a real sport around the country and there are some great professional riders competing for cash and recognition. But, even knowing that, a headline in the Seattle Times caught my attention...I hadn't really realized that there are "professional" bulls.
The Professional Bull riders
are comin' into town
and that's a real excitin' thing,
a sport of some renown!
You see, I ain't that well informed,
havin' never met one...
a "professional bull" that is...
I bet he's lots of fun!
Most of them that I ever knew
was of the runty sort,
kinda run-of-the-mill critters
that could scarcely cavort.
And fer the riders of pro bulls...
that'll take some doin'
'cause the bulls are professionals
and well-worth the viewin'.
So we plan to attend the show
to see pro bulls perform
as they unload all them riders
by buckin' true-to-form.
But as to my own bull ridin'
I'll steer away from pros
and just ride amateurs
'cause I know how that goes!
This poem was featured on cowboypoetry.com during 2011 National Cowboy Poetry Week. It was inspired by a painting of J.B. Allen and his horse, Pilgrim, created by Duward Campbell.
Where has it gone, our love,
born of this prairie land
in the days of our youth
on this spot where I stand?
Wand'rin' over these hills,
where we two used to go,
I remember so well
that love of years ago.
Atop this hill we stood
to watch the sinkin' sun,
waitin' for the moonrise
with our lives scarce begun.
Barely out of childhood,
but wise beyond our years,
sittin' in the moonscape,
divorced from all life's fears.
But then you moved away,
so very long ago,
paths not to cross again,
my mood from joy to woe.
Sweet mem'ries linger still
on things that might have been,
hopin' as I stand here
that we might meet again.
The hills across the prairie look much the same, frequently leading the rider astray. Each hill, each range, looks much like any other...just hills with windswept grasses, waves on an inland sea, all without offering any sense of direction save the sun and the stars.
The prairie hills take on a life,
as native grasses dance
before eternal western winds,
across the great expanse.
The endless hills across the land,
confusingly the same,
misleading riders on the way,
pawns in some great god's game.
The sun, brought with the dawn each day,
and brilliant stars at night,
offer beacons and direction
to solve the riders' plight.
This prairie, so much like the sea,
with no direction posts,
and those who failed to read the signs
became the prairie ghosts.
This is the lead poem for my latest book, Harkin' Home. That old one-room soddy was quite a place. Twenty foot square, earthen floor, roof of rough planks covered with sod that flowered in the spring. It was warm in the winter and relatively cool in the summer, the heavy 18-inch thick walls sheltering us throughout the seasons.
Sittin' under a lonely tree,
harkin' back toward home,
Ma standin' there in the doorway
as I set out to roam.
It weren't much, that home of ours,
just a one-room sod shack
but it was warm and friendly there,
as I sit thinkin' back.
That was a real long time ago
when I was scarcely grown,
pullin' up stakes and movin' out
t'ward a life of my own.
Twelve years old and facin' the world,
ready for what might come,
or so it seemed as I set out
and waved goodbye to Mum.
To be a cowboy was my aim,
at least that's what I planned,
hirin' on where ever I could
and ridin' for the brand.
I reckon I did pretty well,
as years went passin' by,
workin for every spread around,
since I told ma goodbye.
That was some sixty years ago
and now I'm harkin' back,
thinkin' of the things that once were,
especially that home shack.
That old soddy ain't there no more,
it's crumbled plumb away,
but harkin' back, I see it still
as I left home that day.