The Notorious Clanton Gang proudly presents...

2001

PAST CWBOY POETS
OF THE MONTH

 

December 2001

Zach Martin
 

CLOWIN AROUND
     by Zach Martin

Hes not quite normal
Or average at all
He paints his face
And wears big baggy pants
But He's not a teenager
Walkin the mall
Hes a bullfighter
The Bravest cowboy of all

See, ya got your bull riders
Tougher than most
And then the bronc riders
They come close
The ropers and doggers
Gotta be strong
But, them women on horseback
Just get carried along

They may get drunk
And they may break the rules
But, hey, they're clowns
They're supposed to be fools
So when they're out
Just havin fun
Leave them be
Til the show has begun

They know their place
And stand their ground
When that big, ugly bull
Comes spinnin around
The cowboy tries hard
But gets thrown to the dirt
And the clown steps in
To assure he wont get hurt

There's no greater feelin
Than doin the deed
Of savin the life
Of a friend in need
 

8 SECOND RIDE
By Zach Martin

You pack up your gear
You gotta big check
So ya head for the show
That you entered next

You get to the show
And pay your fees
You draw a good bull
You sure are pleased

You pull out your rope
To keep a good grip
You lookin for a win
An 8 second trip

They load up your bull
Your the last one to ride
The leader scored eighty
You'll score ninety-five

You give a big nod
They pop open the gate
You get bucked off
A bull rider's fate

So you leave empty-handed
But you've still got your pride
You'll just wait around
Til the next 8 second ride
 

BRONCIASOURUS
By Zach Martin

I bet you've never heard
This tale that im bout to share
Of the biggest buckin bronc
Got the eyes of every mare

He wasn't mean at all
Just big as could be
Bronc riders feared him
But he was a sight to see

He bucked real good
Tossin cowboys left and right
Nobody could ride this horse
But they tried with all their might

Bronciasourus still lives on
I hope he doesn't die
Cuz hes just like a pet to me
Hes not frightening in my eye
 
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Zach Martin?

Here are some poems I wrote in my spare time. I'm only 14 years old, so I guess its kind of unusual to get poetry from somebody my age.

          Zach Martin
 

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of Zach Martin
 


November 2001

D.K. Thomas
 

TUMBLEWEED
By D.K. Thomas

Tumbleweed, oh tumbleweed
why do you look so down,
I would think it a wonderful life
rolling from sun up to sundown.

Without a worry one
and no bills to pay,
No where to go
or nowhere to stay.

No one will ever
breakyour heart,
And never from a love
shall you part.

But to never know
what love is like,
Or to know the taste of a kiss
you do dislike.

Tumbleweed, oh tumbleweed
why do you look so down,
I would think it a wonderful life
rolling from sun up to sundown.

Written by:
D.K. Thomas
August 6,2001©
 

 COWBOY UP
By D.K. Thomas

A cowboyís home
can be a lonely place,
Most usually a blanket and pillow
on opentruck space.

But itís the ride he loves
that keeps him there,
And the life he leads
few would choose to share.

His worries are few,
a new pair of chaps,
Or maybe
a broken spur strap.

Although his life is hard
and filled with loneliness,
Itís a ďCowboy UpĒ
kind of business.

So he does his best
everytime that gate swings wide,
And win or lose heís at his best
because he ďCowboys UpĒ with every ride.
 

Written by:
D.K. Thomas
August 6,2001©
 

COWBOY"S RIDE
By D.K. Thomas

Bustiní hard
out of chute number nine,
The bullís gone crazy
the cowboyís lost his mind.

All the gold
is on this ride,
Tonight lady luck
is standing by his side.

The crowd holds a breath
as he starts to spin,
They watch and wait
to see him win.

The bull drops hard
as he spins around,
Heís thrown the cowboy
to theground.

But before heís thrown
he hears that sound of gold,
That big olí buckle
heís got a hold.
He is the best
at what he does,
Because heís doing
what he loves.

Written by:
D.K. Thomas
May 13,2001©
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is D. K. Thomas?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission of D.K. Thomas
 


October 2001
 

Bob Wombcher Jr.
 

BACKFIRE
By Bob Wombacher, Jr.

It hadn't happened theretofore:
I failed to close my cellar door.
A civet cat, with stripe of white,
Down in my basement spent the night.
A trail of bread-crumbs 'cross the floor, Up the steps and out the door,
Past the clothesline to a thicket,
Betcha that would be the ticket.
Skunks are smart, but I can beat 'em;
Let him eat his way to freedom.
Trail is laid. I wait an hour.
Take a peek. My plan turned sour!
I'm such a fool, and what is worse,
The scheme worked great, but in reverse! I feel so stupid! Holy cow!
I've TWO skunks in my basement now!
 

WAY TO GO
By Bob Wombacher, Jr.

When I was but a tiny tot
I soloed early at the pot,
And learned that Mommy seemed to frown
On toilet seats not put back down.
And still it goes against my grain,
For reasons that I can't explain,
To have to alter the commode
Just shortly after I have goed.
For things have changed a lot since then, When gals were gals and men
were men.
If ladies want equality,
They'll put the seat back UP for me.
 

SENIOR MIRROR LATELY?
By Bob Wombacher, Jr.

Regretfully did I arrive,
Attained the age of fifty-five.
But helping counter my chagrin:
Senior-discounts kicking in.
So, armed with proof that I was born
One distant, prehistoric morn,
It's off to Burger King I go,
Full of confidence to know
That they most certainly will doubt it,
Make some kind of fuss about it.
"A senior burger, if you please,"
I tell the lad, "with extra cheese."
Carefully, I watch his eyes,
For just a hint of real surprise.
If only he'd display for me
A look of incredulity,
Challenge me and watch me chortle,
Show this punk that I'm immortal.
Why couldn't he just ask for proof?
That inconsiderate young goof!
Was it cool to vent such rage,
Or do I really show my age?

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Bob Wombacher?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved     Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission Bob Wombbacher -



 

September 2001

Matthew Hedrick

She stood up when she saw him fall, her heart skipped a beat.
The crowd grew silent as he laid still, thousands on there feet.

That old black hat, his dad gave him, lay trampled in the dirt,
And by the way he laid there on the ground, she knew that he was hurt.

He's rode at least a hundred bulls and never broke a bone.
She started thinking awful thoughts of life all alone.

She rushed down to see him with tears in her eyes and his brother by her side.
It was almost six months ago today he asked her to be his bride.

She sees his friends start to gather as the ambulance pulls in.
She wonders why this had to happen, and why he had to win.

The fear she's had since they fell in love is all coming true.
She'd lye in bed and think of him as if she already knew.

She'd ask him every day and night, please don't ride them bulls no more.
He'd just give her a kiss and a sly little wink from under that hat he wore.

She jumped in the truck and prayed out loud, but she knew
it was in vain.
The blood on his face couldn't hide the doctors look of pain.

And all of a sudden the reality began to be clear.
And all the hopes she had in life would soon disappear.

The doctor came in to tell her the news and she didn't say a word.
She saw everyone cry, but she shed no tears, as if her mind were blurred.

They buried him on Christmas Eve, on the hill next to his dad.
His rope and hat were given to her. it was all he really had.

And she took that rope and hung his hat as a reminder to us all.
That luck will run out and no matter what even the best of us fall.
 
 

It came as no surprise to her when the phone rang that night
It didn't matter it was Christmas eve, she knew there'd be a fight

He's been gone almost a month, riding bulls for the rodeo
He'll tell her every now and then, just one more round to go

There son is fast asleep now as she slowly grabs the phone
He says I'm on my way home and I'm tired of being alone

He says I know I've been gone too long, but I'll be home tonight
She says were waiting here for you, but you have to make it right

You have to promise that's the end of your life riding bulls
No more riding for change and fancy buckles with jewels

You come home tonight and life will be good, your son is waiting for you
But if you want to keep riding don't ever come home no matter what you do

He says I see and I understand and I'll see you in while
He drove as fast as he could go, except for that last mile

He stopped at a phone and stared at the wall, with his thoughts only on them
It shouldn't be this hard of a choice and he knows she's waiting for him

He makes up his mind, hangs up the phone and slowly gets in his truck
She tells his son, daddy's coming, be home soon, with any luck

It's been over an hour and still no word, the clock has just struck ten
The candles are out and the boy is asleep and she fears she will not win

She puts him in bed and stares at the door, as she slowly starts to cry
She goes to bed knowing it's over and knowing exactly why

She's sure he wanted to come home and spend his time with us here
But eventually he'll want to ride again and that is his worst fear

He doesn't make promises he knows he'll never be able to keep
If he came home now he could never leave, he'd just be in too deep

So on he drives to the next rodeo, knowing he broke her heart
One day he'll wish he could call her up and make a brand new start

On Christmas day they opened there presents and she'd be willing to bet
He opened a bottle or rode a bull, with his heart full of nothing but regret
 
 
 

She can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice
She tells him please don't do it as if he really has a choice

She begins to think he's crazy and chances are she's right
But nothings gonna stop him from following his dream tonight

He stares him in the eyes and still he has no fear
He sees the gate bust open and knows his time is near

He's waited for this moment since the first time that he rode
He nods his head softly and waits for him to explode

He holds on tight and lifts that rope with damn near all his strength
He just can't settle for second place, 8 seconds is his length

He sees him as he starts to twist and his rope begins to slide
He grits his teeth and says his prayers, for one hell of a ride

And as he hits the ground he realizes, that hand is still strapped in.
And the pain in his back is blinded by the fact he wouldn't win

He was bruised and bucked and kicked around that sad July day
She started to cry, grabbed his hand and remembered what he'd say.

I do what I do for love, for yours and for this life
They'll come a time I ride no more, but you'll always be my wife

That day has come and he found life the same way that he died
On top of a bull and leather in hand searching for the perfect ride
 
 

ll poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Matthew Hedrick?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission Matthew Hedrick-
 



 

August 2001

Tom Ringley

 DESCRETION vs. VALOR
By Tom Ringley

 I count myself among the brave, few things there are I fear.
Why, I've quelled major riots brought on by too much beer.
I've stood in front of cranky bulls, and didn't give an inch,
I've crept up on a grizzly bear and gave its butt a pinch.

Old rank horses they don't scare me, I'll step up on them with ease,
And ride them 'til they're ragged and buckin' on their knees.
I'll get in the ring with anyone and do bare knuckle stuff,
I know there's not a man alive that I would think's too tough.

I've defanged six foot rattlers with nothin' but my teeth,
And strangled great white sharks out on the barrier reef.
A million other deeds I've done, that'd make the strongest pale,
Feats so unbelievable, you'd not believe the tale.

But, fearless as I am, with a heart so bold and true,
There is one situation with which I will not screw.
It's when I'm helpin' work the cows, with a husband/wife ranch team,
And when they get to discussin' things, and their ears begin to steam.

Whether it's pickin' replacement heifers, or sortin' out the drys,
To get in those discussions, you don't even want to try.
You want to stay invisible, kind of drift along down by the fence
'Cause sometimes these decision things, they get a little tense.

Just keep a goodley distance, at the herd's edge is the place to be,
Just quietly keep the sorts apart, and pretend that you can't see,
The wild gesticulations, or hear the rising vocal tones.
Yes, maritial cow decision-makin', is best just left alone!

Tom Ringley
Copyright 1999
 

SHORTY'S LAMENT
By Tom Ringley

Well, about life, I'm not a complainer,
With most of life's quirks I can cope,
Even when things are their darkest,
I can always find reason to hope.

Life's little nuances don't phase me,
Every crisis I'm handed I'll take,
I'll accept every shortfall I'm given,
The best of any bad situation I'll make.

If my wife runs off with my buddy,
Or I back over my dog with my truck,
I'll shrug off these minor setbacks,
And know I'm having a run of bad luck.

Some things just aren't worth the worry,
Complainin' won't fix a darn thing,
I find this philosophy helps me,
"Just be hopeful 'bout tomorrow will bring.

Now to all this there's just one exception,
One thing about which I'll forever be bitter,
My legs were made much to short,
For mountin' and equine critter.

I mean, it's the bane of my life, this situation,
It causes me mental and physical grief,
Gettin' on a horse should be simple,
An act easy, and fluid, and brief.

I would kill to have lower extremities,
All lankey, and limber and strong,
So I could just step aboard any cayuse,
And not have to take so darn long.

Now I have to take too many measures,
To position myself for the mount,
The things I have to consider,
Are just more than I can count.

On a level plane I'm hopeless,
The stirrups are much too high,
Oh, how I'd like to be long-legged,
To be able to touch my foot to the sky.

Yes, I have to find a rock,
Or a rut in the road, or a stump,
Or stand on the edge of the trailer,
So into the stirrup I can jump.

If I'm out in the middle of nowhere,
And I have to get off to open a gate,
If I have to walk six miles for a mountin' place,
I guess that's the fickle finger of fate.

But, complainin' won't make my legs longer,
They're goin' to be short the rest of my life,
I guess it's just my miserable lot,
To have to cope with all this mountin' strife.

But, I hope if I'm ever recreated,
I'll be made with extra long legs,
Either that, or the great Creator,
Will make horses with built-in climbin' pegs.

Tom Ringley
Copyright 1999
 

THE SPUR ROWEL
By Tom Ringley

It'd been a good mornin'. Cool at the start,
But on toward noon was warmin' a bit.
It felt good, the sun on my back,
The pairs were trailin' easy on the well worn track.

I was amblin' along in back, just keepin' things right,
My heelers, Nip and Tuck kept the sides up tight.
Life was good.  We'd found every pair,
When I saw it in the dirt, just lyin' there.

An old piece of metal, corroded and rusty,
An antique spur rowel, well-worn and dusty.
Lost by a cowboy on some other day,
Who for whatever reason had passed this way.

Was it my daddy who came by on a head-long chase,
Or his daddy before him who started this place?
Or was it a stranger, we know not who,
Who merely passed by on his way through?

I was goin' to step off and retrieve this old treasure,
When somethin' compelled me to not take this measure.
Just let lie, somethin' told me,
It's exactly where it's supposed to be.

I left it there for future ages,
And other yet unturned history pages,
Perhaps my son will find it after I die,
And hopefully he too will wonder.  And let it lie.

Tom Ringley
Copyright 1996

Copyright 2001

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Tom Ringley?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission Tom Ringley -
 
 
 


July 2001

Eugene E. White
 

 A DESERT TRAGEDY
By Eugene E. White

    Once, in the heat of a desert sun,
    I searched about one day
    For a peaceful place with a bit of shade,
    Just to while the time away.

    But shade ain't easy to find right off
    Out on the desert floor;
    Though, finally, I did -- I found a spot
    Just like I was lookiní for.

    It was beneath a rocky overhang
    Where a lonely willow grew,
    Whose shade I shared with clumps of grass...
    And with a daisy, too.

    It was quiet there and the air was still
    And my thoughts ranged far and wide;
    There with my head propped up a bit
    And the daisy at my side.

    With eyes half closed I was nearly asleep
    When a voice began to call;
    The faintest voice I have ever heard,
    If thereíd been one at all.

    Yes! There it was! I heard it again,
    For now I was awake;
    A voice that sounded to my ear
    As though its heart would break.

    And somehow, I knew; the daisy, of course,
    And whispering even now.
    It was her tearful voice I heard
    Just inches from my brow.

    Well, needless to say, I was caught off guard
    And just a bit in shock,
    For, after all, I never knew
    A flower could even talk.

    Still, through the tears, I heard her explain
    How she was so alone,
    And the delicate beauty that was hers to share
    Was soon to go unknown.

    Except for you, the flower said,
    Iíve simply gone to waste,
    And thatís just not the kind of thing
    A flower wants to face.

    Her voice soon grew too faint to hear;
    Her time, I knew, had come;
    And by the dawn thereíd be nothing more
    Than the sand and desert sun.

    Yet to this day I still recall
    With the greatest heartfelt sigh,
    The day I met and lost a friend,
    And heard a daisy cry.
 

               TOO LONG ON THE RANGE
           By Eugene E. White

             Olí girl, I know youíre shininí up
             And, in a way, thatís good;
             But if youíve got designs on me,
             Then youíve misunderstood.

             Itís true, Iím lookiní to have some fun
             And haviní myself a time,
             But the thought of maybe gettiní hitched
             Just wasnít on my mind.

             Oh, it ainít youíre not sweet enough.
             Oh, no! In fact, I guess
             Youíre just about the slickest thing
             That ever wore a dress.

             So straighten up that lower lip;
             No need to take offense;
             Itís just that Iíve no hankeriní
             To change my residence.

             Iíve been too long out on the range
             A-ridiní with the wind
             To take to wonderiní now about
             How things just mightíve been.

             Donít ask me none to settle down,
             Iíll likely turn away.
             Though now and then, if you want me to,
             Iíll come and spend the day.
 

              HIGH IN A SUMMER SKY
            By Eugene E. White

    Oh, mountain high in a summer sky,
    What is this captive hold?
    For every year you lure me near
    And trap me in your fold.

    Can it be the whisper of your gentle pines,
    Or meadows lined with birch?
    Or the sight, perhaps, of meadowlarks
    Astride their favorite perch?

    Or the laughter, maybe, of a rushing stream
    Fed by your melting snow,
    Where yellow rose and lupine bloom,
    And gesturing poppies grow?

    Why, surely it must be all of these
    And even more, Iím sure,
    And each abides deep in my heart
    Where they will long endure.

    Yes, I have gazed upon your peaks
    That ride the ridges high,
    To take their form in silhouette
    Against a cloudless sky.

    And Iíve witnessed the flash of dancing gold
    Your finches weave in flight,
    As they dash about amongst the trees
    And filtered shafts of light.

    Iíve even slept beneath your stars
    On lilac scented trails,
    Awakening to bursts of golden rays
    And call of distant quail.

    Yes, mighty one, it must be love,
    Much like a trusted friend,
    And I can tell, when spring returns,
    Iíll be right back again.

    Oh, mountain high in a summer sky,
    So captive is your hold,
    Iím sure one day Iíll come and stay
    And never leave your fold.

Copyright 2001

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Eugene E. White?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission Eugene E. White - ewhitems@aol.com
 
 


May 2001
 

Frances Davis

MY HEROS
By Frances Davis

My heroes have always been cowboys
Just like that country song says,
But I've lived behind the lines and I've realized
There's more to a cowboy than first meets the eye.

For behind every good cowboy,
Regardless of size or age,
Is a woman with a backbone of iron
And a heartfull of caring ways.

A woman who forgives him his weakness
And shows him the good in all things.
She helps him hold the fort down
While she cooks and sews and cleans.

She may go by the title of "housewife"
But she's up every morning at dawn;
Riding or cooking or milking,
She makes sure the job gets done.

To be sure, the cowboy does his part
And his deeds are sung far and wide;
But when it comes to making decisions,
He wants his partner by his side.

Now I've always admired the cowboy
But even more the cowboy's bride
'Cause come what may she'll stand beside him
And face the world with pride.

And I know many a lady
Who fits the description I quote;
Who breaks her back from sunrise to sunset
Carin' for those she loves most.

Marian, Edna, Merry, and Beth,
Dianna, Sue, and Terry-
But the one I admire perhaps the most,
Would be the one who raised me.

She changed my diapers, changed my mind,
Taught me about manners and men;
Proved the power of perseverance,
And shown the necessity of love.
She introduced me to Jesus,
And told me to always wear my gloves.

Yes, the cowboy's bride is praiseworthy,
And my hero she'll always be.
And I hope that someday, God-willing,
I'll join them-
And some little cowgirl
Will be looking up to me.

Copyright 2001, Francie Davis
(this poem was written in the spring of 1996 for a rodeo queen contest
speech.  My mother Joan had helped me with the idea.  It was later read at my
mother's funeral two years later, following a tragic accident.  My cousin
read it for me.)
 

THE OLD HAT
By Frances Davis

The hat that hangs upon the wall
Once sat upon a head I know
His eyes were wrinkled from smiling big
And his skin well-tanned from years of heat.

He told me stories on his knees
And wildly we'd race through trees
After that ornery red-speckled steer,
Or, merely meander the hills dotted with sheep.

His brothers and he rode bareback to school
Regardless of rain, heat, or snow,
And grandma then was young and busy
Feeding seven boys and one loud husband
Who seldom hugged or laughed with his little ones.

Life was hard and time were tough
Yet somehow Daddy learned to love
And that old hat upon the wall
Silently reminds me of it all.

Copyright 2001, Francie Davis
 
 

COUNTRY GIRL
By Frances Davis

Now the baby's due round April first,
Same as Dad's heifers giving birth.
And fall came and went with weaning time
While they fought to meet the bottom line.

School and work are the priorities now
But how she smiles when she sees a cow
And remembers all the early morn's
When gathering the herd or seein' one born.

They're still in the country, yes, it's true,
But the quietness will get her blue.
While she washes dishes, she looks outside
At the fences that keep her locked inside.

This country girl's grown and married too!
And being his bride she'd never undo.
She just gets lonely as he works nights
And longs for starlight walks and daybreak rides.

Or perhaps a bum calf to give attention to
And the smell of hay, manure, and leather new-
Something outside that needs her touch
Regardless of rain, snow, sleet, or muck.

She smells the leather in her dreams
And longs for all the joys unseen
When upclose in a rancher's life-
This country girl as the city boy's wife.

Copyright 2001, Francie Davis
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Frances Davis?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

Above poems are NOT to be used in any form without the expressed permission Frances Davis - davisspecial@hotmail.com


April 2001

Dusty Grange
 

THE POCKET WATCH
     By Dusty Grange

 After ridin' night guard over the herd, I was beat, tir'd an' plumb sore
I walked in the bunkhouse where Tyrel was watchin' out the back door
Curious as all getout, I ambled over an' tool me a look
Out there was Big Jake unskinned to his long johns standin' paunch high in gook
The outhouse was tipped over, layin on it's side
"What's Big Jake doin' in the privy hole", I pried
Tyrel smiled sayin' "Ya know Big Jake's gold pocket watch with all the fancy trim;
the one his long passed on pa handed down to him,"
"Well, ol' Jake got up this mornin' and found it gone."
"He had the whole durned dice house down side up afore long"
" I finally got im' calmed so's he could set an' think"
"He figures since he used the out buildin' last night, it mighta plopped down in the stink"
For the last two hours he's been swimmin' in that slime"
"An' he's done turned his stomach plumb inside out three times"
"He's been cussin' so that it about burnt the grass for yards around"
"Why I even dunked my boots in the hoss trough so's I can keep my feet on the ground"
Well with that said, I lit a shuck for the corral quicker'n a bootless cowboy steppin' on bobbed wire
I caught up the best hoss outta my string, an' was saddlin' up as Tyrel came up sayin' "I thought ya was tir'd"
I said "I am tir'd Tyrel, But I aim to be at least a day's ride ahead"
"When ya give Big Jake This watch back an' tell im' I  borrowed it last night as it was lyin' on his bed."
 
 

SAM TIEGAN
    By Dusty Grange

I'd been riding two hours out from the line shack.
Finally I came across one of the herd, feet up in the air and dead on her back.
Appeared she'd been there for quite a spell.
Her tongue hangin' out, and belly bloated to hell.
Seemed she fell in a creed ravine and couldn't get out.
Only reason I'd noticed at all was the way her calf commenced to weakley bellar about.
As I dismounted from Red to inspect the calf,
from directly behind I heard the shuck of a Winchester accompanied by a demising laugh.
"Looks like you gotta site of bad luck. Now turn around slow and lift those hands free."
As I turned, there stood a stranger, about 190lbs. and at least six foot three.
"Do I know you?" I asked as his cold, gray eyes sized up my gun.
"Maybe," he said, "Name's Sam Teigan outta Casselton."
I knew the instant I heard what he had to say.
He had dry gulched a sheriff and killed other men down Wyoming way.
The man had me dead to rights with his back to the sun.
"I'm travelin' light and fast," he said, "And I'm takin' you'r dun.
In the blink of an eye I felt the pain as I heard the sound.
Got awfully light headed and fell to the ground.
"Man should watch his back. It's a little hard luck lesson," I heard him shout.
Then everything grew hazy and I quickly passed out.
I woke three hours later and laid real still.
Wasn't a doubt in my mind he had aimed to kill.
Sam Teigan had been in a hurry and didn't check his shot.
The bullet just grazed my skull. I finally got lucky I thought.
Got up slow and gave myself a pat.
The man took my horse. He won't get away with that.
Spent the rest of the day tracking and part of the night.
Finally came upon the clinking of metal and some firelight.
Whatever he was cooking smelled an awful good treat.
But I had other business first, so's I snuck up real quiet like through the mesquite.
He was sittin' there drinking his coffee looking into the fire, and watching the dancing flames.
I saw Red off to the side, but dared not call out his name.
I stood up across form him. "Sam Teigan," I called with intent to surprise.
When he looked back, seeing me, anger flashed in his eyes.
To see me wasn't in his plans and me he now hated.
"When you shoot a man, make sure you shoot him dead," I stated.
He drew. The man was fasted than I could ever be.
The one thing I held in my cards was the advantage belonged to me.
His bullet whined into the night after it went by.
My aim rang true, the bullet making him gutshot after richoting up off the bone of his thigh.
Dropping his gun, he sat on the ground in disbelief.
He got what he had comin', the dirty, murderin' thief.
He just sat there waiting to die.
Finally he asked me "How did you......why?"
Saddling Red I stated "Here's a little hard luck lesson, this you'll admire.
" Our places be switched cept' you'd been staring into the fire."
My luck has changed, but it's only somehow.
Tomorrow I still have to clear the ravine of that dead stupid cow.
 
 

AN OL' COWBOY LOST TO A ROSE
By Dusty Grange
 

He hadn't been bucked outta the saddle in seventeen years
Outta the chute, he'd roped and thrown all of his steers
To call him an expert at ridin' animal flesh, I can't reckon to say
But to stay on a hoofed bottle of nitro, he knew the way
It was another cold morning with the roan archin' it's back, as if by law
All the years of ridin' an' bein' spurred had left him edgy and raw
The buckin' of his horse had come to be so that it was all black and white
The roan was roped, the saddle thrown on, and the cinch was pulled tight
he was up in the saddle with a bound
The moment the horse felt him, it's hooves left the ground
Portrayin' a strange dance ritual in the mornin' sun
Ol' cowboy and the roan moved together as one
Then somethin' happened; a leather, snappin' sound
The cinch had busted, sendin' him head first to the ground
He lay there all dizzy and eyesight distorted
The horse stopped it's buckin', looked at him, and just snorted
Cowboy just laid there among all the crocus
His senses comin' back to him with his eyes startin' to focus
There in front of him was a sight to behold
One single rose; covered with dew, and shinin' like gold
It showed all it's beauty, even with it's stem buried in cow dung
The rose had grown tall, fightin' for the life that the old cow poop had brung
Cowboy could see the problem at hand
It had grown out of the dung, but underneath that was sand
He grabbed his "bowie" and began his laborin' toil
Then he planted the rose with other flowers in dark, rich soil
That made cowboy think that he was tir'd of being alone
He had a sudden yearnin' for some company and a home
The thought hit him so suddenly that it made his hat curl
He knew his problem then, what he needed was a girl
Well, ol' cowboy up an' married not many months ago
Him an' his missus live over the hill from me, not even a horshoe's throw
He still sometimes rides the roan as the fall season comes and goes
You could say now that he's just another cowboy lost to a rose
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Dusty Grange?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

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


March 2001

Jessica Bricker

WILD RIDE
    By Jessica Bricker

The stands are packed with the Sunday crowd,
The announcer's voice booms hearty and loud.
The air is filled with tension and laughter
But every cowboy knows what he's after.

Rodeo ain't fortune and fame
And it sure ain't no city boy's game.
For this rodeo is a sight to behold,
Every cowboy wanting that buckle of gold.

He grounds out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot
And with a deep breath, climbs into the chute.
He wraps the rope and pulls it tight;
A lot is staked on his ride tonight.

He knows he's riding loosed thunder,
And there's always the chance that he might go under.
But it's a mark of character, a matter of pride,
This wild and crazy rodeo ride.

Every eye in the place is fixed on him,
And the outcome looks downright grim.
For he has drawn a bull called The Knife;
He may not come out of this with his life.

And then comes that feeling, that natural high
That every cowboy gets before a ride.
He nods and pulls his hat down
And the signal is given to start the round.

The gate bangs open and dust rises from the ground
As the bull throws that cowboy around.
Under him, he feels the power and stamina
Of The Knife, that wild, bucking Brahman.

The whole spinning world is in a flurry
As he clings to that mountain of fury.
He tries to stay on, tries to stay upside
Just got to finish out that 8-second ride.

The bull leaps sideways into a spin;
It seems like this cowboy just ain't going to win.
But he hangs on with a powerful grip,
Legs encased in chaps, scarred and ripped.

And finally that 8-second buzzer sounds
He tries to get off, tries to jump to the ground.
But then the bull gives a mighty leap,
And he's down around that critter's feet.

In a split second, he knows he might die
As that bull charges at him, red in his eye.
The Knife starts pounding, and bellowing, and lashing
Just giving that cowboy a real good thrashing.

It's taken just about all that he had.
That bull was making that cowboy mad!
And to his rescue comes his pride;
Ain't no way he's going to die on this ride.

As the clowns finally distract The Knife,
That boy gets up and runs for his life!
Then the bull stops and looks around
Kickin' up dust, pawin' the ground.

His crazy gaze looks the cowboy's way,
Promising they'll meet again someday.
That boy hollers back,"You ain't so tough
'Cause where I come from, we love to ride rough!"

Well, that cowboy won the rodeo,
And even though his hat was pulled low,
And he hung on the fence the rest of the while
It still couldn't hide his victorious smile.
 
 

    OLD FASHION LOVE
    By Jessica Bricker

Her eyes swept the corrals and settled on the new man;
Noticed the way he wore his hat and his sun broned tan.
So she climbed the corral fence to the top,
Silohetted against the bold western backdrop.

After about an hour, he finally stayed upside.
He finally got the rank bronc broke, after a determined ride.
He turned the horse loose in the corral
And with a dusty forearm, wiped the sweat from his brow.

As he put his hat back on, he saw her sitting there
The rays of the sinking sun tangled in her hair.
He started to scale the fence, but couldn't resist the lure,
And he turned back around to look again at her.

He looked over at the corral gate where she sat
And he smiled at her as he tipped his hat.
She looked startled from beneath her Resistol brim
And then with a wave, she smiled back at him.

And as the light touched her smile and played in her hair
He felt his heart speed up as he stopped to stare.
And as the sun slowly sank beneath the world's rim,
She just couldn't take her eyes off of him.

And right then and there he saw it in her eyes,
And she knew that he wasn't just an ordinary guy
As a spark is exchanged when their eyes meet,
That's felt by both all the way to their feet.

It's going to last a lifetime through
'Cause with a tip of his hat, they both knew
That this is the kind that's made up Above.
It's an old fashioned, holding on, country music kind of love.
 

    DESERT NIGHT
    By Jessica Bricker

The sun is setting,
    throwing off sparklers of light.
Half the desert is in day,
    half is in the night.
The moon is on the heels
    of the dying rays of sun.
The night is here
    day is done.
Drifting across the desert
    is coyote's lonely howl.
And wandering among the cacti
    are those Texas longhorn cows.
Sweeping across the desert
    is the restless wind, so cool.
Moonbeams glide down from the skies
    bathing the land in a silver pool.
The stars are high above,
    shining clear and bright.
In this lonely place in time,
    called the desert night.
 
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Jessica Bricker?

TBA

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

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


February 2001

Jeff Hildebrandt
 

DAYDREAMS
By Jeff Hildebrandt

I'll never be what you might call a poet of the West.
I'm just another workin' stiff who tries to do his best.
I'm more a cow, than cowboy, like many now a days.
We're herded off to work and back, but long for simpler ways.
The range I ride is concrete hard; my work is just routine
but in my little cubicle my mind is free to dream.
I see sunrise on the prairie.  The grass is moist with dew.
The air has just a hint of chill as I grab a cup of brew.
Bacon sizzles on the campfire.  Biscuits cooked up golden brown.
When the cook says "Come and get it", all us cowboys gather round.
I can almost smell the leather as I saddle up my mare.
I can see the cattle movin.  I can hear the trail boss swear,
"Come on boys, time to get to work, we're burning daylight here."
And I take off a chasin' some old ornery longhorn steer.
I can feel my horse beneath me as my loop swings in the air.
My pony's hot breath blowin 'cross my face and through my hair.
When suddenly, I'm caught up short     by a ringing telephone
that brings me back to here and now where my life is not my own.
But when I need escape I head past cactus, through the streams,
to where a cowboy, rough and ready, is a-ridin' in my dreams.

Copyright 1999, Jeff Hildebrandt
 

THE FULL MOON
By Jeff Hilderbrandt

He came in from the line shack where he'd spent some time alone
without a television, a newspaper or a phone.
We told him what was hap'nin and I thought I saw a tear
as he said "I want to moon the world, and I think I'll start right here".
And, as his hands moved belt-ward, the buckle to release,
he said, " A moon's the only thing that'll give this world some peace".
Then, his thumbs wrapped round the leather, as he looked us in the eye
and said I want to moon the world and I'm gonna tell you why.
They say that unemployment's down, that people have the power,
but the list of those in need of help increases by the hour.
Bart Simpson is a hero.  Our kids can't pray in school.
"Don't get mad, get even" has become our "Golden Rule".
They're fencin' off the grassland, they're poisonin' the streams.
Free speech and self-reliance will soon be just a dream.
They starve on reservations, in Congress they bounce checks.
Instead of teaching abstinence, we're told "just have safe sex".
He said, "I did a heap a thinkin', up yonder in the woods,
and I bet if we all mooned the world, it'd do the place some good.
Just ponder, partner, on the moon, and where it gets it's light.
Why, it's reflected from the sun so we won't curse the night."
Then he opened up a Bible and a smile shown in his eyes
as he told us with excitement that he just could not disguise,
"You know, if we reflect God's Son to a sin dark human race, then
when we "moon" the whole wide world, it'll be a better place".

Jeff Hildebrandt, Copyright 1999
 

SERMON ON THE MOUNT
By Jeff Hildebrandt

The J-Bar-H boys, we all knew were really, quite an ornery crew.
They'd chew tobacco, scratch and spit and tended to carouse a bit.
They'd spend all week out on the range then Saturday, wash up and change
and when they made it into town all good sense would soon be drowned
and they'd spend Sunday, flat in bed with one hellashish aching head.
They saw themselves as a dying breed and didn't really see the need
for folks who went to Sunday service.  Those folks always made 'em nervous
by the way they shook their head and such, looked down their nose and glared
so much.
And you know that cowboys as a rule will bow their backs just like a mule
when someone's got em under tow to places he don't want to go.
Well, one day, out there, on the range, all of that began to change.
When a parson, just a-riding through, asked em if they'd spare some chew,
and he sat there silent on his mare as those cowhands commenced to swear.
Well, them roughneck fellas were amazed this Bible thumper wasn't phased
but laughed right with them at their jokes just like he was common folks.
He asked if he could stay the night and they said that'd be all right.
Round the cook fire they dished up some stew and watched to see just what
he'd do.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head but they don't know just what he said.
Then he looked up with a big old grin, picked up his spoon and dug right in.
Next morning, he was set to go but one cowpoke just had to know
why he would spend time with the crew when that's not what those church
folks do.
That parson sat there on his mare, and in his Bible, showed them where
God sent his Son to not cast blame but love all peoples just the same.
Their lives were changed, those hands recount, thanks to that "Sermon on the
Mount".

Copyright 1999  Jeff Hildebrandt
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved


Who is Jeff Hildebrandt?

Jeff Hildebrandt is the managing producer of The Westerns movie channel, available on digital cable or satellite.

These poems come from his book "Prairie Prose...and Cons".  He's appeared at the National Cowboy Symposium in Lubbock, Texas...The Western Stars Extravaganza in Laughlin, Nevada...the Jim Roberts Roundup in LA...and is a
regular at the Colorado Cowboy Poetry Gathering.

Thanks for the opportunity...
Jeff Hildebrandt
 

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

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


January 2001

Kristi Horton

A DAY ONE OF A KIND
By Kristi Horton

On a sunny Saturday with riding on our minds,
we saddled up the horses for a day, one of a kind.
As we finished mounting up and heading on our way,
a dear ol' rancher friend of ours stopped us just to say,
"Gals, I tell you, please beware,
we've spotted bear out there."
Oh right, I thought, I've spent much time riding that trail so dear,
I know for certain my mom and I have nothing much to fear.
"Besides," I told my mom as we opened the final gate,
"we have our faithful labrador to protect us from such a fate."
And off we went up the mountain so high to reach the lake so fresh.
while enjoying the smell of pines and flowers in every cherished breath.
Stopping at the water's edge we tied the horses tight,
then ate our lunch and took some sun with a few dear coming into sight.
Moose, the lab, just sat there, waiting patiently,
until we hit the trail again and he could run so free.
His eyes and ears were quite alert as he jogged up ahead,
then for a moment I couldn't stop thinking what our friend had earlier said.
For the pines and quakies thickened as we continued on our ride,
and what a perfect place I thought for a big bear to sneak and hide.
Yet watching Moose was my idea of keeping me well informed,
he'd let me know quite quickly if we needed to be warned.
All of a sudden the trail curved and he went out of sight,
and instantly barked so loud with a tone of such great fright.
Then to make my arm hairs curl I saw him jump ten feet.,
Not forward I must mention, but backwards, "Oh what did he see?"
My mom and I exchanged glances, and tightened our saddle grips,
why was I so confident of no bears on this trip?
Moose was barking louder, yet staying close to me,
soon I knew I'd be confronting what I wasn't sure I wanted to see.
From pounding hearts to laughter our fear quickly went away,
for what we saw before us was quite to our dismay......
A mountain biker who looked like he'd just seen a ghost,
'cause even though we thought this was a bear, the dog scared him the most!
 
 

GOOSE BE GOOSED
By Kristi Horton

There was a goose one sunny day,
who wouldn't leave and fly away.
Instead she thought she'd bit my boots,
while Washakie was hungry and eating dry roots.
I was running in circles but couldn't escape,
as I tried to push open the canal gate.
The goose wouldn't leave she was flapping around,
and I knew somehow I had to get off the ground.
So I quickly mounted my loyal friend,
then turned in time to see the goose off again.
Now she was flying towards my amazed mom,
with Wankta rearing back I hoped she'd stay on.
The next thing I knew she was wanting to fly,
right into Washakie's muscular behind.
With me on his back, I couldn't believe,
we were being attacked and I couldn't see.
How could this happen and what will we do,
being held captive by a goose was too good to be true.
Washakie stepped forward as my mom said,
"I think he got her, it looks like she's dead."
I turned around and looked down in shock,
the goose had died curled up next to a rock.
The moral of this story is perfectly clear,
if you mess with my horse don't attack from the rear.
 
 

WILDLIFE?
By Kristi Horton

It was a crisp cool autumn morning with our horses ready to go,
as my mom and I set out to enjoy a ride before the winter's snow.
We made sure to pack our lunches and the binoculars so clear,
in hopes of seeing a few wildlife like moose, elk and deer.
Oh how we enjoyed following different animal tracks,
and watching in silence as we admired the various large game racks.
Scenery and sounds were oh so peaceful riding along the lake's clear shore,
besides wanting to see some wildlife, we really couldn't ask for more.
We finally decided to take a break and tied the horses tight,
took our lunches to a tree stump and beheld a peculiar sight.
Granted we wanted to see wildlife, but this was not what we had in mind,
we didn't come way back in the mountains to catch a glimpse of a guy's behind.
Now trying to be proper women, we intended not to take a peak,
But if all we were going to see was a bathing one pointer I couldn't help but be a sneak.
Trying not to giggle and look too obvious,
we waited patiently to see this man's face when he got a look at us.
I have to say when he saw us, we could not help but laugh,
for all he could say was, "Excuse me, I was just trying to take a bath."
 

All poems Copyright © 2001
Kristi Horton
All Rights Reserved


Who is Kristi Horton?

I have always enjoyed the West, horses, riding, and reading cowboy poetry, and living in Utah gives me the opportunity to do all of that. I have spent years riding and in fact, horse, was the first real word out of my mouth.   I have always wanted to start publishing my work, and pursue my career goals in that area.

Thanks for choosing me as the January Poet of the Month.

Kristi Horton
2 Altawood Dr.
Sandy, UT 84092

 © -2001 All Rights Reserved

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





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