1999

PAST CWBOY POETS
OF THE MONTH

 
 

DECEMBER 1999

Joe Owens
 

THE GROCERY LINE
By Joe Owens

STANDIN IN THE GROCERY LINE
THAT WEAVED BACK 40 FEET
I JUST KEPT ON REMINDED ME
A PERSON'S GOTTA EAT.

KIDS A SCREAMIN AT MY BOW
A COUPLE TO MY REAR
WE'RE FIGHTIN CAUSE HE BROKE HIS VOW,
AND BOUGHT A CASE OF BEER.

I MINDED MY OWN BUSINESS
A SMILE ON MY FACE,
BUT WISHIN I WAS ANYWHERE
EXCEPT FOR IN THIS PLACE.

I DREAMED OF GREENER PASTURES
ASTRIDE A BUCKSKIN STEED
CHASIN OUTLAWS THROUGH THE HILLS
TO STOP THEIR EVIL DEEDS.

MY HAT PULLED LOW AGAINST THE SUN
AS SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN MY BROW
I CHECKED MY COLT, AND SPURRED THE BUCK.
A PANTHER ON THE PROWL.

WE GALLOPED OVER TOP A RIDGE,
AND THERE I SAW THE MEN
WHO'D ROBBED THE BANK IN TOMBSTONE,
AND SHOT MY BROTHER DEAD.

JUSTICE WAS MY REASON
DUTY WAS MY BRAND
I FELT THE WIND ACROSS MY FACE
MY PISTOL IN MY HAND.

THE DESPERADOES WHEELED AROUND
AS GUN SMOKE FILLED THE AIR
I HOLLERED, "THIS IS FOR MY BROTHER!"............
THE GROCERY LINE JUST STARED.

I FELT A LITTLE SILLY
A STANDIN AT MY CART
MY FINGER STUCK OUT LIKE A GUN
MY FEET SPREAD WIDE APART.
 
 

THE STRANGER
ByJoe Owens

BUZZARDS MADE THEIR FINAL PASS,
AND LANDED ONE BY ONE.
UPON THE GROUND A BODY LAY
A ROTTIN IN THE SUN

WHO WAS THIS LIFELESS STRANGER?
HOW CAME HE HERE TO BE?
I PONDERED AS I GAZED UPON
THIS MAN WHO USED TO BREATH.

HIS HAT WAS FROM MONTANA
I KNEW THE STYLE WELL
HIS CHAPS, THOUGH FROM NEVADA
WHERE THEY RIDE THROUGH DESERT HELL

HE WORE A NEW PEACE MAKER
SEEMED HARDLY USED AT ALL
THE THONG STILL ON THE HAMMER
SAID HE DIDN'T EVEN DRAW.

HIS PANTS, AND SHIRT WERE STORE BOUGHT
HIS BOOTS WERE CUSTOM MADE
HIS CUFFS WERE TOP GRADE LEATHER
WITH SILVER STARS IN-LAID.

HIS MOUSTACHE TRIM, AND EVEN
HIS TEETH APPEARED QUITE STRAIGHT
I FIGURED AS I LOOKED AT HIM
"NO MORE THEN 28".

I'VE SEEN MEN DIE A MANY
IN FACT A FEW I'VE SENT
BUT STANDIN THERE A LOOKIN DOWN
A SADNESS THROUGH ME CREPT.

THIS MAN DESERVED A BURIAL
SO WENT BACK TO MY RIG
I FETCHED A SHOVEL FROM MY PACK
AND STARTED I TO DIG.

I LOWERED HIM INTO THE HOLE
AND SHOVELED DIRT INSIDE
THE TAMPED THE MOUND OF FRESH DUG EARTH
WHICH I HAD JUST APPLIED.

FROM IN THE BRUSH I FOUND SOME WOOD
AND CARVED THIS SIMPLE LINE
"HERE LIES A MAN I MET TODAY
WHO SEEMED TOO YOUNG TO DIE".
 
 

AN OLD TRUNK
By Joe Owens

WITH TREMBLIN HANDS I OPENED
MY UNCLE'S DUSTY TRUNK
AND PEERED THROUGH AGE, AND COBWEBS
TO WHAT WAS LABELED "JUNK".

A DOZEN YELLOWED COPIES
OF BLACK POWDER MAGAZINE
SOME RUSTY FENCIN PLIERS,
AND A ROLLED UP MINING SCREEN

A PAIR OF BEAT UP BEAVER TRAPS
A CAN OF HORSESHOE NAILS
A MOLDY OLD GREEN CANVAS TENT
AND A MANGY RACCOON TAIL

AS CAREFULLY I TOOK THEM OUT
WHAT DID MY EYES BEGET?
A NEATLY FOLDED PAIRS OF CHAPS
AND A COILED LARIAT.

THOUGH STIFF, AND SOMEWHAT CUMBERSOME
THAT LARIAT FELT GOOD
I SHOOK IT OUT, AND BUILT A LOOP
THE VERY BEST I COULD.

I TOOK ONE SWING, AND LET HER FLY
THE WAY MY GRANDPA TAUGHT
IT LANDED NEARLY PERFECTLY
ON THE FENCE POST I HAD SOUGHT.

THE CHAPS WERE MADE TO CUSTOM FIT
MY UNCLE'S STUBBY LEGS
SO AS I CLIPPED THE FINAL STRAP
THERE WASN'T TOO MUCH DRAG.

WITH ROPE IN HAND, AND CHAPS ON SNUG
I KNEW WAS TIME TO PLAY
SO HEADED I OUT THROUGH THE GATE
TO WHERE OUR CATTLE GRAZED.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of Joe Owens.
 
 
 
 

Jim Schwartz
 

THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN
By Jim Schwartz

There's a magic mountain on this desert that I've heard about
The cool water flows from the rocks and cold beer from a spout.
Two old desert rats told of this just a few years back.
They said"You can find the magic mountian,when it's water that you lack."
I've been on this desert for two days and my canteen is dry.
My horse is begining  to stumble ,and I fear we both might die
I came to this desert when the posse chased me here.
The bank I robbed,weren't no money in it,someone gave me a bum steer.
Oh magic mountian where are you? I need the water that you give.
I'll offer a prayer to you,only you can let me live.
My horse has stumbled and he won't get up,and I,m afoot in this inferno of a place.
I'm leaving my saddle and my rifle,I'll be going at a slower pace.
I see the magic mountian,the keeper is beckoning with his hand.
He is telling me to come ahead,he keeps pouring water in the sand.
The keepers white robes flow with the hot desert breeze.
Somehow or other he is starting to make me feel at ease.
The two old desert rats were right ,right as rain without a doubt.
On the magic mountian the cool water does flow from the rocks,and the cold beer from a spout.
 
 
 

THE DRIFTER
By Jim Schwartz
 

 Sam was a drifter,he wanted it that way.
        No job,no money no place to stay.
 He loved riding the prairie with freedom,just on his horse's back.
     The only thing extra he had was a clean shirt in his pack.
         Sam found a water hole,what a great place to drink.
            I'm lucky to find this place he started to think.
 He reached over his horse to pull a cup out of his pack,
                    He was starteld and scared,he heard a pistol hammer pulled back.
Three banditos stood with their backs to the sun.
Sam the drifter was looking down the barrel of a gun.
 "We want everything you got or we make you dead" said the
bandito with the long scar on his head.
Sam turned and ran,he dove behind a big stone.
 He hit the ground so hard,that he thought he broke a bone.
Sam pulled his six gun,but no bullets he found,
he forgot to buy some in that last dirty little town.
Sam heard a clap of thunder and saw a big puff of smoke,
out of it's midst stepped a tall cowpoke.
 The tall stanger had two six guns that blased with heat.
The three banditos made a hasty retreat.
"Where did you come from" asked Sam and " Why"?
"I'm your guardian angel" said the stranger "It ain't your day to die.
 
 

THE TRIAL COOK
By Jim Schwartz

Old "vinager" was our trail cook for fifteen years.
Always unkempt,wore dirty clothes and had big ears.
He always wore an old apron that used to be white.
A colorful character,but a culinary freight.
His biscuits were hard and his bacon was burned black,
if you didn't like his cooking he would tell you to"give it back"
His beef was tough and his beans tasted like sand,
if you didn't like it he would tell you "to try your hand"
His coffee was boiling hot ,and always strong.
It kept you awake,if you had to be with herd all night long.
Early one morning the boss told me to wake up the cook.
I went to the chuck wagon to take a look.
Old "vinager" was lying under the wagon on the ground.
I shook him and told him to get up,but his sleep was too sound.
A cowhand was sent to get the boss,when arrived this is what I said.
"Vineger ain't going to cook this morning,because I think he's dead"
We buried old "vinager" on the prairie that morning under an old wooden cross.
"Were going to need someone who can cook" said the boss.
Not a hand was raised,If I'm going to cook I don't want to be cussed,
I want to be praised..
As near as we can figure,Vineger's" soul went stright to Hell.
He's probadly cooking for the devil now and ringing the dinner bell.

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of Jim Schwartz.

October 1999

Diane Thompson
 

I work in an office all week and love to spend my weekends riding in
New Mexico with my husband.  We have some beautiful country leased over
there, and it gives our hosres and us a great job.  One Saturday he was
on a green horse when he needed to rope something, so we traded horses.
This is what happened:

THE SURVIVOR
by Diane Thompson

Yes, that nice gray mare was known to buck.
You better hold on tight when she tried her luck.
But I had ridden her at least twenty miles, you see,
So loanin' her to my husband seemed all right to me.

I said, "Let's trade saddles, my stirrups aren't long enough."
He said, "It won't matter to me," and he sounded kinda tough.
"I just have one sick one out there to rope.
I probably won't even get her into a lope."

The medicine bag, it was full of needles and drugs,
Was laced to the back cinch, though not very snug.
I watched him cross a creek that wasn't too deep,
And then hurry up the bank in a place pretty steep.

Just as that mare topped up on the rise
The hobble strap broke - now that was a surprise!
With the medicine bag bouncing and the back cinch in her flank,
That mare started to buck like a bronc of NFR rank.

He looked in good shape, I thought he would ride.
But when he blew that short stirrup, he had to swallow his pride.
The dogs seemed to think it was an exciting new game.
Lookin' like buckin' horse of the year, that mare wasn't thinkin'
the same.

She bucked him off good and muddied his shirt.
I hurried over to make sure he wasn't hurt.
The mare and two pups left in a really fast race
While his good dog, Jean, stayed and licked him in the face.

Well, when we quit laughin', and we knew he wasn't dead,
I read him this poem, and this is what he said:
"Poems are only written abot wrecks and bad rides,
I must have made some good rides, or I wouldn't have survived."

----------------------------------------------------------------------
 

        The reunion for cowboys who worked for the Matador Ranch is held each
year in Channing, Texas.  A long-standing tradition is the Terrapin
Race.  OUr young children used to look forward to the race until the day
we raced the "red-eyed" turtle.  If our son, who was three at the time,
told you about the experience, it would sound something like this:

THE GREAT TERRAPIN RACE
by Diane Thompson

Third Saturday in August came with a snail's pace,
But at last it was here, the Matador Reunion with its Terrapin Race!
You may wonder why in such a small place
People race turtles and call it a terrapin race?
Well, it's been that way forever, and things are hard to change
When everyone spends so much time out on the range.

Dad & I hunted for weeks the turtles to find,
But at last there were two, my sister's and mine.
I chose the big one, the one with red eyes.
If he didn't win, it would be a surprise.

There were three circles painted on the street.
This is where the fastest turtles would meet.
The winner would have to set the pace
And get to the outside circle to win the race.
We watched several races before our turn came,
Then our turtles were numbered and became part of the game.

In a small inner circle, the turtles were there
Under a box so the start would be fair.
With hundreds of spectators circling the track
I hoped my turtle would be the leader of the pack.

But much to my horror, when they yelled, "Ready, set, go!"
My red-eyed turtle put on quite a show.
While in such close quarters awaiting the start
He discovered another who soon won his heart.

While other turtles tried to win the race,
Old red-eye and his new love stayed in one place.
This was the first time I'd seen turtles mate.
I wanted to run, but it was too late!

Most embarrasing of all was after the race when the chairman called,
"Claim your turtles, claim your turtles all," and my sister just
        bawled.
We hid behind Mother while all but two were claimed.
Then we left them there to multiply-they weren't even ashamed.

"You did it on purpose," was all Mother would say
When Dad asked how the race went that day.
I was never really sure, but just in case
We never asked again to enter the great Terrapin Race.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
 

        I was at work not too long ago, when my husband called.  It was his
birthday, and he had spent it checking cattle.  He just wanted to tell
me that he had had a great day, and was thinking about all the things he
had to be grateful for.  I wrote down what he was saying, and later, I
put these words in his mouth:

THANK YOU
by Diane Thompson

I had another birthday just the other day.
I spent it prowling cattle, doing things my way.

I began to think of all I should be thankful for.
How lucky I am!  I couldn't ask for more.

Well, that feelin' overtook me, and I took off my hat
And gave thanks to the Lord, right there where I sat.

Thank you for this good fittin' saddle, and this nice bay mare.
Thank you for the rain freshened breeze blowin' in my hair.

Thank you for this bright, enthuastic dog
Who keeps up with my horse, even at a jog.

Thank for this grass, so lush and so green,
Why, it could be about the best I've ever seen.

Thank you for the abundant rain, so much rain in fact,
That it ran over the spillway, but left the water gaps intact.

Thank you for these yearlins, fat and restin' in the trees.
Why there's the one that makes my count, just as pretty as you please.

Thank you for that little boy and girl of mine.
They're grown and educated, and seem to be doing fine.

Thank you for blessin' my mom and my dad,
Though seein' them age makes me kinda sad.

Thank you for these pine trees that seem a little out of place.
And forever I am grateful to be saved by your grace.

Thank you cause it's my birthday, and I'm doin' what I please.
I know there is a reason I can do it with such ease.

So, last, but not least, I thank you for my wife, who has that job in
        town,
And for whatever it is she sees in me that makes her stick around.

September 1999

Brittany Cornett

A COWBOY'S LIFE
 By Brittany Cornett

I've seen them old cowboys
All torn up and lame.
It's always that one horse
He just couldn't tame.
Riding the range
Was and uneasy task.
He had to rely
On the juice in his flask.
Couldn't keep a good woman
For more than a day
He'd rest for a few
Then be on his way.
Just being a cowboy
Was always a chore
But if he told you the truth
He'd never want more.
 
 

IN THE ARENA
By Brittany Cornett

My rope's pulled tight
And my hand raised high.
I keep on reaching
For that man in the sky.
I know he'll help me
As they open the gate
He is the one
Who decides my fate.
I might get thrown
Into the ground
But this is just
The first go-round.
Six more cowboys
Left to ride.
I'm just prayin
God's on my side.
Chute gate is pulled.
He spins to the right
Come on legs
Keep holdin on tight.
The whistle is blown
I made it through eight
Now let this old cowboy
Hobble back to the gate.
 

AMERICA'S COWBOY
 By Brittany Cornett

From the mud on his hat
To the spurs on his boots.
He's pure cowboy
Standing behind the chutes.

Ain't got nothing 'gainst no one
Just a good country boy
Rodeo's his life
And trucks are his toys.

He keeps to himself
For most of the time
He may be in pain
But you won't hear him whine.

He'll keep on riding
Till the 8 second ring
And keep on cowboyin'
Till God's angels sing.

"America's Cowboy"
His headstone might say
'Cause he was a legend
In every way.

August 1999

G.T. Burton

THE COWBOY  E.M.T.
By G.T. Burton

The lady choked on something
Looked like she was almost dead
When into Bill's Cafe walked
Randy Jones and Booger Red.
Jones told Red to help the girl
''Cause he'd done it once before.
So Red walked up behind her
and pulled her jeans down to the floor.
He licked her 'cross the back side
And the lady coughed and screamed.
She coughed up what had choked her
As Red stood by and beamed.

She'd finally got her breath back
And it was a welcome sight.
But she turned around at Red
And slapped hem with all her might.
She yelled all sorts of insults,
Aimin' blows at Booger's head;
It didn't seem to matter
He walked back to Jones and said:
"It's tough to do the rescue
Cause the thanks don't seem to rhyme.
But that Hind Lick Maneuver
Will un-choke em' ever time.
 

ANOTHER AXIOM
By G.T. Burton

Randy Jones and Booger Red
Were ridin' drag one day
And contemplating scenes of life
As they rode along their way.
They talked of life's philosophy
And the role  that nature played.
Of grass 'n flowers 'n and stubborn cows,
And the way the world was made.

Booger said: "I've trailed these cows
For thirty days and more,
And I perceive a simple truth
I think you should explore.
I've made an observation;
Got it thought out to the letter.
No matter where the chips may fall
I'm sure the cows feel better."
 
 

THE ECONOMIST
By G.T. Burton

Randy Jones and Booger Red,
With a tough ol' yaller houn'.
Wuz huntin' deer out in the brakes
'Bout forty miles from town.
Almost starved, 'cause game was scarce,
They wondered what to do.
So chopped the tail off that ol' dog
And cooked it down for stew.

They ate the meat 'n drank the soup
Then tossed the dog the bone.
The grateful pooch licked Randy's hand
When everything was gone.
Then Booger looked at Jones and said,
"I'll call a spade a spade.
If you really study what we've done
It's just like Federal Aid."

Bio to be added.

July 1999

J. D. McFadden
 

WEST TEXAS
By J.D. McFadden

Way out west where the rivers are dry,
Where the sun bears down through a clear blue sky,
The dust devil dances across the plain.
Where the farmer and rancher pray for rain.
The sheep and the cattle look for shade,
Could this the land that God really made?

Where trees grow only in someone's yard,
For the crafty rattler be on your guard.
When the "blue northern" makes tumbleweeds roll,
It will chill the body down to the soul.
As quickly as it turned cold, it can get brutally hot.
Could this be the land that God forgot?

Where everything will either stick, stink or sting,
And the cicada comes to life every spring.
Wherever I wander, sojourn or roam,
I'll always call west Texas my home sweet home.
Where the sunset's beauty is something to see,
This is the land that God made for me.
 

AN OLD CEMETARY
By J.D. McFadden

On highway 71 between Llano and Brady,
Next to the road in a spot that's shady,
Is an old cemetery with its stones in a row,
With names and dates from long ago.

The stones are weathered by the rain and wind,
The names mean nothing, but yet we're kin.
A little piece of history is buried with each,
So good or bad, every life has something to teach.

Were they rancher, merchant, mother or wife?
What role did they play in the drama of life?
Most lived their lives in quiet desperation,
Mourned only by loved ones at their separation.

In a hundred years hence, when my stone is read,
By someone who walks the garden of the dead.
Will they wonder who, what, when or how?
And have the same thoughts that I have right now?
 

THE DRUG STORE COWBOY POET
By J.D. McFadden

The cowboy poet seems to be in vogue,
Reciting cowboy poems with a cowboy brogue.
>From his days on the range, he's got lots to tell,
About the life he loves and knows so well.
Oft times I'm tempted a line or two to swipe,
I'm a cowboy poet too, only I'm the drugstore type.
To the cowboy life, I'm the perfect stranger,
Maybe that's why I'm called the "Rexall Ranger."
In my cowboy boots and my ten gallon hat,
I could pass for a wrangler, but I'm a little too fat.
I live out west where the cowboys roam,
Though I love it, the range is not my home.
I don't chew tobacco, and I don't dip snuff,
I can't ride bulls cause they're a little to rough.
I tell tall tales over a strawberry malt,
And take what I say with a grain of salt.
I love the prairie, the plains and the mountain,
But I feel more at home at the soda fountain.

June 1999

Shad A. Pease
 

J.B.
By Shad A. Pease

In the lawless lands and frontier towns
many a tale is told
of the dangerous games that men will play
for the deadly gleam of gold

>From the ash of legend men will rise
whose deeds lay claim to fame
but of them all, one man stands tall
James Butler, was his name

he stood six - three, had eyes of grey
and a smile seldom touched his face
his words were backed by the navy colts
in the crimson sash at his waist

He was born in the land of Lincoln
and raised to shoulder the load
his father at the local church was a deacon
and freed slaves in the underground railroad

at eighteen years he left his home
and headed for the western range
before he died at 39
his life had seen many a change

he’d scouted for Custer, rode with Buffalo Bill
then became a man of the law
his nerves were steel, his soul was ice
and lightning quick was his draw

he had one vice...which was poker
and he’d play it most every night
with his back to the wall and one eye on the door
he seemed always prepared for a fight

then gold was discovered in the Dakotas
and Deadwood could make a man rich
our hero came to an early grave
August 2, 1876

A poker game was underway
at the hall of Nuttil and Mann
he sat himself with his back to the door
and settled himself for a hand

A hundred men would try his guns
and a hundred men would fall
but James fell prey, from 3 feet away
to a coward named Jack McCall

Now  McCall was a bum and hired say some
to shoot JB in the back
as the hammer fell on that dismal day
he was heard to shout “Damn you, take that”

Some would say James sat in that spot
with death foremost on his mind
that he’d numbered his days for a reason...
‘cuz J.B. had almost gone blind

He was killed instantly, holding two pair
and fickle is the lady of fate
for few gambling men bet the Dead Man’s Hand
comprised of Ace’s and Eight’s

In the lawless lands and frontier towns
many a tale is told
of the dangerous games that men will play
for the deadly gleam of gold

>From the ash of legend men will rise
whose deeds lay claim to fame
Yet of them all, one man stands tall
...Wild Bill Hickock was his name.
 
 
 

FIRES FROM HELL
By Shad A. Pease

Lightning gropes with sticky fingers
across a blackened sky
while the wind shrieks with wailing voice
and batters grass gone dry

Feathered friends seek fragile nests
as rodents cower and scurry
wary eyes will watch unseen
nature’s unchained fury

Thunder breaks! Its echo rolling
slowly, ominous and loud
seething madness boils above us
in the guise of bestial clouds

Callused hands, encased in leather
grasp at slickers tied behind
rapid prayers, though silent whispered
race, unfettered, through our mind

for stampedes, static and ghostly riders
are not tales or fables told
but do exist and when in motion
numbs the heart so blood runs cold

Flash of lightning! This time closer
sets to flame the tinder grass
sparks fly forth like insects gleaming
in the grip of nature’s blast

Demonic laughter, furnace blazing
cowboys gather to the right
six-guns raised in mock salute
stampede the herd into the night

Shifting winds and walls of fire
fill the heart and soul with fear
as Hell’s creation feasts with fervor
on trampled grasses drawing near

Pounding hooves and labored breathing
echo thunder’s mad refrain
as bovine, steed and fiery demon
race, unchecked, across the plain

Beast and bird are swift consumed
those, that wait too long to flee
as tidal waves of flame advance
and leave behind an ashen sea

cattle weary, weakened, fall
sacrificing life to flame
horses spurred till hearts are bursting
cowboys call their master’s name

Salvation seekers flee the tempest
searching souls before the storm
and find their faith no longer lacking
as new hope is taking form

in the moisture slowly falling
large and luscious ‘pon the ground
releasing prairie’s pained regression
causing the fires of hell to drown

The angry dragon at last subsides
and withers to a worm of red
cautious cowboys breathe their “Thanks”
and shed a tear for friends now dead

--

There are those, who will tomorrow
forget the nature of their reprieve
‘till facing flames that burn eternal
then rue the day they ceased to believe
 
 
 

PHANTOM
By Shad A. Pease

North of the Blanco river
     is a mesa flat and wide
whose walls are sheer with a deadly drop
        to a canyon on the other side

a thousand head of Texas long-horns
        pushing north along the trail
found solace in its dizzy heights
        as day began to pale

chuck was swiftly eaten
        and guard set upon the herd
as evening shadows fell
        there were few, if any words

then lightning stroked the ridges
        and the wind began to moan
the seven men who rode the night
        found a cowboy all alone

cutting mavericks from the cattle
        that he claimed should wear his brand
for they had joined the traveling herd
        as it trailed across his land

but his story fell on ears of stone
        and their justice was swift and grim
they bound him to the saddle
        and they led him to the rim

a hangman’s tree was readied
        in the manner of the range
but ‘ere the noose was planted
        the heavens wrought a change

Lightning danced upon the mesa
        and the thunder pealed in haste
the cowboy’s frightened mount leaped free
      ...and plummeted through space

the cowboy’s cry was mingled
        with his pony’s neigh of terror
then a silence gripped the mesa...
        ...a silence that raised the hair

the cowboys turned back toward the camp
        spurred their steeds to swifter flight
and roused their weary comrades
        with the deeds that passed in the night

as the tale they told unfolded
        the wind rose to a piercing cry
and lightning made its presence known
        as it arced across the sky

then suddenly...a presence
        that chilled the gathered host
and every man there saw it.....
        the blue-limned figure of
                        ...THE GHOST!

he rode amidst the cattle
        (already restless with the storm)
his hands still bound to the saddle
        ...he passed in transparent form

his presence there disturbed them
        for they knew he should not be
then his shrill cry sent them surging
        in a thunderous bovine sea

that raged across the mesa
        in a flood that knows no crest
the night guard raced to saddled ponies
        not waiting for the rest!

In a moment they were among them
        to turn them was their pledge
but they could not stem the tide
        as it plunged across the ledge

‘twas then they realized they were doomed
        by then it was too late
and a thousand Texas long-horns
        carried seven riders to their fate.

***

Legend holds that they still ride
        when dark clouds boil on high
but therein lies the story...
        of GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY

If you think the tale I’ve told is false
        think again, because you see
the date was August 23rd.
        And the man they killed.....
                        WAS ME!

May 1999

John Yaws

"TOO OLD"
By John Yaws
(written under pen name "John (Gunslinger) Buchanan"

"I'm getting too old for this", I says to Rusty-
As I drop in my saddle, and measure my rein.
"I spent my last fifty apayin' our entries-
If I don't ride this un, we're walking again".

I pull my old hat low, and nod my head sharply-
The chute gate swings open, my pony explodes-
My spurs nail his shoulders, and I find his rythmn-
This ain't the first outlaw this cowboy has rode.

He's pawin' and kickin' and raisin' a ruckus-
He's twistin' so hard, that my boots fill with dirt-
He hits on all fours, then he goes to sunfishin'-
He just ripped the back right out of my shirt.

My legs commence achin', my head's nearly bustin'
My nose starts to bleed from the jars that I take-
But I know that I've rode him, I just heard the buzzer-
An eighty point ride, makes us sure of a stake.

I load up my riggin' then head for the "office"
To pick up my check before we hit the road-
And Rusty's still talkin' bout last week in Denver-
And the "Calico" hoss, and the way I got throwed.

I'm packin' it in boys, if I make the Finals.
This is my last chance, and I'm ridin' it bold-
December in Vegas is what I am plannin'
And ten head of stock, for a shot at the Gold.

But win, lose, or draw, friend; this is my last season-
To the last rodeo my old pickup has rolled.
My body's just taken it's last season's beatin'
I'm still a good cowboy, but gettin' too old.
 

"OUTSIDE"
By John Yaws

The leather was hot as I dropped in my saddle-
My mouth cotton dry, as I measured my ren.
A fist and a thumb, in back of the pommel-
My body still achin' from yesterday's pain.

The chute boss is looking, to check if I'm ready,
The gate hand is waiting to swing the gate wide-
His eyes ask the question, as I let my bronc steady,
I pull down my hat and I holler, "Outside".

Outside of the chute is the world of my choosin'
Outside of the ranks of the nine to five crowds.
I really don't care if I'm winnin' or losin'-
Outside I will stay with the cowboy proud.

As the chute gate swings open, I drive my spurs deeply
In the points of his shoulders while marking him out.
My feet catch his rythmn as I start to spurring,
This part of my life, I know something about.

No thoughts of tomorrow, I'm facing eight seconds-
A heartbeat, a lifetime, one never can tell-
For more than one cowboy has gone to his Maker-
And died in the dust when a saddle bronc fell.

Now I hear the buzzer, the ride passed so quickly-
I make my departure, then wave to the crowd.
And limp toward the sidelines, where friends move to greet me-
An eighty two score will make any one proud.

I pack up my riggin', and load my old pickup-
Tomorrow it's Oakdale where I have to ride.
I've won me some money, but I lost my fam'ly-
Because of my longing for being Outside.

Outside of my youth, and outside of ambitions-
My life is consumed by "an eight second ride",
Outside of a chance of peace and contentment-
A victim of ego, and Cowboy pride.
 

"LEROY"S LAMENT"
By John Yaws

Ol' Leroy looked across the cab-said, "Jack, I've been a thinkin'"
I said,"Leroy, don't go talkin' that away!
It's cost doggone near as much trouble as your drinkin'
We durn shore don't need no more fines to pay!"

Said, "What I think we need to do, is find another livin'
This cowboy life ain't what it used to be-
It seems that we ain't gettin' back, e'en half of what we's givin-
And just last month we both turned forty three.

Jack, I guess that neither one of us has got a callin'
Cept breaking broncs and workin some man's cows-
The music that we love the most is hearin' cattle bawlin'
That's close to Heaven as this life allows.

I feel stove up when I roll out on these old frosty mornin's
And topping off gets harder all the time-
My belly churns to smell the stink, at brandin's and dehornin's
My cowboy skills have kinda lost their shine.

I said, "Leroy, you start doin this each time you get hung over-
We've thirty miles to drive back to the ranch.
Your mind'll change when we begin to smell the meadow clover-
You couldn't quit if you was give the chance."

Thjere ain't no other way of life, for guys like me and Leroy-
We've both the name of bein' a top hand-
Until we play our string out, somewhere up on the rimrock-
I guess we'll keep on ridin' for the brand.

April 1999

Barry C. Shrader
 

MY PONY THREW ME, NOW MY PONY'S DEAD
By Barry C. Shrader

I rode into town one day,
to get some things I lack
When I came upon this fellar, his name was Baldy Black
I had always known that Baldy,
was a real cur of a cur
The kind I just left alone,
one I had no use fer
But still I was friendly,
said to him "Good-day"
He never spoke a word,
but did nod my way
 

I noticed Baldy was walkin'
when he usually had a ride
His painted pony was missin',
so I pull along his side
I asked Baldy the question,
of where his horse might be
And the answer that he gave,
certainly startled me
He said, "I took a single bullet,
and put it in her head",
"You see, my pony threw me,
now my pony's dead".

I just turned and rode away,
for him I had no use
To me, he was the lowest coward,
just a diry cayuse
As I was ridin' and thinkin'
to the distance afar
I thought, how can we shoot horses,
for being just the way they are?
The words Baldy said to me,
was burnin' in my head,
"You see, my pony threw me,
now my pony's dead".

Me and my pony that same day
was ridin' on the range,
We were quietly ridin' along,
there was nothing that seemed strange,
When directly from behind us,
came a rumblin' sound,
It was a stampede of buffalo,
they were running hellbound
We couldn't turn to meet them,
there wasn't any time
Their numbers stretched the horizon
like a black solid line

On our left was a canyon,
with way to deep a drop
On our right a bluff,
much to steep to top
Straight ahead a buffalo drop,
that went one hundred feet below
It was an ancient place,
Indian made buffalo go
We went straight ahead,
thinkin' they'd might turn
We was runnin' out of time,
and time was our concern
There was twenty feet left,
till we'd be on the fly
When I woke up this mornin'
I hadn't plan to die

As we came neared the edge,
my pony gave a buck
He did this on purpose,
not a stroke of luck
His buck sure did throw me,
made me lose my seat I landed in a crevice,
safe from stampede feet
As I lay there in the hole,
this thought was in my head
Of how my pony threw me, ......now my pony's dead

_____________________________________________________
 

POKEY
By Barry C. Shrader
 

Pokey had been workin' this ranch
goin' on his twelvth year
None of us knew much about Pokey
or how he came to get here
We found Pokey, kinda peculiar
you know, kinda' funny in his way
He seemed kinda' offish and quiet
never had much to say

Pokey had some other funny habits
like never spendin' a dime
Then everday he'd write those letters
thats how he spent his time
Me and the boys laughed at Pokey
how he hoarded his short pay
We'd bet he had his first dollar
from his first ranch work-day

We found it odd, Pokey would turn us down
on our invite to hit town and play
He'd say, "Well boys, my short pay
is a little shorter today."
We just couldn't figure why any man
would nev'r do any relaxin'
Sittin' in the bunkhouse all alone
can get mighty taxin'

We finally came to a brillant conclusion
that Pokey was just a snob
He was too good to run with us
or maybe just hob-knob
"Well fine with us, is what we thought,
maybe it's for the better."
"Let em' stayed hole'd in the bunkhouse
and pen one more letter."

While sweepin' the bunkhouse floor
I came on a piece of writin'
One that Pokey was readin' last night
when we were summoned by thunder and lightnin'
Well, yes, I read the letter
yes, I took the liberty
And oh, how those written words
opened my eyes to see

The letter was fron an orphanage
located further in the west
It was a place dear to Pokey
one that he loved best
The letter was a thank-you
for the continued donation
It told how the weekly money
helped their overall situation

The writin' continued to thank
for each personal letter
It said each one helped a child
made their day some better
It seems like this place
was Pokey's alma-mater
All of his funny ways
became just as clear as water

We knew why writin' those letters
took up most of his day
Now we knew, what he did
with all his short pay
We didn't know what to think
particularly about one another
We'd sank low by pokin' at Pokey
couldn't sink any further
We learned nev'r to judge a man
nor books by their covers
When it's time to size a man
measure his kindess to others.

_______________________________________
 

PRAIRIE WIND
By Barry C. Shrader

Wagon wheel ruts are covered now,
by the mulch of mother earth
You cannot tell where they lead,
or where they had their birth

The goldenrod is bending down,
praying to the west
The wind here on the prairie,
never seems to rest

It's to wonder how many dreams sleep,
beneath the prairie's skin
Once a wagon train circled,
wagons lined end to end

The footprints of a settler bound,
who made the trek on foot
A forgotten coffee cup, hastily left,
covered with campfire soot

Somewhere under this blanket of gold,
lies a rag cloth doll
Dropped from a nodding child's hand,
no one saw the fall

Over there is a letter,
that wished "fare thee well"
The paper now back to earth,
and she will never tell

Lives from the past, sleeping now,
some here, some further west
Journey done, they rest in bliss,
but prairie wind will never rest

                                                            Barry

© -1999 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of Barry C. Shrader.
Contacted Barry by e-mail at: barsue@trinex.net

Chester Hupp

March 1999

BDA-ZHA-MOO
By Chester Hupp

shush boys!
quiet!
dont ya say a word!
can ya hear it!
their a comin!
the whole damn herd!!!

quick pick up yer gear n' toss em in the trees.
grab yer blankets n' yer saddles, buck! quit yer prayin n'
git up off yer knees.

i caynt tellin what direction.
dont rightly know which way ta go.
where the hells my pony ? black dust constantly a blow.

the thunders gittin louder,
twelve hundred head of beef.
if'n we dont find them mounts,
there'l be a mess o' greif!

the wind she is a changin,
you can smell it in the air.
hot n' steamy steer breath is stenchin everywhere.

the stompin sound is deafnin, i know the end is near.
them beefers is a comin boys , get the hell out of here !!!
shortys found his pony , i best ask him fer a ride.
jump up to loose my grip, fall breathless on my side.

my mouth ate dirt, its gritty.
blood runs into my eye.

when i fell i cracked my skull,
i rekon i will die.

too late fer me ta fret none, they are all upon me now.
who would think that a hoss like me, end up dyin beneath a cow.

a hoof goes through my breastbone,
such pain i gotta scream.

sit strait up in my bedroll,
boys! jist had a bad dream.

shush boys!!!!

qiuet!!!

_______________________________________________________

THE CLOSE UP
By Chester Hupp

i heard there was a brandin, round lordsburg at the double "c".
i never seen a real one, jist john wayne on tv.

a dirt road and some barbed wire, i drove fer twenty mile.
finally found that round rock ranch and had to crack a smile.

the corrals they all were empty, had i got there to late ?
someone cried "their still on round up, grab some coffee you can wait"

i seen em in the distance, you could hear em as they call.
dusty men on horse back, real cowboys one and all.

i had brought my camera, to film jist how its done.
capture man and animal, this was gonna be such fun.

the foreman rode on over and looked me up and down.
he said, "hell boy , where've ya been ?"
shocked i turned around.

there were'nt no one behind me when i turned around to look.
he grabbed my hand with a calloused paw and crushed it as he shook

"you musta pulled one hellava drunk, i see ya lost yer gear!"
was this ol' cowboy puttin me on? "
he said, "well git yerself over here!"

the corrals they were a fillin up, the brands were now red hot.
i guess im gonna get to see a little closer than i thought!

other cowboys all looked over, i known they musta seen.
that i didnt have no hang over, that i was jist plain green!

got bloodied and got crapped on, got kicked and i got burned.
the smell of smokin cattle is an awful thing ive learned.

and when it all was over, i'd pulled a muscle in my crotch.
to the foreman i went over and said,

"hey greg i jist came to watch!"

_______________________________________________________

COWPOKE
By Chester Hupp

its time to sit n' ponder, bout life out on the range.
sometime it drives a man to do, harsh n' awkward things.

eat cold viddles in the mornin cuzz the firewoods gone er' wet.
gather his posessions, saddle up n' git.

a slap against his leather chaps, an old worn out lariat.
ripped from thorns some tore up clothes, a dusty ol' slouch hat.

he's sunburned n' he's wiskered, his whits are sharp n' keen.
a drink of cloudy water from his daddy's ol' canteen.

he's second generation, cowboy through n' through.
if'n yer daddy was a cowboy, you'd best be one too!

proud to be a cowpoke, freezin through the night.
watchin flea bit doegies, till the mornin light.

it's a sight ta see a grown man, do such a silly thing.
pull out an ol' broke geetar and to cattle he will sing.

some stand n' some are layin, they slowly close their eyes.
he puts them cattle a sleepin beneath the stary skies.

his singin aint no opera, never win no talent show .
but cyotes seem to like him, on a bluff with a moon a glow.

every mornin its, "head em up , move em out onto the trail."
dust in yer eye, flies round yer head, fresh dung n' swingin tails.

now if'n ya thinks he likes this , style n' kinda life.
go n' ask him about the women n' if'n he's gotta wife.

he'll swing around ta eye ya, n' give ya a chaw stained grin.
say,"son , aint nothin finer that ta kis a lady's skin."
"but i'll tell ya somthin bout me , that ya probably dont know"
"cowboyin, it's the thing i love, i best saddle up n' go."

now they aint much fer talkin, never have n' never will.
they're too buisy thinkin, bout bein a cowboy still.

so dont ya worry bout him, he gits by the best he can.
he keeps them doeggies movin, he's the american cowboy man....

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of Chester.
Contacted Chester by e-mail at: chetchick@hotmail.com

Barbara Bockelman

January 1999
 

SAL
by Barbara Bockelman

Her name is Sal
And she's quite a gal.
She came to our place
With style and grace.

Sal is young and bold
And often hard to hold.
Her feet love to dance
Kicking up at every chance.

Sal loves to flirt
And is an expert
At kisses galore
From guys wanting more.

She tilts her head just so
And talks sweet and low.
They come trotting up fast
For romance to bloom at last.

You see, Sal is a young filly
That makes old geldings act silly.
They don't seem to realize
That all they can do is fantasize.

They touch noses with friendly Sal
And wish for action with that gal.
While in the corral stands an old fellow
Watching with memories sweet and mellow.

He remembers when he would have taught her
With firm rein and gentle touch of spur
To be a real working ranch cow horse
Ridden by a real working cowboy, of course.

"Yep, we're old fools in the way
Just hanging over the fence today
Wishing for what we used to be--
Young, strong, tough and ready."

He turns and walks to the house with head down.
Then he hears,"Honey, let's don't frown.
I love you now and have for over fity years.
We've had good times and then some tears,
But through it all, we've had each other.
True, we're not young and stout anymore,
But God has made our happiness together soar
As high as the prairie sky and way beyond."

Suddenly, the old cowboy's step is light
And he says as he squeezes her real tight,
"Hey, honey, let's rub nose and talk awhile."

THE COWTANK
by Barbara Bockelman

When we thought
Now one was around,
We girls sought
The cowtank
By the pens,
Near the road
On a Sunday afternoon.

We made certain
The coast was clear,
Then slipped off our clothes,
Taking one last look
To be sure No one was near.

Then we'd put our legs
Over the metal rim
All set for a cooling swim.
There we posed,
Grandly unclothed,
Until we slipped
Into the slobbery water
To sit upon
The rough cement bottom.

We'd splash around
Standing up to let the breeze
Cool every inch and pound.

But the biggest splash of all
Came when we heard this call:
HELLO THERE, LADIES! HOW'S THE WATER TODAY?

Air bubbles rose
While we sank
Into the slimy depths
Of that old cowtank
By the pens
Near the road
On a summer afternoon.
 
 

From ON KIOWA CREEK
by Barbara Bockelman

MISUNDERSTOOD SIGNALS
Combining a teaching job and being a ranch wife can be hazardous!

One cold and frosty morn
I was pulling on one leg
Of panty hose--new and unworn--
When I heard the back door slam.

"Hey!" my husband yelled his call.
"You'll have to pull the pickup.
The blamed thing won't start at all."
His voice echoed through the house.

I gave a sigh and a quick jerk--
A runner popped from knee to toes.
Oh, well, I just wear jeans to work
After I pull that balky pickup truck.

Now in the pickup towing game
I've had lots of experience.
Certain rules are always the same
To be counted on again and again.

The only time a pickup won't start
Is when you're running late.
It doesn't matter on your part--
It's hubby's wheels that count!

So, on that cold and frosty morn
I gathered up my teaching gear,
Hitched up my hose runnered,torn,
And hurried out to the car.

There it sat--hooked up and chained
To the pickup front bumper to rear.
Very little slack between remained
Parting the pickup and my back bumper.

"Take up the slack real slow,"
My dear husband reminded me.
"Start up real easy, then go--
And watch for my signal to stop."

"Yeah! Yeah!" I thought.
"I've done all this before.
I know exactly what I ought.
I can tell when an engine starts."

So easing forward as told,
I moved steadfastly ahead.
I felt the chain take hold
I stepped on the gas some more.

The pickup motor coughed, sputtered.
"Thank God for all small favors."
It turned over as I muttered,
"My principal won't be left guesssing."

I forgot about checking the mirror.
Instaed I stomped on the brake,
Then wished my mind had been clearer.
The car stopped--the pickup did not!

My husband seemed a visible wreck
And I knew that fact right away
When he yelled, "What in the heck--"
In muffled tones between his teeth.

Later, a senior eyed me and declared,
"I'll bet this is your beauty shop day."
This idea was unkindly shared
By everyone in the teachers' lounge.

Supper was full of marital chill
With cool, overly polite words.
We never did discuss the $350 bill
For fixing the pickup radiator.

I decided it was best not to mention
I also needed a new pair of panty hose.
I'd already attracted enough attention
By stopping when I should have kept going!

Copyright © 1999

I have lived on the same ranch in the Oklahoma Panhandle for sixty-two years and still going strong. My husband and I and other family members own the ranch and work together. I have been writing since my high school years. I returned to college when I was thirty-two to receive a language arts/education degree and then taught in the local high school for a number of years. I have performed my poetry at The National Cowboy Hall of Fame, Oklahoma City; National Cowboy Symposium, Lubbock, Texas; and other gatherings. I also do story telling and cowboy poetry for schools and organizations. My publishing credits come from farm and ranch magazines, newspapers, and my self-published works such as ON KIOWA CREEK and THE ANGEL WHO COULD NOT CARRY A TUNE.