Western & Cowboy Poetry by Clark Crouch


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 send us an email request by clicking here.

Earlier Poems Published and Archived - The poems which previously appeared on this page have been published in three volumes of western and cowboy poetry...Where Horses Reign; Sun, Sand & Soapweed; Western Images; and Views from the Saddle...all of which are available through any local or internet bookseller. The contents of the four 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.
If a poem's title is highlighted when you pass the cursor over it, and you have Javascript enabled, some background information and notes are available by clicking on that title. A second click will close an individual note and "reload" will close all open notes.

My Hero, Earl

Earl, you're my hero,
so brave, tall and true,
a cowboy poet,
a real buckaroo.

In your cowboy boots
and your cowboy hat,
with pencil in hand,
you've got it down pat.

You're a real poet,
writin' cowboy verse,
you've proven to us
your talent's diverse.

So write right along
on this trail you've found,
turnin' out verses
on subjects profound.

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Birthday Wishes

Birthdays are much like prairie dogs,
they just keep poppin' up
and you cannot get rid of them,
they're like a friendly pup.

It ain't that they're so terrible,
or that you're gettin' old,
it's just that them there pesky things
are so damnably bold.

Prairie dogs just sit there and bark,
birthdays ain't so blatant,
they just kinda sneak up on you,
persistent and latent.

We used to poison prairie dogs,
to reclaim land from them,
but birthdays are just somethin' else,
they're things you cannot stem.

So have a good one anyhow,
enjoy 'em while you can,
and accept these birthday wishes,
'cause birthdays you can't ban.

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Waiting for Dawn

Hank stood, lookin' toward the east
wonderin', as always,
if change would come with a new dawn
and end these rainless days.

Waitin' for change was the mantra
he suffered though each day,
always wonderin' what would be
if nature had it's way.

The windmill was near pumpin' dust
and cattle's ribs were showin'
from lack of good feed and water
and their walk was slowin'.

Even ma and the kids suffered
from killin' heat and dust
but worst of all was not knowin'
whether life could adjust.

Oh, there was food in the pantry,
enough to just get by,
but unless rains came pretty soon
some stock would surely die.

Beef was just five dollars a head,
not much but some for sure,
to help us live out this dry spell
and see that we endure.

Hank held out hope for tomorrow,
quite cautiously indeed,
but doubts troubled his mind and thoughts,
would nature intercede?

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Ropin' Fool

Bill was a ropin' fool,
his ropin' was the best,
and he was much admired
throughout the great Northwest.

When it came to ropin'
he was the greatest star,
folks'd come to see him
from nearby and afar.

He'd do his ropin' tricks
and tell a tale or two,
designed to get applause,
and then he'd start anew.

His last time on the stage,
twirlin' that rope so fast
the loop began to smoke
and folks was all aghast.

The Feds showed up right then
and hauled Bill off to jail,
'cause of that smokin' hemp,
'though Bill ne'er did inhale.

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Alone on the Trail

When you ride out all by yourself,
maybe lookin' for strays,
you never know how long you'll be,
you may be gone for days.

So you become quite efficient,
in tendin' to your needs,
you've gotta eat and tend your horse
while you avoid misdeeds.

Approachin' eve'nin' you make camp...
tendin' your horse is first...
so you serve up a cup of oats
and satisfy his thirst.

Your life depends on that old horse,
to get you out 'n back,
so he gets pampered quite a bit
'fore you can hit the sack.

Then you gather chips for the fire
and lay out evenin' grub,
then spread out your canvas bedroll
beneath a sagebrush shrub.

You fry up some bacon slices,
to have there with your beans,
then as a pot of coffee boils,
you enjoy eve'nin' scenes.

It ain't truely a lonely life
because you're not alone,
the glitter of the western stars
will never be outshown,

There ain't no telephones that ring,
or cars a roarin' past,
just the quiet peace of the night,
a wonderous contrast.

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Fancy Café

We went into town a while back
to have a little fun
and have a nice meal there in town
'fore our visit was done.

We visited every bar in town
and howdied lots of girls,
then went to the Saturday dance
and did some fancy twirls.

We had one heck of a good time
and wound up our trip there
at a fancy hotel café,
real nice, I do declare.

"Do you have any fruit," I asked
of the waitress trainee.
She scratched her head and thought a bit,
"I think we do, maybe."

She came right back, "we do," she said,
"the owner likes to boast.
She says it's real nice mixed fruit,
I think she said 'compost'."

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Boyhood Dreams

It is the dream of ev'ry boy
to live out in the west,
to live the life of a cowboy,
and there to meet life's test.

Oh, it'd be so grand, they think,
to live that kind of life,
to ride and rope and be so free,
avoidin' daily strife.

To visit Indians on the range,
to camp out ev'ry night,
to see the colors of sunset,
and early morning light.

Yes, it's a dream that young lads have,
seein' the glory side
of life and livin' on the range,
of self-sufficient pride.

But the truth is a bit diff'rent,
there's heat and dust and cold
and the work is quite demandin',
unlike what we've been told.

But, boys, in spite of all that's said,
it's a grand place to live
with adventure and challenges,
demandin' all you have to give.

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Easter Eggs

It's a great mystery of life,
how eggs are laid by hares,
and only once a year at that,
way down in rabbit lairs.

It really seems quite amazin',
how rabbits do that stunt,
actin' like they was Leghorn hens
to give us eggs to hunt.

I wonder if rabbits cackle
when eggs come rollin out,
or do they just sit there amazed,
surprised, and full of doubt.

I bet their little eyes just roll
at all them colored things,
dozens of multi-colored eggs
that Easter Sunday brings.

Where I was raised so long ago,
rabbits never did that,
so no one hunted for their eggs
along the River Platte.

Rabbits have got their place, you know,
in stew is prob'ly best,
but layin' eggs is for the birds
up in their tree-top nest.

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Calamity Jane

Calamity was one of the good guys,
a friend and buddy to all,
and it was scarcely known to anyone
that she weren't a guy at all.

Underneath all them baggy clothes she wore,
she was female as could be.
Her face was tanned and weathered by the sun;
male, so far as one could see.

Calamity sorta favored Wild Bill
but he fancied another gal
and married her instead of Calamity,
regardin' Jane as just a pal.

Not much later, Wild Bill Hickock was shot
by a fame-seekin' joker,
at the Bell Union Saloon in Cheyenne,
as he sat playin' poker.

Jack McCall, the cruel killer of Wild Bill,
hid in Shurdy's butcher shop
where he was found by Calamity Jane,
his hiddin' put to a stop.

Calamity waved a cleaver at him
and held him there for a while,
he did escape, only to be recaught,
and then sent away for trial.

Didn't hurt Calamity's feelin's none
when old Jack was tried and hung
and she went on to become quite well known,
stories of her deeds still sung.

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Saddle Horns

If I was really meant to ride
then I shoulda been born
with some natural protection
against that saddle horn.

Saddle horns was meant for ropin',
and that's their only use,
otherwise they're inanimate,
waitin' to give abuse.

I swear that there's life in that horn,
although it just sits there
waitin' for the right time to act,
and you don't have a prayer.

Now ev'ry thing there is has life,
some aged shamans say,
and I reckon I believe that,
it just seems nature's way.

These saddle horns are devious,
they're live as they can be,
just sittin' there on the saddle,
and waitin' there for me.

Waitin until I get bucked up
and then come down real hard,
they pretend inanimation
until I am off guard.

So I'm done with western saddles,
it's English ones for me,
'cause they don't have no saddle horns
fixed to their saddle tree.

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Pickin' Bugs

Mama, how does your garden grow?
It grows with bugs galore,
we kill a million ev'ry day,
that task's our daily chore.

We pick a peck or more of bugs
and cast them in the crick
but each day there's a whole bunch more,
their birth rate is so quick.

We'd rather grow some food for us.
instead of growin' bugs,
but there's no time to harvest food,
we just reap garden thugs.

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Cowboy Life

If we could but see what a man could be,
we'd surely understand
the challenges faced in a life so graced
here in this western land.

These cowboys out here have no cause to fear,
each day bringing the same,
as they go their way with plenty to say,
and little chance for fame.

There's much work to do, hands here are too few,
so it's dawn until dark,
doin' all they can within the day's span,
here where life is so stark.

There are great rewards that this life affords
out here where men are free,
where they labor on dependin' on brawn,
workin' for you and me.

Tendin' the cattle, ready for battle,
but peaceable are they,
dislikin' walkin', lovin' their talkin',
livin' the western way.

They stress they are free as they ought to be.
'Though they work for the brand,
their lives are their own, they're not all alone,
here in this western land.

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Goin' to Town

I've a hankerin' to go to town
and get my whistle wet.
I've been stranded for weeks out here
and I've begun to fret.

This old line shack is mighty small,
the walls are closin' in,
ain't seen no one for weeks on end,
my temper's wearin' thin.

I gotta talk to someone soon,
palav'rin' is my style,
and I've been so doggone lonely,
I'd settle for a smile.

There's three months of pay in my kit,
I'm lonely as can be,
so I'm gonna ride into town
for a real spendin' spree.

I'll visit Sue a time or two
and spend some time in bars.
I'll eat some meals in Mom's Cafe
and smoke some fine cigars.

I'll be in town a week or so,
'til all my money's spent,
then I'll come back to this old shack
wonderin' where it went.

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Trailin'

When the day is done
and the herd's at rest
and first watch is on the line,
then the boys kick back
to rest for a while,
as the stars begin to shine.

When their chow is ate
and they've rolled their own
and the cards are all laid out,
they begin to play
and they fan the breeze
to speak of tomorrow's route.

When the game is done
and the fire burns low
and talk has faded away,
the bedroll's laid out
and quiet pervades,
it's the endin' of the day.

When the day is done
and all are at rest,
a great sense of peace prevails,
and the cowboy feels
as he drops to sleep,
his love for these western trails.

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The Great Buffalo

The herd plods through the Yellowstone,
lone remnants of the past,
whited out by the swirling snows,
backs to the winter's blast.

The snowy trail is ill defined,
great horned bulls lead the way,
protective of the cows and calves,
watchful for those that stray.

Grand beasts of prehistoric times,
the life of native men,
offering up their very selves
each day and then again.

'Twas not so very long ago,
their numbers beyond count,
they faced a great unending foe,
odds near beyond surmount.

The natives thanked the buffalo
for givin' up their lives,
but, as outsiders reaped the herd,
man, not beast, survives.

But somehow they are living still
within this lone retreat,
nosing through snow for sustenance,
accepting no defeat.

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In Shadows

vegetative masses
play games with sunlit skies
growing

psyche somehow enhanced
in search of verity
dreaming

brawn beyond Eden's clay
strengthened by endeavor
toiling

psyche and body one
in shadows from above
living

[Click the title for background information]

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Gettin' Educated

Hank managed to get through grade three
then quit goin' to school,
not one of the things they taught there
was a good ranchin' tool.

Any fool could sure count a herd
and tally on a stick,
with just a stick and a sharp knife,
countin' was pretty quick.

You can't rope no cows with spellin',
you gotta understand,
so a cowboy don't need to spell
to be a good ranch hand.

Readin' was a real exception,
a good thing for long nights
when snow lays deep across the hills,
the mind can take grand flights.

But hist'ry, that was somethin' else,
intriguin' 'though it was,
it was simply unrelated
to what a cowboy does.

They don't teach how to brand a cow,
or treat a calf with scours,
or to tend a horse that's foundered,
or use your daytime hours.

There ain't no class on cuttin' horns,
or vaccinatin' stock,
or harvestin' mountain oysters,
or patchin' up your sock.

So Hank just reckoned he'd cut out
and become a cowboy,
to do the work he liked the best
t'was somethin' he'd enjoy.

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Hope for Tomorrow

Beneath an up-turned fingernail moon,
a moon which promised no rain,
the rancher stood alone.

He knew that needed rain must come soon,
his entire herd felt the pain,
the land, dry as a stone.

But he'd heard before, this desert tune,
the dry winds in his domain,
their hot, dry helpless tone.

There was a promise, maybe by noon,
there could be some hint of rain,
he stood there, all alone.

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Modern Complaints

Damn, you're complainin' again,
there ain't no cause for that,
you shoulda lived the life I lived
back there along the Platte.

We didn't have autombiles,
we didn't patch no tires,
our horsepower had four legs
to meet trav'lin' desires.

Our newspaper came ev'ry month,
that did seem quite enough,
and we looked forward to readin'
about all kinds a stuff.

We never did go a shoppin'
like you folks do today,
we was always self-sufficient
and made do ev'ry day.

Food didn't come in frozen bags,
or in tin cans too much,
ma canned it up in Mason jars
that she kept in the hutch.

I kept my six-gun right handy,
but never killed no one,
'twas just to scare off bigger guys
that I could not outrun.

We didn't have no home mortgage,
our house was made of sod,
and the few things that we enjoyed
all seemed like gifts from God.

There's lots more than that, I reckon,
but, boy, you understand,
you ain't got cause for no complaint
'til you've lived off the land.

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Ridin' Out

Lets go out for a ride today,
the weather is just right,
it's a wonderful day to ride,
we'll be back 'fore it's night.

Pick out your horse from the corral,
I'll saddle it for you,
whichever one you want to ride,
just any one will do.

No, not that bay, he ain't the one,
he lost a shoe today,
and the pinto's feelin' poorly,
she wouldn't last the day.

Oh, no Killer just ain't fer you,
he'd buck you off for sure,
he's just meaner than a polecat,
and you could not endure.

And, Queenie, she's about to foal
and shouldn't exercise,
we gotta protect that little colt,
not birth him by surprise.

Come to think of it, as I look,
we ain't got one for you,
you'd best just walk along the trail
and I'll ride 'side a you.

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Dawn

I have seen in the morning light,
pink clouds against the sky,
painted there by the brush of dawn,
as darkness says goodbye.

A glow reflects upon the hills,
a promise for the day,
as the sun's first rays flood the sky
and chase the night away.

Then, in all its daytime glory,
the sun comes in full view,
splashing the land with a new day
each morning, yet anew.

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Outside Mom's Cafe

"Mom's Cafe" in faded letters,
on a listless grey sign
squeaking in the gusty, dry wind,
inviting folks to dine.

The blue-plate special, sixty cents,
and coffee five cents more,
all that a hungry man could eat
just through that cafe door.

On wood benches outside the door,
men waited helplessly
waiting, for what they did not know,
their eyes, a silent plea.

Gaunt faces reflecting hunger,
life, seeming so unfair,
delaying a return to home,
to face their fam'lies there.

With few pennies in their pockets
men could but sit outside,
just waiting there for God knows what,
stripped of their manly pride.

From arid fields out to the west,
wind born dust filled the air,
dimming the light of mid-day's sun,
a grey cloud of despair.

Dust-filled clouds above boiled and rolled,
offering no relief
to dirt and heat and endless days,
to soothe them in their grief.

Yet within those eyes a spark shone,
hope, yes, for tomorrow.
Things were bound to be better then
to ease this time of woe.

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Sam's Tin Lizzy

That Model T was quite a sight
but it didn't fit in,
it backfired and scared the horses
and made a frightful din.

Sam'd bought that Lizzy in town
with a smile on his face,
he thought he'd made a real good deal
and drove it to our place.

He seemed pretty snooty to us,
braggin' about that car,
and he kept that up the whole day
like a sea-goin' tar.

Well, when night came us bunkhouse boys
came up with a good thought
to take care of the noise and fumes
made by that car Sam bought.

We just disassembled that thing
in the dark of the night
and reassembled it on the barn roof,
chucklin' at old Sam's plight.

When Sam got up the next mornin'
he was a sight to see,
his new car way up on the roof
and us laughin' with glee.

With our help, he got the car down
and he drove right away
and 'cause we'd got the best of him,
he'd nothin' more to say.

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Miracle of Dawn

Each day we see a miracle
in the pinkness of dawn,
dissolving the night time shadows
as a new day is drawn.

The hill tops are crowned with color
and the morning grows bright,
as the new day asserts itself,
to chase away the night.

Night time fears are all cast away,
drowned in the flood of light
as dawn races toward the west,
soon moving out of sight.

The miracle comes back each day,
as that new day is drawn,
dissolving the night time shadows...
the magic of the dawn.

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Poetry Index

Alone on the Trail
Birthday Wishes
Boyhood Dreams
Calamity Jane
Cowboy Life
Dawn
Easter Eggs
Fancy Café
Gettin' Educated
Goin' to Town

Great Buffalo
Hope for Tomorrow
In Shadows
Miracle of Dawn
Modern Complaints
My Hero, Earl
Outside Mom's Cafe
Pickin' Bugs
Ridin' Out
Ropin' Fool

Saddle Horns
Sam's Tin Lizzy
Trailin'
Waiting for Dawn



Copyright ©2007 by Clark Crouch.