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"Cowboy True, Thru and Thru"

 


 

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See the Art Spur introductory page here

It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words...we know many that are worthy of a poem or a song. In Art Spur, we invite poets and songwriters to let selections of Western art inspire their poetry and songs.

Our fortieth piece offered to "spur" the imagination is a special Cowboy Poetry Week Art Spur, a watercolor painting by Don Dane, "Cowboy True, Thru and Thru."  The image is featured on the 2015 Cowboy Poetry Week poster.

The painting depicts Kansas cowboy, ranch manager, and poet Jack "Trey" Allen, from a reference photograph by Carol Barlau.

Find more about the poster here.

Find the selected poems below. Poets are invited to be inspired by the art; a literal representation of the art is not expected.

 


16"x20"
watercolor
© 2014, Don Dane, DonDane.com
"Cowboy True, Thru and Thru."

 


 


Don Dane is an award-winning artist, with a particular focus on "cowboys, horses, and cattle." His watercolor and pencil sketches
made often on location, where he also photographs and researches his subjectsprovide studies for his oil paintings. Don Dane's images have been featured on many gathering posters, including those of Cal Farley's Boys Ranch Youth Cowboy Poetry Gathering, Saddle Up!, and Silver Dollar City's A Salute to the Great American Cowboy."

We were pleased to feature Don Dane's painting, "Great Day to be a Cowboy," as the Art Spur subject for the 2007 National Day of the Cowboy. 

Don is a full time, award winning artist whose work has been shown and sold to collectors all over the United States. Favoring a realistic style of painting, he has become well known for his portrayal of the American West. His primary medium is watercolor but he occasionally works in pencil and oil.

Don's subject matter varies, but he prefers painting subjects that reflect the tradition of the American west, the cowboy and the rural way of life. His artwork has been featured in Western Art Collector, Southwest Art, Western Horseman, Horses in Art, Art of the West and American Cowboy. It has also appeared on over a dozen different western, rodeo and cowboy music/poetry festival posters across the country. Among these, was being featured poster artist at Silver Dollar City’s “Salute to the Great American Cowboy” in Branson, Missouri for seven years in a row.

In 2011 Don was commissioned by the Kansas State Lotto Commission to paint an original painting to be featured on the state lotto ticket as part of the Kansas 150 year anniversary of statehood. He currently works from his home studio in Olathe, Kansas.

Don’s work can be viewed at www.dondane.com.


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16"x20"
watercolor
© 2014, Don Dane, DonDane.com
"Cowboy True, Thru and Thru."


 

Poems

Cowboy True, Thru and Thru by Rhonda Sedgwick Stearns of Wyoming
The Secret Life of Horses by Glen Enloe of Missouri
Looking for Sunshine by Marleen Bussma of Utah
One to Ride the River With by Tom Swearingen of Oregon

Dreams and Hope by Stuart Hooker of New Mexico
Another Dry Year by Susan Matley of Washington
The Boss's Hand by Jim Cathey of Texas
Turpentine and the Tobiano by Dan Wilson of Arizona

Mesquite Cowboy by Michelle Turner of Iowa
Cowboy Reflection on a Spring Morning by C.W. (Charles) Bell of Utah
Feedlot Cowboy by Lynn Kopelke of Washington
A Dandy Cowgirl by Jean Mathisen Haugen of Wyoming
 

 

 

Cowboy True, Thru and Thru

Well son, we've shared that long deep sigh,
I've took my chew, an' you've let your water fly...
You're glad as me the gather's done,
But the sortin'...we'll both admit that was fun.

Then your hobbled minutes, grazin';
My hot coffee, an' cookies rich with raisin...
If we're not fit to face it now
We ought'a be shipped—like that pore ol' lame cow.

Damn these boys an' their fool nonsense—
“Boss, take the first loop!”; with them perched on the fence!
Why, I should be free to admire...
'Stead of, “Build yer loop, bring us one to the fire!”

I think we'll kind'er leave 'em soak,
Let 'em smoke, an' joke, an' talk about kinfolk...
Whilst you an' me just fills our eyes
With these fine red calves...most all could take a prize!

There's sog, an' depth...plenty 'a length,
That's our payback for buildin' genetic strength...
Each with hide as red as the sun,
Vig'rous an' healthy—my, what fine cows we run!

Her—by my left toe—come way late,
But a few months on this feed...she'll make the gate.
An, by an' large, they're uniform;
Ain't jest ever' ranch that can say that's their norm.

OK son, this here loop is built—
So whirl, move quick, an' we'll give them boys some guilt...
“Thought ya' said you's ready to brand!
Ain't there nobody here that can make a hand?

“Irons are hot, the brander's ready—
Looks like none 'a you boys wants to work steady!
Two more's been roped an' on their way;
Ain't one 'a you rass'lers that's earnin' yer pay!”

Then, Paint got caressed, 'long his neck . . .
“Son, y' reckon they've learn't their lesson, by heck?”
Here's your good place...in shade you'll stand;
Now I'll get in my place, with an iron, to brand!

© 2015, Rhonda Sedgwick Stearns

 

 


The Secret Life of Horses

Looped rope moon-round hung on the horn
In drum-tight buckskin sun—
That paint horse still in full command
Each day when work was done.

Horse rose long ago by warm spark,
Life touched with mesquite tree;
As long legs twisted strong and proud
And galloped gold grass sea.

Horse sprinted its long awkward path
And reared up wild and ran—
With just one thing to tame it now;
The thing it knew as man.

Yet still the prairie was its sky;
Crazed horse flew high on earth—
Quick jerked and snagged by silver bit—
Now slowed by saddled girth.

The horse shrugged at its burden then
With master on its back—
Pain seared pearl tongue and tender side—
Man whispered primal lack.

But soon the two rode as the one
And horse became less wild—
There were too few among then now
Like fettered feral child.

Yet west wind is soon slow blacksmithed;
Forge bound by trust and plan—
Night herded on jade Cholla trail;
Brief brushed by breath of man.

But now cowboy and tame equine
Yet work dun soil and sage—
The ancient songs are still yet sung
Campfired in time's lost age.

On dark stone amber hoof they ride
Birthed at hip now unseen;
Paint horse and leathered man alone
Lost in far fields of green.

© 2015, Glen Enloe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


 

 

Looking for Sunshine

The bruised complexion of the morning sky matched Maynard’s mood.
Persistent worry sought him out and sidelined quietude.
The count from yesterday was forty short. Today would bring
a search through thorny, prickly, spiny, spiky barbs that sting.

Some cattle know just where to hide and make man’s life a chore.
He’s hoping they’ll be found before a hungry predator
enjoys an unearned meal priced higher than he wants to pay.
It’s time to saddle up and get this cow-hunt underway.

He knows each rock, ravine and hillside on this family spread
that’s been the entire focus of the ranch life he has led.
He’s seen it through the bad years when the grass dried up in thirst
and weakened cattle had to be sold off. That was the worst.

A diff’rent demon threatens Maynard’s way of life today.
It creeps on quiet feet and swallows land while on its way.
A wave of humans comes to change the landscape as they please
as subdivisions spread their city lifestyle like disease.

He hoped his growing family would be able to enjoy
this paradise he savored. What a pity to destroy
the quiet country living he inherited and owns.
Just one more piece of worry for this ageing codger’s bones.

The climbing sun begins to lean and squeeze the shadows short.
A rustle in the scrub oaks makes the horses jump and snort.
The hired man rides up ahead to check a deep ravine.
Jake disappears and Maynard’s eyes enjoy the tranquil scene.

He thinks about Jake’s early days and how the man has grown.
Jake’s now the toughest piece of gristle Maynard’s ever known.
A yell cuts short the peaceful reverie that paid a call
and fires up adrenaline. Concern has started small

and grows with urgency as Jake repeats his raspy shout.
Dread spreads its freezing fingers as the summons is checked out.
Remains that once were young and full of life are strewn and torn.
This calf had frisked and frolicked in the spring when it was born.

This wasn’t what he’d hoped for as he searched the grizzly site.
He swallows hard and feels like he’s been left out overnight.
With luck they’ll find the rest alive and well down by the creek,
but some days life lies just outside the sunshine that we seek.

© 2015, Marleen Bussma
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

 

 

One To Ride The River With

That cowboy on the paint horse
A pretty darn good pard
He's been there, seen it, done it
Through times both good and hard

He's been at it some time now
A good long stretch of years
Roundin’ up calves and mommas
And turnin' bulls to steers

He's worked on some big outfits
Been boss on one or two
Taught a lot of other hands
A bunch of what he knew

And man, have we learned plenty
'Bout punchin', and much more
Get'n advice a wise man
Be best to not ignore

'Bout the things that make a man
A worthy friend and hand
'Bout love and work and honor
And how to treat the land

Told us, "Don't just do a job
But give it all you got
'Cause you only go round once
So life's worth your best shot"

He's shown us the importance
Of keeping our word true
That if we make a promise
Do what we say we'll do

We've watched him facing hardship
With determination
And no matter the outcome
Show appreciation

For the folks that stand by you
That come along aside
While you're riding through the humps
And cheer ya' through the ride

"One to ride the river with"
That's his reputation
The kind you want beside you
In that situation

I have had the good fortune
Of knowing some good men
The kind you can look up to
And hope to see again

Not just for their achievements
Although they're worth remark
But for how they live their lives
And how they give a spark

Kindling others around 'em
To glow and grow and give
Make the world a better place
And show us how to live

I ask please for more friends Lord
Like the one thought of now
Grant me Lord more just like him
And please if you'll allow

Many more years for my friend
So he can show us more
What it means to live with grace
Before the other shore

© 2015, Tom Swearingen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

 

 

Dreams and Hope

When I see a cowman in the pen, gettin' set to rope,
It's not a cowboy that I see, it's a man of dreams and hope,
He dreams of buildin' up a place his kids can carry on,
And succeed in an industry where the independent's nearly gone;

He dreams of how it used to be, and still should be today,
With pride, hard work, integrity, 'cause that's the "cowboy way,"
He dreams of a close community, neighbors that are carin,'
And family helpin' family, it's the same blood they're sharin;'

He hopes for good parentin' in families ever'where,
He sees his neighbor teach a youngster how to ride a gentle mare,
He wants his kids to know Sundays ain't the only time he prays,
And hopes our government will stop its often wasteful ways;

Yeah, when I see a cowman, horseback, shakin' out a loop,
I see past and future cowboys, and girls, an impressive group,
People who have a nation to feed and they do it with integrity,
And I'll fight for your right to feel different, but that's what I see.

© 2015, Stuart Hooker
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

 

 

Another Dry Year

He feels the heat though it’s only mid-morning,
scans the dry horizon, hears nature’s warning.

Branding day. The herd’s smaller than last year,
downsized to match the drought. Might disappear
completely if the rains don’t come this fall,
might silence the music of cattle’s bawl.

The rancher’s mind finds now. Astride his best horse,
lariat coiled, there’s work to do. No recourse
‘til round-up time. How much more can he cut back
if he runs short on bales in winter’s haystack?

The day runs by, long, hot and hard. The crew
cheers and breaks out beer when the work is through.
The rancher tips one back, too. He won’t show
his worries, watches the good spirits flow.

The sun sets late in a sky cloudless and white.
He sends up a prayer for an end to the blight.

© 2015, S. D. Matley
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.




 

 

The Boss's Hand

No doubt, it was a right of passage,
tho, sometimes it took a spell to get there.
But the old timers would always say,
“It’s a comin’ don’t you never fear.”

Now, those words were not real comfortin’,
‘specially when yore just a button.
An’ I’ll tell you, time would shore move slow,
but purty soon, time passed an’ it was done.

You see, a young feller can’t sit still,
an’ he’s countin’ every moment as loss.
‘Cuz he’s anxious to start spring round-up
an’ show off new learned skills to his boss.

‘Course, Boss’d hardly let on that he seen
you do one durn thing that was sorta right.
An’ when push come to shove, he’ll ride off
just as you have lined up in his sight.

Well if that don’t beat all, wished he’d a seen
how slick I did that job. I nailed it!
Dang! What does a feller have to do?
Makes you so mad you just want to spit!

…Then you recollect the old timers
an’ what they was tryin’ to tell you,
“Do the best you can, son. That’s enough.
Work steady an’ hard, don’t get in a stew!

“The boss knows exactly what’s goin’ on,
he sees that you take pride in yore work,
an’ how you keep tryin’ to get better
at them tough jobs you never shirk.

"You see, the boss feels right kindly towards you,
an’ he can see you’ve got what it takes.
You just ride steady, make yoreself a hand.
He figgers you’ll learn from yore mistakes.”

Well, that started me into thinkin’
‘bout them times under the boss's eye.
Why, I figgered he knew I’d mess up!
An’ I’d often wish he warn’t nearby.

But, he was calm an’ give good advice.
Like, when that young colt blew up again,
the boss says, “Talk to ‘em son, get his trust,
let him feel steamy, but keep a tight rein.”

There was other times he encouraged me,
an’ I got to listenin’ purty close.
An’ time an’ time again he’d give help,
unbelievable what he could diagnose.

An’ me? I didn’t know it, but I learned.
Him, with his quiet ways on the sideline,
an’ me, soakin’ it up like a sponge.
Wow! You see, it was all by his design!

An’ that thought jolted me to my heels.
You see, Jesus would be our ramrod
if we just asked him to take over.
Life could be good if we’d give Him that nod.

So while yore tryin’ to make a hand,
He’s quietly guidin’ you down the trail.
He knows you ‘ll slowly make yore way,
while he acts as rudder an’ mainsail.

Like the oldtimers said, “Do yore best.”
He’ll guide yore path with a gentle hand,
an’ tho sometimes, the goin’ gets rough,
He just asks that you ride for the brand.

Once I had pondered these thoughts abit,
I felt some better about my plight.
An’ I figgered the boss would treat me square,
‘cuz he plans for me to turn out alright!

So, I’ll be thankful to have a Good Boss,
while I struggle to survive in this land
I’ll work at learnin, do what I can do,
Shore proud to be molded by the Boss's Hand.

© 2015, Ol’ Jim Cathey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.


 

 

 Mesquite Cowboy

It’s been a hundred years or more, since drovers ruled this land
Moving herds of longhorns across the Texas sand
Heading north to Abilene, avoiding farm blockades
Mile after dusty mile, to reach the waiting trains

Today I ride across the ranch, just one end to the other
Culling stock and cutting calves, away from frantic mothers
At noon the sun was blazing hot, sweat dripping from my brow
I tipped my hat to wipe my face and spooked an orn’ry cow

She kicked her heels and spun about, sights set on yonder plain
I reined around at break neck speed, my horse had ground to gain
We blazed a trail through prickly pear, and thickets of salt cedar
Then galloped down a smooth gulch bed, going ‘round to meet her

The white-face cow was just ahead, atop a small plateau
I spurred my heaving, snorting Paint and left the dry arroyo
With just one swing I threw my rope; loop sliding off her horns
My hasty toss fell to the dirt, amidst the mesquite thorns

I coiled up the lariat, dismounted and dismayed
Then saw a sight that chilled my bones; a cause to be afraid
Beneath the gnarled mesquite tree, at rest in dappled shade
There lie an ol’ time buckaroo, right where his grave was made

No doubt a wrangler from the past, his bones a chalky white
A toothless grin and hollow eyes just added to my fright
His leather chaps were cracked and worn, half buried in the earth
Within his grasp, his worldly goods: a saddle, hat, and girth

A kindred soul, I dropped my guard; my thoughts began to drift
How did he meet his sad demise, had death come slow or swift?
Was he riding on a cattle drive? Did a stampede seal his fate?
I wondered if he thought of kin, while at St. Peter’s gate

Did he beg, with dying breath, for burial at home?
Or did they lay him here to rest, where only mavericks roam
I bowed my head and said a prayer; I hoped his soul content
To sit along the cattle trail, eternal time well spent

He’s watching over green-hands, a knowing spirit guide
Making sure they move the herd, and have a solid ride
A modern cowpoke I might be; a debt to him I owe
He helped begin our western ways, of this I surely know

A final nod, I mounted up; I paid my last respect
I had a herd to get back to; a rogue cow to collect
But as I rode, I swelled with pride; my back straight in the saddle
I’m living proof and legacy, for drovers of the cattle

© 2015, Michelle Turner
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.
 


 

Turpentine and the Tobiano

And so we rode on out at dawn,
The rising sun full on our backs.
A ling’ring fog sat on the trail,
A bit of frost lay on our tracks.

Like some majestic monument
The Superstitions loomed ahead
While here and there a poppy popped
And raised its sleepy golden head.

The recent rain had done its job
And spring was on the desert breeze,
As creosote and cactus blooms
Announced the end of winter’s freeze.

So there we were two saddle tramps
Ol’ Buck and Virgil ridin’ out,
Adrift upon the rugged range
To contemplate what life’s about.

“I see you’re up on Turpentine,”
Buck said as we rode up the rim,
“I s’pose that means Miss Kate is gone
And you’re left here to coddle him.”

“Now just a minute,“ I exclaimed,
“He nary needs a velvet glove!
Ol’ Turp’s been ‘round this wicked world
And knows when pushin’ comes to shove.”

“He takes no guff, nor fancy talk,
A paint who knows his way around.
Since he was in that barrel race,
He’s learned just how his beans are ground.”

“A barrel race! What barrel race?”
Buck snarled at me with some surprise.
“You mean to say they let him race
With all that fierceness in his eyes?”

I smiled and gave a sideways glance
Then thought a bit before I spoke
“I reckon it was bound to be,”
I chuckled at my private joke.

“So let me tell you how it was,
And then you’ll know just how it went,
How Turpentine and Toby Boy
Both ran and won the big event.”

We crossed the road and reached the gate
That opened to a dusty trail
Then gigged the horses right on through
As I began my fav’rite tale.

“It happened in her freshman year.
Kate met another horse-crazed gal
And soon she got to braggin’ ‘bout
The paint back home in her corral.

“They kept on jawin’ ‘bout their mounts
And Dottie told how she would race
With Toby Boy, her fav’rite horse
Around her state, most anyplace.

“Miss Dottie was from back in Dodge
And raced her horse back home a lot.
She took a racing handle on
And rode as Miss Dodge City Dot.

“And barrel racin’ was her game
She rode a Tobiano paint,
A well-behaved and willing mount,
But truth be told, he was no saint.”

“Well, yup that’s shore a common thing,”
Ol’ Buck opined in his own way,
“They’re friendly types, with impish traits
At least that’s what old-timers say.”

I nodded in agreement then
As if I had the inside scoop,
And somehow knew a horse’s mind
And why he’s often in the soup.

“But ain’t they kinda hard to train?”
Said Buck as we rode through the draw,
“And sure enough Ol’ Turpentine’s
The hardest case I ever saw.”

“Well, shucks, you surely got it wrong,”
I grinned at Buck in quick reply.
“The Paints are known to be real smart,
They’re quick to learn and soon comply.”

“And Kate’s been workin’ with him now,
For must be nigh on seven years,
By ridin’ ‘long the desert trails
And on the range among the steers.”

“She took her time and did it right,
With sweet talk and a gentle hand.
‘Fore long he settled down to learn
Why barrel racers had such sand!”

“Kate walked him ‘round the course at first
‘Til he was feelin’ pretty good.
She followed that with trottin’ through
‘Til he knew everything he should.

“Then fin’ly came the cantering
Where Turp could really show his speed
While hangin’ tight around those turns
A sure ‘nuf barrel racin’ steed.

“And all this time Dodge City Dot
Kept hangin’ ‘round the ol’ corral
And givin’ Kate a lot of tips—
A mighty friendly, helpful gal.

“Then when it came to early spring,
Miss Dot took Kate back to her place
So she could see with her own eyes
A real live Kansas barrel race.

“Well, Kate came home all starry eyed
And then sometime in middle May
She packed her bags and shipped Ol’ Turp
And soon they both were on their way.

“Topeka was a buzzin’ place
And folks had come from far and wide
To see the rodeo and race
And watch their fav’rite riders ride.

“The sky was kinda overcast
But really not a big concern,
Though local folks looked wary-eyed
And hoped the sun would soon return.

“They threw the gate, the race was on,
Miss Dot and Toby hit the track.
They had a tight and flawless run,
While Kate and Turp watched from the back.

“Miss Kate and Turp were next to run;
And when the Starter gave the sign,
They tore off ‘round the clover leaf
Then quickly crossed the finish line.

“And not a barrel was knocked down
Nor did one even nearly tip.
They ran a next to perfect race
And took it at a winnin’ clip.

“But then they saw the dark’nin’ sky
So Kansas common throughout May,
And when the twister hit the grounds,
The rout was on and under way.

“The grandstand roof was ripped away
A fright’nin’ sight for folks to see,
The pens were down, the gates blown in
With livestock runnin’ wild and free.

“The gals both stared in disbelief
To see the place disintegrate,
And then they saw the drove had turned
Toward the north arena gate.

“But they were closer than the rest
And knew they really couldn’t wait,
So in a snap they galloped off
To close the open northern gate.

“Well, Turpentine and Toby Boy,
While Kate and Dot said not a word,
Rode like the wind to reach the gate
Before the wild and frantic herd.

“The Tobiano got there first
And pulled up by the maint’nance hut.
Miss Dot jumped off and hit the ground
Then with a shove the gate was shut.

“But meanwhile Kate rode t’ward the bunch
And galloped right up to the lead.
Then Turpentine showed who was boss
And held and stopped the wild stampede!

“Well, sure enough the gals were cheered
‘Cuz they were heroes on that day,
Although they closed the racin’ down
And sent the riders on their way.

“The big surprise came later on
When things had settled down a bit,
They realized that only two
Had run the course and finished it.

“The judges gathered in the ring
And gave the scores their eagle eye,
Then with a shout they all declared
The race had ended in a tie!

“Declared as winners, heroes too,
Was just the way to end the fun
Of their first ever barrel race,
The strangest, wildest ever run.”

Buck turned and stared at me a while
Then broke into a toothy grin,
“Shucks, I don’t cotton to a word,”
He said as it sunk slowly in.

“’Cuz that sounds like a bunkhouse yarn
A mighty tall one, real unique,
And I ‘spect that there’s more to it,
A final curtain, so to speak.

“This tale must have some more to it
And ain’t one of their last hurrahs—
With Kansas twisters, Dor’thy too,
Now, warn’t they in the Land of Oz?”

© 2015, Dan Wilson
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


 

 

Cowboy Reflections on a Spring Morning

I was up at dawn but much time is gone,
As I wait for the other bunch.
I sure hope that soon, and before it’s noon,
We’ll be there up that hill for lunch.

It’s six miles up there in the mountain air
To the high summer range we’ll drive,
So the calves and cows can have summer browse,
And the herd will all surely thrive.

And so here I wait at this corner gate
While this bunch gets impatient and wild.
And that calf right there is acting I swear
Like a mean and petulant child.

But at last I see out beyond that tree,
Raising dust and heading this way,
Cows with calves beside and my pards astride.
We’ll be making the drive today.

© 2015, C.W. (Charles) Bell
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.



 

 

Feedlot Cowboy

He calls it a BO-sal not a bo-ZEL.
He don't even own his own horse.
His old black hat is beat all to hell.
Of his woes, tequila's the source.
He works in the feedlot when they need the help.
Always around for a gather.
Been on his own since he was just a welp.
Don't talk much about father or mother.

He pulls his weight on a horse or off.
A fair hand with a big block eight.
Takes on work that make others scoff.
Mostly keep food on his plate.
What ever is extra and often what's not
Goes straight to the agave gods.
Seems he needs what he thinks Jose has got.
On his growing old you can get long odds.

County and city cops know him by name.
He's bunked at the cross bar inn.
When he gets out the game is the same.
Seems it's one he's convinced he can't win.
Damn hard to like but findin' him's easy.
Just stay out too late some night
In Boise, Butte, or Jefferson City
He's either passed out or spoilin' for a fight.

There's nothing romantic about his life.
He ain't living the western dream.
His wide open spaces are filled with struggle and strife.
No code in his west so it would seem.
He may find Jesus or a good woman to wife
Or he may just up and die.
Buried in his boots with his old foldin' knife.
Nobody there to say good by.

Now take off your robes and put down that gavel.
Don't judge nor look down your nose.
His road is his alone to travel.
Neither you nor I knows where it goes.
There is no myth without reality
So save a prayer in your heart.
Though this feedlot cowboy's nobody's fantasy
In the real west he surely plays his part.

© 2015, Lynn Kopelke
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

 

 

A Dandy Cowgirl

She loves that old paint pony,
as if there were no other.
She races out to catch him,
so she can beat her brother.
She loves to dance and learn ballet,
but she's a ranch girl too.
A little dark haired dandy,
and a cowgirl through and through.
She helps to herd the chickens
and gathers up the eggs.
She'll help her grandma building fence,
and shovels manure and other dregs.
Still, Hayden much prefers riding
on that little pinto paint.
Though she dresses like a lady,
she's not purely a saint.
Come April, she'll turn seven,
and her Wyoming heritage runs true.
Her family's been ranching seven generations,
and she's a cowgirl through and through!

© 2015, Jean Mathisen Haugen
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.

 

 

 

 

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