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; and Western Images...all of which are available through any local or internet bookseller. The contents of the three volumes are listed on an
archives page on this site. Beyond that, a number of my
poems have been selected for publication on the premier website
for cowboy poetry,
CowboyPoetry.com.
Poems appear in date order with the most
recent first.
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Seein' the painting, "Waxed Jacket," by William Matthews on the web, I was reminded of a youthful ride toward home many years ago, a ride that sorta involved every one of the five human senses...hearing, seeing, tasting, smelling, and touching.
He could hear the crunch of snow
as his bronc moved along,
rhythmic sounds of the ev'nin'...
a wintry night time song.
He could see the light ahead,
glowin' on the hill's crest,
markin' his destination,
a small town in the west.
He could almost taste the food
his ma's preparin' there
as she fixes a supper
with her usual care.
The scent rises from mem'ry...
other times, other food...
and floods his thoughts as he rides,
elevatin' his mood.
But more than all of those things
would be his home so snug
and a mother's touch again...
his mother's welcome hug.
When I was in the fifth grade, a rancher loaned Spot to me in exchange for me taking care of him for a while. Spot was a real charmer and soon became quite a pet around our place. This is his story.
Old Spot was always underfoot,
taggin' us kids around,
actin' like he owned the whole place,
but not makin' a sound.
It was tough playin' hide and seek
'cause he'd give us away,
standin' there lookin' where we hid
sad 'cause he couldn't play .
Ma wouldn't have Spot in the house,
said his place was outside,
so he stayed out in heat and cold
nursin' his broken pride.
Spot's most favorite food was pancakes,
just plain without syrup,
'though he liked to nibble on grass
just like he was a pup.
If there was any threat,
Old Spot'd protect you...
his ears laid back and his teeth bared
ready to chomp and chew.
I'll always remember Old Spot
he was truly a friend
who thought he was really a dog
until the very end.
But you see, Spot was a pony,
the size of a big hound...
just a little Shetland pony,
real nice to have around.
Although I've never been one for swearing, I did learn a lot of four letter words while working with horses in the hayfields on several ranches in the Sandhills of Nebraska. Honest, it just seemed like those horses wouldn't respond to any commands unless they were illuminated by four letter words. Fortunately, those words never became part of my day-to-day vocabulary.
Some critters just don't understand
the language that I use;
they stand there dumb as I speak out,
then just do as they choose.
But I can get their attention
with shorter words, I swear…
four-letter ones do work quite well
when yelled out with a flair.
But you gotta use great caution
when hangin' 'round the house
so them choice words do not slip out
and irritate your spouse.
When he was young, an acquaintance of many years ago lived in a little western town where the only entertainment was in the pool hall next door to the general store. He often told of falling in an open grave on the way home one winter night and I've tried to capture his tale in this poem.
Earl was a young likeable boy
who did love to play pool
and got home ev'ry night by nine,
'cause that was his pa's rule.
'Though the pool hall was way down town,
he'd play 'til nearly nine
then take a shortcut to his home
so's he'd be there on time.
He'd cut across a vacant lot,
then through a graveyard too,
and always be at home by nine
so his pa wouldn't stew.
Well, on one starlit, moonless night,
young Earl was runnin' late
and fell right in an open grave
an unfortunate fate.
He struggled to get out of there
but whatever he did
he'd fall right back in that deep grave
and lose his freedom bid.
So Earl gave up and hunkered down
to wait 'til he was found,
knowin' when he did not get home
his pa would come around.
Well, there was another young boy,
who musta been late too,
'cause he came tumblin' in that grave,
fell in with much ado.
He didn't see Earl huddled there,
as he crouched down to jump.
Earl reached out and tugged on his coat,
"You'll never make it, chump!"
But he did! He leaped up and out
leavin' that devil's hole
and is prob'ly still runnin' fast
to save his frightened soul.
This poem was written in response to an ArtSpur on cowboypoetry.com featuring Pat Richardson's drawing of Sammy, a mule. It reminded me of how scarce mules were out in the ranch country where I lived. Cowboys of that time (and western heroes of modern days, with the exception of Festus in the Gunsmoke series) disparaged those worthy creatures. In my youth, Alice was the only mule for miles around and, as a result, seemed to think she was a horse. It's comforting to believe that, perhaps, she never really learned the truth about her lineage and the character of her father.
Alice thought that she was a horse,
her heritage she knew,
'cause her ma was a quarterhorse
with bloodlines that were true.
And, though she never knew her pa,
she thought of him each day,
knowin' he was a grand stallion,
her pa, who'd gone away.
So with pride and great energy,
Alice worked her heart out,
believing that she was a horse,
and never feelin' doubt.
Then one Spring day she met her pa
and realized, alas,
that her thoughts and dreams were untrue,
'cause he was a jackass.
A friend, on hearing this poem asked, "why in the world is a western and cowboy poet writing about the universe?" Well, when you're ridin' you have a lot of time to think and the seemingly unending expanse of the western skies offer a lot for a cowboy to think and wonder about.
Infinity, eternity:
does, in fact, time end?
Millions of light years, a pittance
none can comprehend.
Perplexing things for western minds
living here on earth,
the light from a new sun forming,
proclaiming its birth.
The hands move on creation's clock,
forever or not,
and we see ancient points of light,
stars no longer hot.
Peering up at those distant stars
is there something there
or has a universe ended,
somewhere or nowhere?
We've never tired of the vast inland sea of grass that undulates over the Sandhills of Nebraska moved by the changing winds. We've never forgotten the stories of those...both men and beasts...who were there, those who came there, and those who are now there.
The winds of evening sweep over the hills
creating waves across the grassy slopes
even as the western sun edges down,
recessing today man's eternal hopes.
The native protectors are here no more,
their lives and homes disrupted, torn apart,
yet they cling with some hope to fragile dreams,
dreams ripped away, out of their life and heart.
Wild herds, now gone, once grazed throughout these hills...
the buffalo, the antelope, the deer...
and one thinking about those grand lost ones
can not help but wonder and shed a tear.
Yet, today was a new day on these plains
and a new clan had claimed this wondrous place;
some said it was progress, others wondered,
viewing the grandness of the open space.
The promise of tomorrow remains here...
the land is clean and pure, an open range
suited to the coming of a new herd,
time now poised, waiting patiently for change.
Winds of ev'ning, constant and refreshing,
as they have always been across this land
creating waves on a waterless sea,
waves of grass on these fragile hills of sand.
[This was a December challenge poem written for the Poet's Group which meets at the Northshore Senior Center in Bothell, Washington.] I remember Pearl Harbor. I was just back from a Sunday school class held in our rural one-room school when the news came over our battery-operated radio. The message was filled with static but it was clear...our nation was at war.
Our Christmas was pre-empted
in nineteen forty one
when Pearl Harbor was attacked
by sons of Rising Sun.
It cast a spell on Christmas
and sadness then prevailed,
as our nation geared for war
our Christmas was derailed.
Twenty-two ships were destroyed
and near three thousand lives,
leaving fam'lies without sons
and many lonely wives.
Perhaps some good came of that;
material thoughts were gone
but the Christmas spirit lived
on that December dawn.
Yes, Christmas was pre-empted,
but all of that is past
and we can appreciate
Christmas again at last.
The Port of Benton, an inland port based in Richland, Washington celebrated its fiftieth anniversary in 2007. This poem was written for presentation at their anniversary celebration. You say it ain't cowboy? Hey, it's western!
The Port of Benton is fifty,
having its jubilee,
and can take pride in it's success...
dedication is the key.
It does seem strange about this port,
so far from any sea,
and it sorta makes you wonder
just how it came to be.
Pressures had built up over time
on the economy
and action was greatly needed,
no one could disagree.
Thus, 'twas some fifty years ago,
old timers do agree,
that Port of Benton was endorsed
by the community.
Success came early to the port,
and it's easy to see,
the result of dedication
to such a high degree.
Many startups have been nurtured
and businesses set free
to engage in their enterprise
'cause this port came to be.
We take pride in this port of ours,
helping our industry,
'cause it's here to give our business
an opPORTunity!
This poem was inspired by the memory of a neighboring rancher who had come from Ireland. It's dedicated to a fine Irish couple who, in recent times, lived next door to us.
One little patch of cool green grass
outside the bunkhouse door
tended by the cook alone...
what did he do it for?
Left over coffee nurtured it
and scissors kept it trim...
no puncher dared step on it
the results could be grim.
It was such a wee bit of sod,
treasured beyond its worth,
in memory of his Ireland
and good clean smell of earth.
But on one moonless prairie night
a puncher tore it out
havin', he said, a bit of fun...
that grass was gone, no doubt.
The green was gone and seen no more,
replaced by dull grey earth,
leavin no trace of Irish sod...
just dirt of little worth.
That spot of green which symbolized
life in that barren place,
that bit of old world sod,
was gone without a trace.
The Irish cook took it in stride,
but got the vengeance due;
the perpetrator disappeared
and came no more in view.
But out on a lonely hillside
an earthen mound now stands
with just a touch of Irish green
peekin' up through the sands.
Out on our ranch, nothing was wasted. Even the feet and lower legs of the chickens were stewed or fried. Although there wasn't much meat on them, they were flavorful to gnaw on and the kids regarded them as a real treat.
You make do with just what you've got
by makin' more with less,
it then becomes a way of life
and never causes stress.
Take chickens, as an example,
cooked up for our dinner;
there's extra pieces showin' up...
that's a real winner.
You might ask how that came to be,
chickens got so few parts,
it defies imagination
in culinary arts.
But Ma knew just how to do it
as she dressed out that bird
and cooked a couple extra parts
of which some haven't heard.
Right there on the dinner platter
her talent was displayed
between a drumstick and the breast
her wizardry was laid.
Two boney legs to gnaw upon
were added to the plate...
two sparsely gristled chicken feet...
the flavor was so great.
Yep, makin' do with what you got
was Ma's lesson for us
and enjoyin' life to the full
without a lot of fuss.
Old Blue was actually my dad's horse, the meanest horse I ever rode. He bucked me off more times than I care to remember. And that club tail of his? It was a wicked weapon.
Some horses are right terrible,
like a Blue that we had...
that old horse was the world's meanest,
seems he was always mad.
Sometimes he was meek as a lamb
then he'd step on yer toes
just like it was some accident
and hold that painful pose.
No sooner'n you'd get yer toes out
than he'd knock yer hat off,
then wrinkle up his lip laughin'
at yer hat in the trough.
You'd try to make up with that horse
and he'd stand there sneerin',
his lip up exposin' his teeth
ob'vusly not hearin'.
Nothin' about him was normal,
he had an outlaw mind
and could switch ends in a second
his front now his behind.
He had a wicked stubby tail,
no hair grew on that stub,
and he knew how to use it too
just like he had a club.
Get around his rear end at all
and he'd bat you fer shore,
and if you didn't move away,
he'd just bat you some more.
He was a wicked one all right,
but I miss his old pelt,
you see, you could depend on him
to show you how he felt.
A number of my previous poems have been inspired by pieces of art (ArtSpurs in the form of paintings or sculptures commissioned by CowboyPoetry.com). This latest one was inspired by "A Cowboy's Christmas Eve" by Dee Strickland Johnson which appears on the internet at http://www.cowboypoetry.com/artspur.htm.
As the western eve'nin' turned to night
and star light glistened on the snow,
a cowboy stood beside his fire
baskin' in its glow.
He stood alone on this Christmas Eve
surrounded by the memories
of his fam'ly and his friends…
standin' there at ease.
'Twas a quiet time of remembrance…
thoughts of his life and Christmas past,
anticipating tomorrow,
the trail's end at last.
The fire burned down to embers
as he thought of tomorrow's ride;
home for Christmas once again
at his fam'ly's side.
The Great Depression and a lingering drought was cause for concern in the early 1930's but as folks came together, expressing their problems and concerns, sharing modest successes, life was eased and they could go back to work with renewed hope and energy. The rock soup was a bit of rural humor…the soup was started with a rock and water in a large kettle and, as folks arrived, they'd add their food donations (primarily meat and root vegetables) to the pot. The result was an excellent soup and the rock was washed and saved until the next occasion…some rocks were said to be better than others for starting rock soup.
It was a real hard time party…
folks came from miles around
to commiserate together
'bout problems so profound.
It was during the depression
when folks had nothin' much
and the chance to get together
gave each a social crutch.
They wore the very best they had...
ladies in threadbare dress
and fellers in their ragged pants,
but their best nonetheless.
The fellers gathered 'round the keg,
where home brew called to them,
while ladies finished up a quilt
a stitchin' on the hem.
The bank closures was a topic,
that and the lingerin' drought,
with cowboys wonderin' 'bout their pay…
their lives were fulla doubt.
But as the keg level lowered
and the rock soup was served
a bita brightness entered in,
a respite much deserved.
They had talked of all their problems,
their outlook was improved,
and the journey home was pleasant,
some of their doubts removed.
'Though, it was a hard time party,
they'd found they weren't alone
and there was hope for the future
e'en though it was unknown.
My daughter-in-law challenged me to write a western poem in the style of Dr. Seuss, a poem she could read to our great granddaughter. Of course, at the time of this writing, our great granddaughter is just coming up on six months of age so I reckon it will be a while before she understands what she's hearing.
I would not, could not ride that horse
because he'd buck me off, of course.
He's tall and mean and full of guff,
I know to ride him would be rough.
Some of my friends make fun of me
because from ridin' him I flee
and never put my legs astride...
that mean old horse I will not ride.
But I will ride another bronc
that does not give my head a conk
by throwin' me onto the ground
and make me give a screamin' sound.
So I'll not ride that old cayuse,
for that mean horse I have no use.
Instead I'll find some gentle mare
and ride away without a care.
I remembered our cowdog, Barker, the other day when I saw a fellow at an intersection holding up a sign, "Will work for food!" Barker did that! He was a real cowdog, although why he was named Barker is a mystery 'cause he rarely barked when he was working. Other than working for nothing, he was a pretty smart dog.
We had a cowdog,
just smart as could be;
he was a wonder
as we all could see.
He'd herd the cattle
and move 'em around
with nary a bark
and nary a sound.
Old Barker was sharp,
no doubt about that,
he'd head for the herd
at the drop of a hat.
A wave of the hand,
or a sharp-toned call,
would set him to work
and he'd do it all.
We had no cowboys
to do all that work
'cause Barker did it
and never did shirk.
He worked for just food
and carried no sign;
his was cheap labor
done without a whine.
But Barker was shamed
'cause he had no tail;
he'd worked it right off
'long the cowdog trail.
This is sort of a "challenge poem." The local newspaper, the Tri-City Herald, asked for comments on the death penalty. It came to mind that, back in the early 1930's, my grandfather pointed out a hanging tree which, he said, hadn't been used for years. It seems it was a visual reminder for folks to think twice before stealing horses or committing some other crime. I reckon that idea has been confirmed by current studies which indicate the death penalty can be a deterrent to capital crime.
I remember a hangin' tree
which stood out on the range,
they said it was a deterrent,
a fact that didn't change.
The death penalty did assure
they'd never steal again
because they were dead to the world
after bein' done in.
Other would-be horse thieves sensed that
and had a second thought;
feeling, then, their mortality,
not wanting to be caught.
There were no endless court appeals
but justice did prevail...
sentences were executed
with little time in jail!
It sent a message for that time...
justice not always fair
and judgment quickly carried out
but crime deterred, I swear!
This poem was inspired by the stories of Cadfael, a fictional
hero created by Ellis Peters. Cadfael was a Benedictine monk, an
herbalist, and a detective in medieval England. His adventures are
related in more than twenty well-researched novels, thirteen of which
were also the basis for a TV series produced by Carlton and aired by BBC and PBS. Mairéad Reidy, a fan in England, provided an illustration to accompany this poem...you can see Cadfael in the Great American West by clicking here.
If Cadfael had lived in the west
he'd have had a great time
workin' with native remedies
to help solve western crime.
He'd have hied up his robes a bit
to keep them from the sand
and watched to avoid cactus thorns
as he traversed the land.
There's uses for so many plants
unique to western climes,
Cadfael would have enjoyed himself
exploring in those times.
He'd have learned from native shamans
about herbs of the west
and how to use those native plants
during his herbal quest.
He would have done magical things
with common western plants...
juniper and dandelion
and scores of variants.
He'd have harvested camas roots
for medicine and food
and smoked a bit of jimson weed
to elevate his mood.
Oh, yes, he'd have found a treasure
on these vast western plains,
discov'rin' herbs and solvin' crimes,
while treatin' aches and pains.
This poem from my book, Western Images was awarded an Honorable Mention (certificate and cash) at the 13th Annual Juried Poetry Reading sponsored by Allied Arts of Yakima Valley. Click here for the certificate.Goose Creek was a nearby stream in the Nebraska Sandhills. It was
a grand place for a child to fish (although the catch was usually
crappies or sunfish about four to six inches in length) and to
swim. We dammed up a section of the creek to create a swimming
hole deep enough for diving.
The creek meanders listlessly
amidst the hills of sand…
a shallow, slender thread of life
feeding the fragile land.
It brings water to our cattle
and makes the meadows green
with grasses as tall as a man
as far as can be seen.
Willow branches droop o'er the stream,
shading the water's flow,
creating quiet, cool retreats
where man is wont to go.
This little creek flows steadily
as seasons rise and wane,
grandly fulfilling its purpose,
in this prairie domain.
